Conversation in the Cathedral

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  “You’re looking very well, papa,” he said, kissing him. “How do you feel?”

  “Better, but your mother and Sparky make me feel so useless,” Don Fermín complained. “They only let me go to the office for a little while and make me take naps and spend hours here like an invalid.”

  “Only until you’re completely recovered,” Santiago said. “Then you can let yourself go, papa.”

  “I warned them that I’ll only put up with this fossil routine until the end of the month,” Don Fermín said. “On the first I’m going back to my normal life. Right now I don’t even know how things are going.”

  “Let Sparky take care of them, papa,” Santiago said. “He’s doing all right, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s doing fine,” Don Fermín said, nodding. “He practically runs everything. He’s serious, he’s got a good head on his shoulders. It’s just that I can’t resign myself to being a mummy.”

  “Who would have thought that Sparky would end up as a full-fledged businessman.” Santiago laughed. “The way things turned out, it was a lucky thing he was kicked out of the Naval Academy.”

  “The one who’s not doing so well is you, Skinny,” Don Fermín said with the same affectionate tone and a touch of weariness. “Yesterday I stopped by your boardinghouse and Señora Lucía told me you hadn’t been home to sleep for several days.”

  “I was in Trujillo, papa.” He’d lowered his voice, he thinks, made a gesture as if saying just between you and me, your mother doesn’t know anything. “They sent me off on an assignment. I was sent off in a hurry and didn’t have time to let you know.”

  “You’re too big for me to scold you or give you advice,” Don Fermín said, with a softness both affectionate and sorrowful. “Besides, I know it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “You can’t think that I’ve set out purposely to live a bad life, papa,” Santiago said, smiling.

  “I’ve been getting alarming reports for some time,” Don Fermín said, without changing his expression. “That you’re seen in bars, nightclubs. And not the best places in Lima. But since you’re so sensitive, I haven’t dared ask you anything, Skinny.”

  “I go once in a while, like anybody else,” Santiago said. “You know I’m not a carouser, papa. Don’t you remember how mama used to have to force me to go to parties when I was a kid?”

  “A kid?” Don Fermín laughed. “Do you feel so very old now?”

  “You shouldn’t pay any attention to people’s gossip,” Santiago said. “I may be a lot of things, but not that, papa.”

  “That’s what I thought, Skinny,” Don Fermín said after a long pause. “At first I thought let him have a little fun, it might even be good for him. But now it’s been so many times that they come and tell me we saw him here, there, drinking, with the worst kind of people.”

  “I haven’t got either the time or the money to go off on toots,” Santiago said. “It’s absurd, papa.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Skinny.” He’d grown serious, Zavalita, his voice had become grave. “You go from one extreme to the other, it’s hard to understand you. Look, I think I’d rather have you end up as a Communist than as a drunkard and a carouser.”

  “Neither one, papa, you can rest assured,” Santiago said. “It’s been years since I’ve known what politics is all about. I read all the newspaper except for the political news. I don’t know who’s a minister or who’s a senator. I even asked them not to send me out to cover political stories.”

  “You say that with a terrible resentment,” Don Fermín murmured. “Are you that disturbed at not having dedicated yourself to bomb-throwing? Don’t reproach me for it. I just gave you a piece of advice, that’s all, and remember that you’ve been going against me all your life. If you didn’t become a Communist it’s because deep down you weren’t so sure about it.”

  “You’re right, papa,” Santiago said. “Nothing bothers me, I never think about all that. I was just trying to calm you down. Neither a Communist nor a carouser, don’t worry about it.”

  They talked about other things in the warm atmosphere of books and wooden shelves in the study, watching the sun set, rarefied by the first mists of winter, listening to the voices from the soap opera in the distance, and, little by little, Don Fermín was mustering his courage to bring up the eternal theme and repeat the ceremony celebrated so many times: come back home, get your law degree, come to work for me.

  “I know you don’t like me to talk about it.” It was the last time he tried, Zavalita. “I know I’m running the risk of driving you away from home again if I talk about it.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, papa,” Santiago said.

  “Aren’t four years enough, Skinny?” Had he become resigned from that point on, Zavalita? “Haven’t you done enough damage to yourself already, haven’t you hurt us enough?”

  “But I am registered, papa,” Santiago said. “This year …”

  “This year you’re going to do a lot of talking, just like in past years.” Or had he been cherishing to the bitter end, secretly, the hope that you’d come back, Zavalita? “I don’t believe you anymore, Skinny. You register, but you don’t set foot in the university or take any exams.”

  “I’ve been very busy the past few years,” Santiago insisted. “But now I’m going to start going to classes. I have my schedule all made out so I can get to bed early and …”

  “You’ve got used to staying up late, to your paltry little salary, to your carousing friends on the newspaper, and that’s your life.” Without anger, without bitterness, Zavalita, with a tender affliction. “How can I stop repeating to you that it can’t be, Skinny? You’re not what you’re trying to show yourself as being. You can’t go on being a mediocrity, son.”

  “You’ve got to believe me, papa,” Santiago said. “I swear that this time it’s true. I’ll go to class, I’ll take the exams.”

  “I’m not asking it for your sake now, but for mine.” Don Fermín leaned over, put his hand on his arm. “Let’s arrange a schedule which will let you study and you’ll make more than at La Crónica. It’s time you got to know all about things. I might drop dead anytime and then you and Sparky will have to keep things going at the office. Your father needs you, Santiago.”

  He wasn’t furious or hopeful or anxious as on other occasions, Zavalita. He was depressed, he thinks, he repeated the standard phrases out of routine or stubbornness, like someone betting his last reserves on one last hand, knowing that he’s going to lose that one too. He had a disheartened glow in his eyes and clasped his hands together under the blanket.

  “I’d only get in your way at the office, papa,” Santiago said. “It would be a real problem for you and Sparky. I’d feel that you were paying me a salary as a favor. Besides, stop talking about dropping dead. You told me yourself that you never felt better.”

  Don Fermín lowered his head for a few seconds, then he raised his face and smiled, in a resigned way: it was all right, he didn’t want to try your patience anymore by harping on the same thing, Skinny. He thinks: just to tell you that it would be the happiest moment of my life if one day you came through that door and told me I’ve quit my job at the paper, papa. But he stopped talking because Señora Zoila had come in, pushing a little wagon with toast and tea. Well, the soap opera was over at last, and she began to talk about Popeye and Teté. She was concerned, he thinks, Popeye wanted to get married the following year but Teté was still a child, she advised them to wait a little while longer. Your old mother doesn’t want to be a grandmother yet, Don Fermín joked. What about Sparky and his girl friend, mama? Ah, Cary was very nice, charming, she lived in La Punta, she could speak English. And so serious, so proper. They were talking about getting married next year too.

  “At least, in spite of all your crazy things, you haven’t got there yet,” Señora Zoila said cautiously. “I don’t imagine that you’re thinking about getting married, are you?”

  “But you probably have a girl friend,” Don Ferm�
�n said. “Who is she? Tell us. We won’t say anything to Teté so she won’t drive you crazy.”

  “I don’t, papa,” Santiago said. “I swear I don’t.”

  “But you ought to, what are you waiting for?” Don Fermín said. “You don’t want to end up an old bachelor like poor Clodomiro.”

  “Teté got married a few months after I did,” Santiago says. “Sparky a little over a year later.”

  *

  I knew he’d come, Queta thought. But she thought it incredible that he would have dared. It was after midnight, impossible to move. Malvina was drunk and Robertito was sweating. Hazy in the half-light, poisoned by smoke and cha-cha-cha, the couples were swaying in place. From time to time, Queta could catch the saucy laughter of Malvina at different places along the bar or in the small parlor or in the upstairs rooms. He stayed in the doorway, large and frightened, with his loud, striped brown jacket and his red tie, his eyes going back and forth. Looking for you, Queta thought, amused.

  “Madame doesn’t allow niggers in here,” Martha said beside her. “Get him out, Robertito.”

  “He’s Bermúdez’ strong-arm man,” Robertito said. “I’ll go see. Madame will decide.”

  “Get him out, whoever he is,” Martha said. “It’ll give the place a bad name. Get him out of here.”

  The boy with a shadow of a mustache and a fancy vest who had asked her to dance three times in a row without saying a word to her came back over to Queta and managed to say with anguish shall we go up? Yes, pay me for the room and go on up, it was number twelve, she’d get the key. She made her way through the people dancing, faced the black man and saw his eyes: burning, frightened. What did he want, who had sent him here? He looked away, looked at her again, and all she heard was good evening.

  “Señora Hortensia,” he whispered, with a shamed voice, averting his eyes. “She’s been waiting for you to call her.”

  “I’ve been busy.” She didn’t send you, he didn’t know how to lie, you came because of me. “Tell her I’ll call tomorrow.”

  She took half a turn, went upstairs, and while she was asking Ivonne for the key to number twelve, she thought he’ll go away but he’ll be back. He’d be waiting for her in the street, one day he’d follow her, finally he’d get his courage up and he’d come over, trembling. She came down a half hour later and saw him sitting at the bar with his back to the couples in the salon. He was drinking, looking at the figures with protuberant breasts that Robertito had sketched on the walls with colored chalk; his white eyes were rolling around in the shadows, bright and intimidated, and the nails on the hand that held the glass of beer seemed phosphorescent. He dared, Queta thought. She didn’t feel surprised, she didn’t care. But Martha did, she was dancing and grunted did you see? when Queta passed by her, now they’re letting niggers in. She said good-bye at the door to the boy in the vest, went back to the bar and Robertito was serving the black man another beer. There were still a lot of men without partners, crowded together and standing, looking, and Malvina couldn’t be heard anymore. She crossed the dance floor, a hand pinched her on the hip and she smiled without stopping, but before she reached the bar, a puffy face with musty eyes and shaggy brows was interposed: let’s dance.

  “The lady’s with me, mister,” the black man’s strangled voice mumbled; he was beside the lamp and the shade with its green stars was touching his shoulder.

  “I got there first.” The other one hesitated, looking at the long, motionless body. “But it’s O.K., let’s not fight over her.”

  “I’m not with him, I’m with you,” Queta said, taking the man by the hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

  She pulled him onto the dance floor, laughing inside, thinking how many beers to get his courage up? thinking I’m going to teach you a lesson, you’ll see, you’ll see. She danced and felt her partner stumbling, unable to follow the music, and she saw the musty eyes out of control as they watched the black man, who, still standing, was now looking carefully at the drawings on the wall and the people in the corners. The number was over and the man wanted to withdraw. He couldn’t be afraid of the darky, could he? they could dance another one. Let go, it had gotten late, he had to leave. Queta laughed, let go of him, went to sit on one of the bar stools and an instant later the black man was beside her. Without looking at him, she felt his face falling apart with confusion, his thick lips opening.

  “Is it my turn yet?” he said heavily. “Could we dance now?”

  She looked into his eyes, serious, and saw him lower his head at once.

  “And what happens if I tell Cayo Shithead?” Queta asked.

  “He’s not here,” he babbled, without looking up, without moving. “He’s gone on a trip to the South.”

  “And what happens if, when he gets back, I tell him you came and wanted to get involved with me?” Queta insisted patiently.

  “I don’t know,” the black man said softly. “Probably nothing. Or he’ll fire me. Or he’ll have me arrested or something worse.”

  He looked up for a second, as if begging spit on me if you want to, but don’t tell him, Queta thought and he looked away. Was it a lie, then, that the crazy woman had sent him on that errand?

  “It’s the truth,” the black man said; he hesitated a moment and added, still hanging his head, “But she didn’t tell me to stay.”

  Queta began to laugh and the black man raised his eyes: burning, white, hopeful, startled. Robertito had come over and mutely questioned Queta by pursing his lips; she told him with a look that everything was all right.

  “If you want to talk to me you have to order something,” she said and ordered. “Vermouth for me.”

  “Bring the lady a vermouth,” the black man repeated. “For me the same as before.”

  Queta saw Robertito’s half-smile as he went away and she caught Martha at the other end of the dance floor, looking at her in indignation over the shoulder of her partner, and she saw the excited and censorious eyes of the single men in the corner fastened on her and the black man. Robertito brought the beer and the glass of weak tea and as he left he winked at her as if telling her I’m sorry for you or don’t blame me.

  “I can see,” the black man murmured, “you don’t like me at all.”

  “Not because you’re black, I don’t give a damn about that,” Queta said. “It’s because you’re a servant of that disgusting Cayo Shithead.”

  “I’m not anybody’s servant,” the black man said calmly. “I’m only his chauffeur.”

  “His strong-arm man,” Queta said. “Does the other fellow in the car with you belong to the police? Do you belong to the police too?”

  “Yes, Hinostroza belongs to the police,” the black man said. “But I’m only his chauffeur.”

  “If you want, you can go tell Cayo Shithead that I say he’s disgusting.” Queta smiled.

  “He wouldn’t like that,” he said slowly, with respectful humor. “Don Cayo is very proud. I won’t tell him, don’t you tell him I came either and that way we’ll be even.”

  Queta let out a loud laugh: burning, white, greedy, relieved but still insecure and fearful. What was his name? Ambrosio Pardo and he knew that her name was Queta.

  “Is it true that Cayo Shithead and old Ivonne are partners now?” Queta asked. “That your boss owns all this too now?”

  “How should I know?” he murmured; and insisted, with soft firmness, “He’s not my boss, he’s my employer.”

  Queta drank a sip of cold tea, made a face of disgust, quickly emptied the glass on the floor, took the glass of beer and while Ambrosio’s eyes spun toward her in surprise, took a little drink.

  “I’m going to tell you something,” Queta said. “I shit on your boss. I’m not afraid of him. I shit on Cayo Shithead.”

  “Not even if you had diarrhea,” he dared whisper. “We’d better not talk about Don Cayo, this conversation is getting dangerous.”

  “Have you gone to bed with that crazy woman Hortensia?” Queta asked and saw terror suddenly flo
wer in the black man’s eyes.

  “How could you think such a thing,” he babbled, stupefied. “Don’t repeat that even as a joke.”

  “Then how do you dare to want to go to bed with me?” Queta asked, looking for his eyes.

  “Because you,” Ambrosio stammered, and his voice was cut off; he put his beer down, confused. “Do you want another vermouth?”

  “How many beers did it take to get your courage up?” Queta asked, amused.

  “A lot, I lost count.” Queta heard him chuckle, speak in a more intimate voice. “Not only beers, even capitanes. I came last night too, but I didn’t come in. Today I did because the mistress gave me that errand.”

  “All right,” Queta said. “Order me another vermouth and leave. You’d better not come back.”

  Ambrosio rolled his eyes at Robertito: another vermouth, mister. Queta saw Robertito holding back his laughter, and in the distance, the faces of Ivonne and Malvina looking at her with curiosity.

  “Negroes are good dancers, I hope you are too,” Queta said. “For one single time in your life, let me do you the honor of dancing with you.”

  He helped her off the stool. He was looking into her eyes now with a doglike and almost weepy gratitude. He barely put his arm around her and didn’t try to get close. No, he didn’t know how to dance, or he couldn’t, he barely moved and he had no rhythm. Queta felt the experienced fingertips on her back, his arm holding her with fearful care.