Conversation in the Cathedral (17 page)

“H
E WAS ARRESTED FOR STEALING
or for killing somebody or because they grabbed him for something someone else did,” Ambrosio said. “I hope he dies in jail, the black woman said. But they let him out and then I met him. I only saw him once in my life, sir.”

“Were they interrogated?” Cayo Bermúdez asked. “All Apristas? How many have records?”

“Heads up, here he comes,” Trifulcio said. “Heads up, he’s coming down now.”

It was noontime, the sun fell straight down onto the sand, and a buzzard with bloody eyes and black plumage was flying over the
motionless
dunes, descending in tight circles, his wings folded back, his beak ready, a slight glimmering tremor on the desert.

“Fifteen were on file,” the Prefect said. “Nine Apristas, three
Communists
, three doubtful. The other eleven had no record. No, Don Cayo, they haven’t been interrogated yet.”

An iguana? Two maddened little feet, a tiny, straight-lined dust storm, a thread of gunpowder lighting up, a rampant invisible arrow. Softly the bird of prey flapped his wings at ground level, caught it with his beak, picked it up, executed it as he climbed back up into the air, methodically devouring it while still ascending through the clean, warm summer sky, his eyes closed by the yellow darts the sun was sending out to meet him.

“Have them interrogated right away,” Cayo Bermúdez said. “Are the ones who were injured any better?”

“We talked like two strangers who don’t trust each other,” Ambrosio says. “One night in Chincha, years ago. Since then I never heard
anything
about him, son.”

“Two students had to be sent to the Police Hospital, Don Cayo,” the Prefect said. “The police came out all right, just a few bruises.”

It kept on climbing, digesting, obstinate and in the shadows, and when it was about to dissolve in the light it extended its wings, drew a large, majestic curve, a shadow without shape, a small splotch moving across motionless white and wavy sands, motionless yellow sands: a
circumference
of stone, walls, barred windows, half-naked creatures who were barely moving or lay in the shade of a pulsating zinc overhang, a jeep, stakes, palm trees, a strip of water, a broad avenue of water, shacks, houses, automobiles, squares with trees in them.

“We left a company at San Marcos and we’re repairing the door that the tank knocked down,” the Prefect said. “We also left a detachment at the Medical School. But there hasn’t been any attempt at a
demonstration
or anything, Don Cayo.”

“Leave me those files to show to the Minister,” Cayo Bermúdez said.

He unfolded his jet black, harmonious wings, tilted his body, turned solemnly and flew over the trees again, the avenue of water, the
motionless
sand, he circled slowly over the gleaming zinc, still watching it, he came down a little lower, indifferent to the murmuring, the greedy talk, the strategic silence that followed in that order in the rectangle enclosed by walls and bars, intent only on the corrugated overhang as the
reflections
from it reached him, and he continued his descent—fascinated with that orgy of lights, intoxicated by the brilliance?

“You gave the order to take San Marcos?” Colonel Espina asked. “You, without consulting me?”

“A great big black man with gray hair who walked like an ape,” Ambrosio said. “He wanted to know if there were any women in
Chincha
, got some money out of me. I don’t remember him very well, sir.”

“Before we talk about San Marcos, tell me about your trip,” Bermúdez said. “How are things up North?”

He cautiously stretched out his gray feet—testing the resistance, the temperature, the existence of the zinc? he folded his wings, alighted, looked and guessed and it was too late: the stones sank into his feathers, broke his bones, cracked his beak, and metallic sounds burst forth as the stones returned to the courtyard, rolling along the zinc.

“They’re all right, but I want to know if you’ve gone crazy or
something
,” Colonel Espina said. “‘Colonel, they’ve taken the university, Colonel, the assault guards in San Marcos,’ and me, Minister of Public Order, out of touch with it all. Have you gone crazy, Cayo?”

The bird of prey slid down in rapid death throes along the lead-gray roof that it was staining garnet, reached the edge, fell, and hungry hands received it, fought over it, plucked it, and there were laughs, insults, and a cook fire was already crackling beside the adobe wall.

“Has the headman got an eye or not?” Trifulcio asked. “A person who knows knows, and let’s see if anyone wants to doubt me and how he plans to do it.”

“That boil at San Marcos was lanced in a couple of hours and nobody was killed,” Bermúdez said. “And instead of thanking me, you ask me if I’ve gone crazy. That’s not fair, Uplander.”

“The old black woman never saw him again after that night either,” Ambrosio says. “She thought he was born bad, son.”

“There’ll be protests abroad, just what the government doesn’t need,” Colonel Espina said. “Didn’t you know that the President wants to avoid incidents?”

“What the government didn’t need was a subversive cell right in the heart of Lima,” Bermúdez said. “In a few days the police can be pulled out, San Marcos will open up and everything will be quiet.”

He was diligently chewing the piece of meat he had won with his fists and his arms and hands were burning and he had purple scratches on his dark skin and the fire where he had roasted his booty was still smoking. He was squatting down in the corner shaded by the zinc, his eyes half closed because of the bright sun or better to enjoy the pleasure that was growing in his jaws and was reaching the hollow of his palate and his tongue and his throat where the remains of feathers clinging to the singed meat scratched delightfully as they passed.

“When it comes right down to it, you had no authorization, and the decision should have been up to the Minister and not you,” Colonel Espina said. “A lot of countries haven’t recognized the government. The President must be furious.”

“Heads up, company’s coming,” Trifulcio said. “Heads up, they’re here.”

“The United States has recognized us and that’s the important thing,” Bermúdez said. “Don’t worry about the President, Uplander. I talked to him last night before I made my move.”

The others were walking in the homicidal sun, reconciled, without rancor, forgetting how they had insulted each other, pushed and punched to get the crumpled prey, or, stretched out beside the walls, they were sleeping, dirty, barefoot, open-mouthed, brutalized by boredom, hunger, or heat, their bare arms over their eyes.

“Who’ve they come to call on?” Trifulcio asked. “Who are they going to beat up?”

“I don’t think he’d ever done anything to me,” Ambrosio said. “Until that night. I wasn’t mad at him, sir, even though I didn’t like him very much. And that night I was sorry for him more than anything else.”

“I gave the President my word that nobody would be killed, and I kept it,” Bermúdez said. “Here are the police records of fifteen of the ones arrested. We’ll clean up San Marcos and classes can start again. Aren’t you satisfied, Uplander?”

“Not sorry because he’d been in jail, you understand, son,” Ambrosio says. “But because he looked like a beggar. No shoes, toenails this long, scabs on his arms and his face which weren’t scabs but filth. I’m telling you the truth.”

“You acted as if I didn’t exist,” Colonel Espina said. “Why didn’t you consult me?”

Don Melquíades was coming along the corridor escorted by two guards and followed by a tall man who was carrying a straw hat which fluttered in the white-hot wind, the brim and the crown wavering as if they were made of tissue paper, and wearing a white suit and a blue tie and a shirt that was even whiter. They had stopped and Don Melquíades was talking to the stranger and pointing out something in the courtyard to him.

“Because there was risk,” Bermúdez said. “They might have been armed, they might have started shooting. I didn’t want the blood to be on your head, Uplander.”

He wasn’t a lawyer, no shyster would ever have been so well-dressed, and he wasn’t from the authorities either, because did they give them noodle soup today, did they have them sweep out the cells and latrines the way they always did when there was an inspection? But if he wasn’t a lawyer or an official, who was he?

“It could have hurt your political future and I explained that to the President,” Bermúdez said. “I’ll make the decision, I’ll assume the
responsibility
. If there are any consequences, I’ll resign and the Uplander will come out clean.”

He stopped gnawing on the small polished bone that he held in his big hands, remained stiff, lowered his head a bit, his startled eyes looking at the veranda: Don Melquíades was still signaling, still pointing at him.

“But things turned out all right and now the credit is yours,” Colonel Espina said. “The President’s going to think that the man I
recommended
has more balls than I do.”

“Hey, you, Trifulcio!” Don Melquíades shouted. “Can’t you see I’m calling you? What are you waiting for?”

“The President knows I owe this job to you,” Bermúdez said. “He knows that all you have to do is frown and I’ll say thanks for everything and go back to selling tractors again.”

“Hey, you!” the guards shouted, waving their arms. “Hey, you!”

“Three switchblades and a few Molotov cocktails, there wasn’t any reason to get upset,” Bermúdez said. “I’ve added some revolvers and a few more knives and brass knuckles for the newspapers.”

He got up, ran, crossed the courtyard, raising a cloud of dust, stopped a few feet from Don Melquíades. The others had put their heads forward and looked and remained silent. The ones walking had stopped moving, those who were sleeping were squatting and observing and the sun was like liquid.

“Did you call in the press too?” Colonel Espina asked. “Don’t you know that the Minister signs communiqués, that the Minister holds press conferences?”

“Come on, Trifulcio, lift up that barrel, Don Emilio Arévalo wants to see you do it,” Don Melquíades said. “Don’t make me look bad, I said that you could.”

“I called them so you could talk to them,” Bermúdez said. “Here’s the report in detail, the files, the weapons for the photographers. I called them with you in mind, Uplander.”

“I haven’t done nothing, sir.” Trifulcio blinked and shouted and waited and shouted again. “Nothing. My word of honor, Don
Melquíades
.”

“All right, let’s drop it,” Colonel Espina said. “But remember that I wanted to clean up the San Marcos business after the problem of the unions had been settled.”

Black, cylindrical, the barrel was at the foot of the veranda, beneath Don Melquíades, the guards and the stranger in white. Indifferent or interested or relieved, the others looked at the barrel and Trifulcio or exchanged mocking glances.

“The San Marcos business hasn’t been cleaned up and it’s time now to clean it up,” Bermúdez said. “The twenty-six we have are shock troops, but most of the leaders are still on the loose and we have to grab them now.”

“Stop playing the fool and pick up that barrel,” Don Melquíades said. “I know you haven’t done anything. Go ahead, pick it up so that Mr. Arévalo can see you.”

“The unions are more important than San Marcos, they’re the ones we have to clean up,” Colonel Espina said. “They haven’t said a word yet, but APRA is strong among the workers and one little spark could set off an explosion.”

“If I shat in my cell it’s because I was sick,” Trifulcio said. “I couldn’t hold it in, Don Melquíades. My word of honor.”

“We’ll do it,” Bermúdez said. “We’ll clean up everything that needs cleaning up, Uplander.”

The stranger began to laugh, Don Melquíades began to laugh, laughter broke out in the yard. The stranger leaned over the railing, put his hand in his pocket and took out something shiny that he showed to Trifulcio.

“Have you read
La
Tribuna,
the underground paper?” Colonel Espina asked. “Terrible things against the army, against me. We have to stop that dirty little sheet from circulating.”

“A sol, just to lift that barrel, sir?” Trifulcio blinked and started to laugh. “Of course, why not, yes sir!”

“Of course they talked about him in Chincha, sir,” Ambrosio said. “That he’d raped an underage girl, stolen, killed a guy in a fight. He couldn’t have done all of those terrible things. But he must have done some of them, because why else would he have been in jail for so long?”

“You military men are still thinking about the APRA of twenty years ago,” Bermúdez said. “Their leaders are old and corrupt, they don’t want to get themselves killed anymore. There won’t be any explosion, there won’t be any revolution. And that little sheet will disappear, I promise you that.”

He raised his hands to his face (wrinkled now on the eyelids and around the neck and alongside his kinky gray sideburns) and he spat on them a couple of times and rubbed them and took a step toward the barrel. He touched it, felt it, put his long legs and his domed belly and his broad chest against the hard body of the barrel and hugged it hard, lovingly, with his long arms.

“I never saw him again, but I heard him mentioned once,” Ambrosio says. “They’d seen him in the towns of the district during the 1950 elections, campaigning for Senator Arévalo. Putting up posters, giving out handbills. For the candidacy of Don Emilio Arévalo, your papa’s friend, son.”

“I’ve got the little list for you, Don Cayo, only three prefects and eight subprefects among those appointed by Bustamante have resigned,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “Twelve prefects and fifteen subprefects sent telegrams congratulating the General for having taken power. The rest silent; they probably want to be reappointed but don’t dare ask for it.”

He closed his eyes and, as he was lifting the barrel, the veins on his neck and temples puffed up, the worn skin of his face became moist and his fat lips turned purple. Arching, he supported the weight with his whole body, and a big hand descended roughly along the side of the barrel and it was raised a little more. He took two drunken steps with his burden, looked proudly at the railing, and with a shove returned the barrel to the ground.