Conversation in the Cathedral (78 page)

“It’s not another one, it’s the same one, only bigger, and a chance to get it all sewed up,” Don Hilario had insisted. “Think it over and you’ll see I’m right.”

And once two months had gone by and the man from Huánuco hadn’t shown up in Pucallpa. Amalia had almost forgotten about him the afternoon she found him sitting on the beach by the river, his jacket and tie carefully folded on a newspaper and with a toy for Amalita Hortensia in his hand. What had he been doing? And he, trembling as if he had malaria: he wasn’t coming back to Pucallpa anymore, could she talk to him alone for a minute? Doña Lupe had moved away with Amalita Hortensia and they talked for almost two hours. He wasn’t a traveling salesman anymore, he’d inherited a small store from an uncle and that was what he came to talk to her about. He’d looked so frightened to her, beating around the bush so much and stammering so much, asking her to go away with him, marry him, that she had even felt a little sorry to tell him he was crazy, Doña Lupe. Now you can see that he really loved you and it wasn’t a passing affair, Amalia. Leoncio Paniagua had not insisted, he’d remained silent, like an idiot, and when Amalia had
advised
him to forget about her and look for another woman back in Huánuco, he shook his head sorrowfully and whispered never. The fool had even made her feel nasty, Doña Lupe. She’d seen him for the last time that afternoon, crossing the square on the way to his small hotel and staggering like a drunkard.

“And when we were most short of money, Amalia finds out she was pregnant,” Ambrosio says. “The two bad things at the same time, son.”

But the news had made him happy: a little playmate for Amalia Hortensia, a jungle-boy son. Pantaleón and Doña Lupe had come to the cabin that night and they had drunk beer into the small hours: Amalia was pregnant, what did they think of that. They’d had a fairly good time and Amalia had got sick to her stomach and done crazy things: she danced all by herself, sang, said dirty words. The next day she’d
awakened
weak and vomiting and Ambrosio had made her feel ashamed: the child would be born a drunkard with the bath you gave it last night, Amalia.

“If the doctor had said she might die, I would have had her get an abortion,” Ambrosio says. “It’s easy there, a whole raft of old women who know all the herbs for it. But no, she felt fine and that’s why we didn’t worry about anything.”

One Saturday, during the first month of her pregnancy, Amalia had gone with Doña Lupe to spend the day in Yarinacocha. All morning they’d sat under a canopy looking at the lagoon where people were swimming, the round eye of the sun was burning in a crystal-clear sky. At noon they had untied their bundles and eaten under a tree, and then they’d heard two women having soft drinks saying awful things about Hilario Morales: he was this, he was that, he’d cheated, he’d robbed, if there was any justice left he’d have been dead or in prison. It’s probably nothing but gossip, Doña Lupe had said, but that night Amalia had told Ambrosio.

“I’ve heard worse things about him, and not just here, in Tingo María too,” Ambrosio had told her. “What I can’t understand is why he doesn’t pull one of his tricks so our business will start showing some profit.”

“Because he’s most likely pulling the tricks on you, dope,” Amalia had said.

“She put the doubt in me,” Ambrosio says. “The poor thing had the nose of a hound, son.”

From then on, every night when he got back from Pucallpa, even before he brushed off the red dust of the road, he’d asked Amalia
anxiously
: how many big ones, how many small ones? He had copied down everything that had been sold in a notebook and he had come back every day with stories of new tricks he’d heard concerning Don Hilario in Tingo María and Pucallpa.

“If you mistrust him that much, I’ve got an idea,” Pantaleón had told him. “Tell him to give you back your money and we’ll go into something together.”

Ever since that Saturday in Yarinacocha she’d kept a scrupulous watch on the customers at Limbo Coffins. This pregnancy hadn’t been at all like the earlier one, not even like the first one, Doña Lupe: no nausea, no vomiting, not even thirsty, almost. She hadn’t lost her strength, she could do the housework as well as ever. One morning she’d gone to the hospital with Ambrosio and had to stand in a long line. They’d killed time with a game where they tried to guess the number of buzzards they saw sunning themselves on nearby roofs, and when their turn came, Amalia was half asleep. The doctor had given her a very quick examination and said get dressed, you’re fine, come back in a couple of months. Amalia had got dressed and only when she was about to leave had she remembered:

“At the Maternity Hospital in Lima they told me that I could die if I had another baby, doctor.”

“Then you should have paid attention and taken precautions,” the doctor had grumbled; but then, when he saw she was frightened, he forced a smile. “Don’t be scared, take good care of yourself and nothing will happen to you.”

A short time later another six months had passed and Ambrosio, before going to Don Hilario’s office, had called her over with a devilish look: come here, I’ve got a secret. What is it? He was going to tell him that he didn’t want to be his partner anymore or his driver either, Amalia, that he could stick The Jungle Flash and Limbo Coffins where it best suited him. Amalia had looked at him with surprise and he: it was a surprise he was saving for you, Amalia. He and Pantaleón had been making plans all that time and they’d come up with a great one. They’d fill their pockets at Don Hilario’s expense, Amalia, that was the funniest part of it. There was a small used truck for sale and Pantaleón had taken it apart and cleaned it up right down to its soul: it worked. They were letting it go for eighty thousand and would take a thirty thousand down payment and the rest on time. Pantaleón would ask for his severance pay and he would move heaven and earth to get his fifteen thousand back and they’d buy it on halves and drive it on halves and charge less and take customers away from the Morales and the Pucallpa companies.

“All dreams,” Ambrosio says. “I was trying to end up where I should have started when I got to Pucallpa.”

T
HEY
CAME
STRAIGHT
BACK
to Lima from Huacachina in the car of another newlywed couple. Señora Lucía received them with sighs at the door of the boardinghouse and, after embracing Ana, dried her eyes with her apron. She’d put flowers in the room, washed the curtains and changed the sheets, and bought a bottle of port wine to toast their happiness. When Ana began to unpack the suitcases, she called Santiago aside and gave him an envelope with a mysterious smile: his little sister had dropped it off yesterday. Teté’s Miraflores handwriting, Zavalita, you devil, we found out about your getting married! her Gothic syntax, and reading about it in the paper! Everybody was furious with you (don’t you believe it, Superbrain) and dying to meet my sister-in-law. They should run right over to the house, they were going to look for you morning and night because they were dying to meet her. You were such a nut, Superbrain, and a thousand kisses from Teté.

“Don’t turn so pale.” Ana laughed. “What difference does it make if they did find out, were we going to keep it a secret marriage?”

“It’s not that,” Santiago said. “It’s just, well, you’re right, I’m acting stupid.”

“Of course you are.” Ana laughed again. “Call them and get it over with or, if you want, let’s go face them. You’d think they were ogres, love.”

“Yes, we’d better get it over with,” Santiago said. “I’ll tell them we’ll come by tonight.”

With an earthworm tickle in his body, he went down to phone and no sooner had he said hello? than he heard Teté’s triumphant shout: Superbrain was on the phone, papa! There was her gushing voice, but how could you have done this, you crazy nut! her euphoria, did you really get married? who to, you madman? her impatience, when and how and where, her giggle, but why didn’t you even tell them you had a
sweetheart
, her questions, had you kidnapped my sister-in-law, had they eloped, was she underage? Tell me, come on, tell me all about it.

“First give me a chance to speak,” Santiago said. “I can’t answer everything at once.”

“Her name is Ana?” Teté burst out again. “What’s she like, where’s she from, what’s her last name, do I know her, how old is she?”

“Look, maybe you’d better ask her all that,” Santiago said. “Will you all be home tonight?”

“Why tonight, idiot?” Teté shouted. “Come over right now. Can’t you see that we’re dying with curiosity?”

“We’ll come by around seven o’clock,” Santiago said. “For dinner, O.K. So long, Teté.”

She had fixed herself up for that visit more than for the wedding, Zavalita. She’d gone to a hairdresser, asked Doña Lucía to help her iron a blouse, had tried on all her dresses and shoes and looked and looked again in the mirror and took an hour to put her makeup on and do her nails. He thinks: poor skinny little thing. She’d been so sure of herself all afternoon, while she got things ready and decided on what to wear, all smiles, asking questions about Don Fermín and Señora Zoila and Sparky and Teté, but at dusk, when she walked in front of
Santiago
, how does this look, love, do you prefer this other one, love? she was already too loquacious, her ease was too artificial, and there were those little sparks of anguish in her eyes. In the taxi on the way to Miraflores, she’d been silent and serious, uneasiness stamped on her mouth.

“They’re going to look me over the way they would a man from Mars, aren’t they?” she said suddenly.

“A woman from Mars, more likely,” Santiago said. “What do you care?”

But she did care, Zavalita. When he rang the bell he felt her clutch his arm, saw her protect her coiffure with her free hand. It was absurd, what were they doing here, why did they have to go through that examination: you’d felt furious, Zavalita. There was Teté, dressed for a party, at the door, leaping up and down. She kissed Santiago, embraced and kissed Ana, said things, squealed, and there were Teté’s little eyes, and a moment later Sparky’s little eyes and the eyes of his parents, looking her over, running up and down her, an autopsy. In the midst of the laughter, Teté’s squeals and embraces, there was that pair of eyes. Teté took each one by the arm, crossed the garden with them, talking incessantly, pulling them along in her whirlwind of exclamations and questions and congratulations and still casting the inevitable quick glances out of the corner of her eye at Ana, who was stumbling. The whole family was gathered in the living room. The Tribunal, Zavalita. There it was: including Popeye, including Cary, Sparky’s fiancée, all of them dressed for a party. Five pairs of rifles, he thinks, all aiming and firing at Ana at the same time. He thinks: mama’s face. You didn’t know mama very well, Zavalita, you thought she had better control of herself, more ease, more restraint. But she didn’t hide her annoyance or her stupefaction or her disappointment: only her rage, at first and halfway. She was the last to come over to them, like a penitent dragging chains, flushed. She kissed Santiago, murmuring something you couldn’t catch—her lips were trembling, he thinks, her eyes were wide—and then and with effort, she turned to Ana, who was opening her arms. But she didn’t embrace her, she didn’t smile at her; she leaned over and barely touched cheeks with Ana and drew away immediately: hello Ana. Her face grew harder still, she turned to Santiago and Santiago looked at Ana: she’d suddenly turned red and now Don Fermín was trying to smooth things over. He’d rushed over to Ana, so this was his daughter-in-law, had embraced her again, this is the secret that Skinny kept hidden from us. Sparky embraced Ana wearing the smile of a hippopotamus and gave Santiago a clap on the back, exclaiming curtly you really kept it secret. He too showed the same embarrassed and funereal expression at times that Don Fermín had when he was careless with his face for a second and forgot to smile. Only Popeye seemed happy and relaxed. Petite, blond, with her little bird voice and her crepe dress, Cary, before they sat down, had begun to ask questions with an innocent, flaky little laugh. But Teté had behaved well, Zavalita, she’d done the impossible to fill the gaps with shreds of conversation, to sweeten the bitter drink that mama, on purpose or unwittingly, served Ana during those two hours. She had spoken to her a single time, and when Don Fermín, anxiously merry, opened a bottle of champagne and hors d’oeuvres were served, she forgot to pass Ana the plate of cheese chunks with toothpicks. And she
remained
stiff and neutral—her lips still trembling, her eyes wide and staring—while Ana, badgered by Cary and Teté, explained, making mistakes and contradicting herself, how and when they had been
married
. In private, no attendants, no wedding party, you crazy nuts, Teté said, and Cary how simple, how nice, and she looked at Sparky. From time to time, as if remembering that he was supposed to, Don Fermín would emerge from his silence with a little start, lean forward in his chair and say something affectionate to Ana. How uncomfortable he looked, Zavalita, how difficult that naturalness, that familiarity was for him. More hors d’oeuvres had been brought, Don Fermín poured a second round of champagne, and for the few seconds they were drinking there was a fleeting relaxation of tensions. From the corner of his eye Santiago saw Ana’s efforts to swallow the things Teté was passing her, and she was responding as best she could to the jokes—which were getting more and more timid, more false—that Popeye was telling her. It seemed as if the atmosphere was going to burst into flames, he thinks, that a blaze would spring up in the middle of the group. Imperturbably, tenaciously, healthily, Cary kept putting her foot in it at every moment. She would open her mouth, what school did you go to, Ana? and the atmosphere would thicken, María Parado de Bellido was a public school, wasn’t it? and add tics and tremors, oh, she’d studied nursing! to his mother’s face, not as a volunteer gray lady but as a professional? So you knew how to give shots, Ana, so you’d worked at La Maison de Santé, at the Workers’ Hospital in Ica. There your mother, Zavalita, blinking, biting her lips, wiggling in her chair as if she were sitting on an ant hill. There your father, his eyes on the tip of his shoe, listening, raising his head and struggling to smile at you and Ana. Huddled in her chair, a piece of toast with anchovies dancing in her fingers, Ana was looking at Cary like a frightened student at her examiner. A moment later she got up, went over to Teté and whispered in her ear in the midst of an electrified silence. Of course, Teté said, come with me. They left, disappeared up the stairs, and Santiago looked at Señora Zoila. She wasn’t saying anything yet, Zavalita. Her brow was wrinkled, her lips were trembling, she was looking at you. You thought it won’t matter to her that Popeye and Cary are here, he thinks, it’s stronger than she is, she won’t be able to stand it.