Conversation in the Cathedral (81 page)

“You were spreading insolent stories around town this morning.” Purple with rage, Doña Lupe, raising his voice so much that Amalita Hortensia had waked up crying. “Saying on the street that Hilario Morales had stolen your money.”

Amalia had felt the breakfast-time nausea coming back. Ambrosio hadn’t budged: why didn’t he stand up, why didn’t he answer him? Nothing of the sort, he’d remained seated, looking at the little fat man who was roaring.

“Besides being a fool, you don’t trust people and you’re a
blabbermouth
,” shouting, shouting. “So you told people you’re going to put the screws on me with the police? Fine, everything out in the open. Get up, let’s go, right now.”

“I’m eating,” Ambrosio had barely murmured. “Where was it you wanted me to go, sir?”

“To the police,” Don Hilario had bellowed. “To set things straight in the presence of the Major. To see who owes money to who, you ingrate.”

“Don’t act like that, Don Hilario,” Ambrosio had begged him. “They’ve been telling lies to you. How can you believe a bunch of gossips. Have a seat, sir, let me get you a beer.”

Amalia had looked at Ambrosio in astonishment: he was smiling at him, offering him a seat. She’d stood up in a leap, run out into the yard, and vomited on the manioc plants. From there she’d heard Don Hilario: he wasn’t in the mood for any beer, he’d come to dot a few
i
’s, he should get up, let’s go see the Major. And Ambrosio’s voice, getting more and more faint and fawning: how could he mistrust him, sir, he’d only been complaining about his bad luck, sir.

“So no more threats or loose talk in the future, then,” Don Hilario had said, calming down a bit. “You be careful about going around smearing my good name.”

Amalia had seen him take a half-turn, go to the door, turn around and give one last shout: he didn’t want to see him at the business anymore, he didn’t want to have an ingrate like you as a driver, he could come by Monday and pick up his wages. Yes, it had started up again. But she’d felt more rage against Ambrosio than against Don Hilario and she came running into the room.

“Why did you let yourself be treated like that, why did you knuckle under? Why didn’t you go to the police and make a complaint?”

“Because of you,” Ambrosio had said, looking at her sorrowfully. “Thinking about you. Have you forgotten so soon? Don’t you remember anymore why we’re in Pucallpa? I didn’t go to the police because of you, I knuckled under because of you.”

She’d started to cry, asked his forgiveness, and she had vomited again at night.

“He gave me six hundred soles severance pay,” Ambrosio says. “With it we got by for a month, I don’t know how. I spent the month looking for work. In Pucallpa it’s easier to find gold than a job. Finally I got a starvation job driving a group taxi to Yarinacocha. And after a little while the final blow came, son.”

D
URING THOSE FIRST MONTHS
of marriage without seeing your parents or your brother and sister, almost without hearing anything about them, had you been happy, Zavalita? Months of privation and debts, but you’ve forgotten about them and bad times are never forgotten, he thinks. He thinks: you probably had been, Zavalita. Most likely that monotony with a tight belt was happiness, that discreet lack of conviction and exaltation and ambition, most likely it was that bland mediocrity about everything. Even in bed, he thinks. From the very beginning the boardinghouse was uncomfortable for them. Doña Lucía had allowed Ana to use the kitchen on the condition that it didn’t interfere with her schedule, so Ana and Santiago had to have lunch and dinner very early or very late. Then Ana and Doña Lucía started having arguments over the bathroom and the ironing board, the use of dusters and brooms and the wearing out of curtains and sheets. Ana had tried to get back into La Maison de Santé but there wasn’t any opening and they had to get through two or three months before she got a part-time job at the Delgado Clinic. Then they began looking for an apartment. When he got back from
La
Crónica,
Santiago would find Ana awake, looking through the classified ads, and while he got undressed, she would tell him about her activities and her walks. It was her happiness, Zavalita, marking ads, making phone calls, asking questions and haggling, visiting five or six of them when she left the clinic. And yet, it had been Santiago who just by chance discovered the elf houses on Porta. He’d gone to interview someone who lived on Benavides, and as he was going up toward the Diagonal he found them. There they were: the reddish façade, the little pygmy houses lined up around the small gravel rectangle, the windows with grillwork and the corbels and pots of geraniums. There was a sign: apartments for rent. They’d hesitated, eight hundred was a lot of money. But they were already sick of the inconveniences of the boardinghouse and the
arguments
with Doña Lucía and they took it. Little by little they started filling the empty little rooms with cheap furniture that they bought on time.

If Ana had her shift at the Delgado Clinic in the morning, when Santiago woke up at noon he would find breakfast all ready to be warmed up. He would stay reading until it was time to go to the paper or out on some assignment, and Ana would get back around three o’clock. They’d have lunch, he’d leave for work at five and come back at two in the morning. Ana would be thumbing through a magazine, listening to the radio, or playing cards with their neighbor, the German woman with mythomaniacal duties (one day she was an agent of Interpol, the next a political exile, another time the representative of a European
consortium
who had come to Peru on a mysterious mission) who lived alone and on bright days she would go out in a bathing suit to sun herself in the rectangle. And there was the Saturday ritual, Zavalita, your day off. They would get up late, have lunch at home, go to the matinee at a local movie, take a walk along the Malecón or through Necochea Park or on the Avenida Pardo (what did we talk about? he thinks, what did we say?), always in places that were visibly empty so as not to run into Sparky or his folks or Teté, at nightfall they would eat in some cheap restaurant (the Colinita, he thinks, at the end of the month in the Gambrinus), at night they would plunge into a movie theater again, a first run if they could manage it. At first they chose their movies with some sort of balance, a Mexican movie in the afternoon, a detective film or western at night. Now almost all Mexican, he thinks. Had you started to give in to keep things running smoothly with Ana or because it didn’t matter to you either, Zavalita? On an occasional Saturday they would travel to Ica to spend the day with Ana’s parents. They visited no one and had no visitors themselves, they didn’t have any friends.

You hadn’t gone back to the Negro-Negro with Carlitos, Zavalita, you hadn’t gone back to scrounge a free show at nightclubs or brothels. They didn’t ask him, they didn’t insist, and one day they began to tease him: you’ve gotten to be a solid citizen, Zavalita, you’ve become a good bourgeois. Had Ana been happy, was she, are you, Anita? Her voice there in the darkness on one of those nights when they made love: you don’t drink, you don’t chase women, of course I’m happy, love. Once Carlitos had come to the office drunker than usual; he came over and sat on Santiago’s desk and was looking at him in silence, with an angry face: now they only saw each other and talked in this tomb, Zavalita. A few days later, Santiago invited him to lunch at the elf house. Bring China too, Carlitos, thinking what will she say, what will Ana do: no, China and he were on the outs. He came alone and it had been a tense and uncomfortable lunch, larded with lies. Carlitos felt uncomfortable, Ana looked at him with mistrust and the topic of conversation would die as soon as it was born. Since then Carlitos hadn’t gone back to their place. He thinks: I swear I’ll come see you.

The world was small, but Lima was large and Miraflores infinite, Zavalita: six, eight months living in the same district without running into his folks or Sparky or Teté. One night at the paper, Santiago was finishing an article when someone touched him on the shoulder: hi, Freckle Face. They went out for coffee on Colmena.

“Teté and I are getting married on Saturday, Skinny,” Popeye said. “That’s why I came to see you.”

“I already knew, I read about it in the paper,” Santiago said. “
Congratulations
, Freckle Face.”

“Teté wants you to be her witness at the civil ceremony,” Popeye said. “You’re going to say yes, aren’t you? And Ana and you have to come to the wedding.”

“You remember that little scene at the house,” Santiago said. “I suppose you know that I haven’t seen the family since then.”

“Everything’s all been patched up, we finally convinced your old lady.” Popeye’s ruddy face lighted up with an optimistic and fraternal smile. “She wants you to come too. And your old man, I don’t have to tell you that. They all want to see you both and make up once and for all. They’ll treat Ana with the greatest love, you’ll see.”

They’d pardoned her, Zavalita. The old man must have lamented every day of those months over why Skinny hadn’t come, over how annoyed and resentful you must have been, and he’d probably scolded and blamed mama a hundred times, and on some nights he must have come and stood watch in his car on the Avenida Tacna to see you come out of
La
Crónica.
They must have talked, argued, and mama must have cried until they got used to the idea that you were married and to whom. He thinks: until we, they’ve forgiven you, Anita. We forgive her for having inveigled and stolen Skinny, we forgive her for being a peasant girl: she could come.

“Do it for Teté’s sake and for your old man most of all,” Popeye insisted. “You know how much he loves you, Skinny. And even for Sparky, man. Just this afternoon he told me that Superbrain should start acting like a man and come.”

“I’d be delighted to be Teté’s witness, Freckle Face.” Sparky had forgiven you too, Anita: thank you, Sparky. “You have to tell me what I have to sign and where.”

“And I hope you both will always come to our house, you will, won’t you?” Popeye said. “You’ve got no reason to be mad at Teté and me, we didn’t do anything to you, did we? We think Ana’s very nice.”

“But we’re not going to the wedding, Freckle Face,” Santiago said. “I’m not mad at the folks or at Sparky. It’s just that I don’t want another little scene like the last one.”

“Don’t be pigheaded, man,” Popeye said. “Your old lady has her prejudices like everyone else, but underneath it all she’s a very good person. Give Teté that pleasure, Skinny, come to the wedding.”

Popeye had already left the firm he had worked for since his
graduation
, the company he had set up with three colleagues was getting along, Skinny, they already had a few clients. But he’d been very busy, not so much in architecture or even with his fiancée—he’d given you a jovial nudge with his elbow, Zavalita—but in politics: what a waste of time, right, Skinny?

“Politics?” Santiago asked, blinking. “Are you mixed up in politics, Freckle Face?”

“Belaúnde for all.” Popeye laughed, showing a button on the lapel of his jacket. “Didn’t you know? I’m even on the Departmental Committee of Popular Action. You must read the papers.”

“I never read the political news,” Santiago said. “I didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Belaúnde was my professor at the university,” Popeye said. “We’ll sweep the next elections. He’s a great guy, brother.”

“And what does your father say?” Santiago smiled. “Is he still an Odríist senator?”

“We’re a democratic family.” Popeye laughed. “Sometimes we argue with the old man, but on a friendly basis. Aren’t you for Belaúnde? You’ve seen how they’ve called us left-wingers, just for that reason alone you should be backing the architect. Or are you still a Communist?”

“Not anymore,” Santiago said. “I’m not anything and I don’t want to hear anything about politics. It bores me.”

“Too bad, Skinny,” Popeye scolded him cordially. “If everybody thought that way, this country would never change.”

That night, at the elf houses, while Santiago told her, Ana had listened very attentively, her eyes sparkling with curiosity: naturally they weren’t going to the wedding, Anita. She naturally not, but he should go, love, she was your sister. Besides, they’d probably say Ana wouldn’t let him come, they’d hate her all the more, he had to go. The next morning, while Santiago was still in bed, Teté appeared at the elf houses: her hair in curlers, which showed through the white silk kerchief, svelte, wearing slacks and happy. It was as if she’d been seeing you every day, Zavalita: she died laughing watching you light the oven to heat up your breakfast, she examined the two small rooms with a magnifying glass, poked through the books, even pulled on the toilet chain to see how it worked. She liked everything: the whole development looked as if it had been made for dolls, the little red houses all so alike, everything so small, so cute.

“Stop messing things up, your sister-in-law will be mad at me,”
Santiago
said. “Sit down and let’s talk a little.”

Teté sat on the low bookcase, but she kept looking around voraciously. Was she in love with Popeye? Of course, idiot, did you think she’d marry him if she wasn’t? They’d live with Popeye’s parents for a little while, until the building where Freckle Face’s folks had given them an
apartment
as a wedding present would be finished. Their honeymoon? First to Mexico and then the United States.

“I hope you’ll send me some postcards,” Santiago said. “All my life I’ve dreamed of traveling and up till now I’ve only got as far as Ica.”

“You didn’t even call mama on her birthday, you brought on a flood of tears,” Teté said. “But I suppose that on Sunday you’ll be coming to the house with Ana.”

“Be content with the fact that I’ll be your witness,” Santiago said. “We’re not going to the church and we’re not going to the house.”

“Stop your nonsense, Superbrain,” Teté said, laughing. “I’m going to convince Ana and I’m going to give it to you, ha-ha. And I’m going to get Ana to come to my shower and everything, you’ll see.”