Conversation in the Cathedral

MARIO VARGAS LLOSA

Conversation in the Cathedral

Translated by Gregory Rabassa

To Luis Loayza and Abelardo Oquendo

Table of Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph

ONE
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2
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7
8
9
10

TWO
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2
3
4
5
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7
8
9

THREE
1
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4

FOUR
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About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright

Il faut avoir fouillé toute la vie sociale pour ê tre un vrai romancier, vu que le roman est l’histoire privé e des nations.

BALZAC, Petites misè res de
la vie conjugale

ONE

FROM THE DOORWAY of La Cró nica Santiago looks at the Avenida Tacna without love: cars, uneven and faded buildings, the gaudy skeletons of posters floating in the mist, the gray midday. At what precise moment had Peru fucked itself up? The newsboys weave in and out among the vehicles halted by the red light on Wilson, hawking the afternoon papers, and he starts to walk slowly toward Colmena. His hands in his pockets, head down, he goes along escorted by people who are also going in the direction of the Plaza San Martí n. He was like Peru, Zavalita was, he’d fucked himself up somewhere along the line. He thinks: when? Across from the Hotel Crilló n a dog comes over to lick his feet: don’t get your rabies on me, get away. Peru all fucked up, Carlitos all fucked up, everybody all fucked up. He thinks: there’s no solution. He sees a long line at the taxi stop for Miraflores, he crosses the square, and there’s Norwin, hello, at a table in the Zela Bar, have a seat, Zavalita, fondling a chilcano and having his shoes shined, he invites him to have a drink. He doesn’t look drunk yet and Santiago sits down, tells the bootblack to shine his shoes too. Yes, sir, boss, right away, boss, they’ll look like a mirror, boss.

“No one’s seen you for ages, Mr. Editorial Writer, ” Norwin says. “Are you happier on the editorial page than with the local news? ”

“There’s less work. ” He shrugs his shoulders, it was probably that day when the editor called him in, he orders a cold Cristal, did he want to take Orgambide’s place, Zavalita? He thinks: that’s when I fucked myself up. “I get in early, they give me my topic, I hold my nose, and in two or three hours all set, I unbuckle my chains and that’s it. ”

“I wouldn’t write editorials for all the money in the world, ” Norwin says. “It’s too far removed from the news, and journalism is news, Zavalita, believe me. I’ll end my days on the police beat, that’s all. By the way, did Carlitos die yet? ”

“He’s still in the hospital, but they’re going to let him out soon, ” Santiago says. “He swears he’s off the bottle this time. ”

“Is it true that one night he saw cockroaches and spiders when he went to bed? ” Norwin asks.

“He lifted up the sheet and thousands of tarantulas and mice came at him, ” Santiago says. “He ran out into the street bare-ass and hollering. ”

Norwin laughs and Santiago closes his eyes: the houses in Chorrillos are cubes with gratings on them, caves cracked by earthquakes, inside there’s a traffic of utensils and reeking little old women with slippers and varicose legs. A small figure runs among the cubes, his shrieks make the oily predawn shudder and infuriate the ants and scorpions that pursue him. Consolation through alcohol, he thinks, against the slow death of the blue devils of hallucination. He was all right, Carlitos was, you had to defend yourself against Peru as best you could.

“One of these days I’m going to come across the creatures too. ” Norwin contemplates his chilcano with curiosity, half smiles. “But there’s no such thing as a teetotaling newspaperman, Zavalita. Drinking gives you inspiration, believe me. ”

The bootblack is through with Norwin and now he’s putting polish on Santiago’s shoes, whistling. How were things at Ú ltima Hora, what were the scoundrels there saying? They were complaining about your ingratitude, Zavalita, that you should stop by and see them sometime, the way you used to. But since you have lots of free time now, Zavalita, did you take a second job?

“I read, I take naps, ” Santiago says. “Maybe I’ll go back to law school. ”

“You get away from the news and now you want a degree. ” Norwin looks at him sadly. “The editorial page is the end of the road, Zavalita. You’ll get a job as a lawyer, you’ll leave the newspaper business. I can already see you as a proper bourgeois. ”

“I’ve just turned thirty, ” Santiago says. “That’s kind of late for me to start being a bourgeois. ”

“Thirty, is that all? ” Norwin is thoughtful. “I’m thirty-six and I could pass for your father. The police page puts you through the grinder, believe me. ”

Male faces, dull and defeated eyes at the tables of the Zela Bar, hands that reach for ashtrays and glasses of beer. How ugly people are here, Carlitos is right. He thinks: what’s come over me today? The bootblack cuffs away two dogs that are panting among the tables.

“How long is the campaign against rabies in La Cró nica going to last? ” Norwin asks. “It’s getting boring, another whole page on it this morning. ”

“I wrote all the editorials against rabies, ” Santiago says. “Hell, that doesn’t bother me as much as writing on Cuba or Vietnam. Well, the line’s gone now. I’m going to catch a taxi. ”

“Let’s have lunch, I’m inviting, ” Norwin says. “Forget about your wife, Zavalita. Let’s bring back the good old days. ”

Hot coney and cold beer, the Rinconcito Cajamarquino in the Bajo el Puente district and a view of the vague waters of the Rí mac River slipping along over snot-colored rocks, the muddy Haitian coffee, gambling at Milton’s place, chilcanos and a shower at Norwin’s, the midnight apotheosis at the whorehouse with Becerrita, which brought on deflation, the acid sleep, the nausea and the doubts of dawn. The good old days, maybe it had been then.

“Ana’s made some shrimp soup and I wouldn’t want to miss that, ” Santiago says. “Some other time. ”

“You’re afraid of your wife, ” Norwin says. “Boy, you really are fucked up, Zavalita. ”

Not because of what you thought, brother. Norwin insists on paying for the beer, the shine, and they shake hands. Santiago goes back to the taxi stop, the car he takes is a Chevrolet and the radio is on, Inca Cola refreshed the best, then a waltz, rivers, canyons, the veteran voice of Jesú s Vá squez, it was my Peru. There were still some jams downtown, but Repú blica and Arequipa were empty and the car was able to move along, another waltz, Lima women had traditional souls. Why are all Peruvian waltzes so goddamned stupid? He thinks: what’s come over me today? He has his chin on his chest and his eyes are half closed, as if he’s spying on his belly: God, Zavalita, every time you sit down you get that bulge in your jacket. Was it the first time he’d drunk beer? Fifteen, twenty years ago? Four weeks without seeing his mother, Teté. Who would have thought that Popeye would become an architect, Zavalita, who would have thought that you’d end up writing editorials against the dogs of Lima? He thinks: I’ll be potbellied in a little while. He’d go to the Turkish baths, play tennis at the Terrazas, in six months the fat would burn away and he’d have a flat belly again the way he did when he was fifteen years old. Get moving, break the inertia, shake himself up. He thinks: sports, that’s the answer. Miraflores Park already, Quebrada, the Malecó n, the corner of Benavides, driver. He gets out, walks toward Porta, his hands in his pockets, his head down, what’s come over me today? The sky is still cloudy, the atmosphere is even grayer and the light drizzle has begun: mosquito legs on his skin, the caress of a cobweb. Not even that, a more furtive and disagreeable feeling. Even the rain is fucked up in this country. He thinks: if at least there were a heavy rain. What were they showing at the Colina, the Montecarlo, the Marsano? He’d have lunch, a chapter of Point Counter Point, which would drag and carry him in its arms to the sticky sleep of siesta time, maybe they were showing a crime movie, like Rififi, a cowboy picture like Rio Grande. But Ana would have her tear-jerker all checked off in the newspaper, what’s come over me today? He thinks: if the censors would only ban all Mexican films he’d fight less with Ana. And after the movies, what then? They’d take a walk along the Malecó n, smoke under the cement shelters in Necochea Park listening to the sea roaring in the darkness, they would return to the elf houses, we fight a lot, love, we argue a lot, love, and between yawns, Huxley. The two rooms would fill up with smoke and the smell of oil, was he very hungry, love? The morning alarm clock, the cold water in the shower, the taxi, walking among office workers along Colmena, the voice of the editor, would he rather have the bank strike, the fishing crisis, or Israel? Maybe it would be worth putting out a little effort and getting a degree. He thinks: going backward. He sees the harsh orange wails, the red tiles, the small barred windows of the elf houses. The apartment door is open but Rowdy doesn’t appear, mongrel, leaping, noisy and effusive. Why do you leave the door open when you go to the Chinaman’s, dear? But no, there’s Ana, what’s the matter, her eyes are puffy and weepy, her hair disheveled: they took Rowdy away, love.

“They pulled him out of my hands, ” Ana sobs. “Some dirty niggers, love. They put him in the truck. They stole him, they stole him. ”

The kiss on the temple, calm down, love, he caresses her face, how did it happen, he leads her to the house by the shoulder, don’t cry, silly.

“I called you at La Cró nica and you weren’t there. ” Ana pouts. “Bandits, Negroes with the faces of criminals. I had him on the leash and everything. They grabbed him, put him in the truck, they stole him. ”

“I’ll have lunch and go to the pound and get him out. ” Santiago kisses her again. “Nothing will happen to him, don’t be silly. ”

“He started to kick his legs, wag his tail. ” She wipes her eyes with the apron, sighs. “He seemed to understand, love. Poor thing, poor little thing. ”

“Did they grab him out of your arms? ” Santiago asks. “What a bunch. I’m going to raise hell. ”

He picks up the jacket he threw onto a chair and takes a step toward the door, but Ana holds him back: he should eat first, quickly, love. Her voice is soft, dimples on her cheeks, her eyes sad, she’s pale.

“The soup must be cold by now. ” She smiles, her lips trembling. “I forgot about everything with what happened, sweet. Poor little Rowdy. ”

They eat lunch without talking, at the small table against the window that looks out on the courtyard of the houses: earth the color of brick, like the tennis courts at the Terrazas, a twisting gravel path with geranium pots on the side. The soup has grown cold, a film of grease tints the edges of the plate, the shrimp look like tin. She was on her way to the Chinaman’s on San Martí n to buy a bottle of vinegar, love, and all of a sudden a truck put on its brakes beside her and two Negroes with criminal faces got out, the worst kind of bandits, one of them gave her a shove and the other one grabbed the leash and before she knew what was happening they’d put him in the cage and had gone. Poor thing, poor little creature. Santiago gets up: they’d hear from him about an abuse like that. Did he see, did he see? Ana is sobbing again; he too was afraid they were going to kill him, love.

“They won’t do anything to him, sweet. ” He kisses Ana on the cheek, a momentary taste of raw meat and salt. “I’ll bring him right back, you’ll see. ”

He jogs to the pharmacy on Porta and San Martí n, asks to use the telephone and calls La Cró nica, Soló rzano the court reporter answers: how in hell would he know where the dog pound was, Zavalita.

“Did they take your dog away? ” The druggist puts his solicitous head forward. “The pound’s by the Puente del Ejé rcito. You’d better hurry, they killed my brother-in-law’s Chihuahua, a very expensive animal. ”

He jogs to Larco, takes a group taxi, how much would the trip from the Paseo Coló n to the Puente del Ejé rcito cost? he counts a hundred eighty soles in his wallet. On Sunday they wouldn’t have a cent left, too bad Ana had left the hospital, they’d better not go to the movies that night, poor Rowdy, no more editorials against rabies. He gets out on the Paseo Coló n, on the Plaza Bolognesi he finds a taxi, the driver doesn’t know where the pound is, sir. An ice cream vendor on the Plaza Dos de Mayo gives them directions: farther on a small sign near the river, Municipal Dog Pound, there it was. A broad yard surrounded by a run-down, shit-colored adobe wall—the color of Lima, he thinks, the color of Peru—flanked by shacks that mix and thicken in the distance until they turn into a labyrinth of straw mats, poles, tiles, zinc plates. Muffled, remote whining. A squalid structure stands beside the entrance, a plaque says Office. In shirtsleeves, wearing glasses, a bald man is dozing by a desk covered with papers and Santiago raps on the table: they’d stolen his dog, they’d snatched it out of his wife’s hands, the man sits up, startled, by God, he wasn’t going to leave it at that.

“What do you mean coming into this office spouting goddamns? ” The bald man rubs his stupefied eyes and makes a face. “Show some respect. ”

“If anything’s happened to my dog I’m not going to leave it at that. ” He takes out his press card, pounds the table again. “And the characters who attacked my wife are going to be sorry, I can assure you. ”

“Calm down. ” He looks the card over, yawns, the displeasure on his face dissolves into beatific weariness. “Did they pick up your dog a couple of hours ago? Then he must be with the ones the truck brought in just now. ”

He shouldn’t get that way, my newspaper friend, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. His voice is bland, dreamy, like his eyes, bitter, like the folds of his mouth: fucked up too. The dogcatchers were paid by the number of animals, sometimes they committed abuses, what could you do, it was all part of the struggle to buy a little something to eat. Some muffled blows in the yard, whines that seemed filtered through cork walls. The bald man half smiles and, gracelessly, lazily, gets to his feet, goes out of the office muttering. They cross an open stretch, go into a shed that smells of urine. Parallel cages, crammed with animals who push against each other and jump in place, sniff the wire, growl. Santiago leans over each cage, not there, he explores the promiscuous surface of snouts, rumps, tails stiff and quivering, not there either. The bald man walks beside him, his look far away, dragging his feet.

“Take a look, there’s no more room to keep them, ” he protests suddenly. “Then your newspaper attacks us, it’s not fair. The city gives us almost nothing, we have to perform miracles. ”

“God damn it, ” Santiago says, “not here either. ”

“Be patient, ” the bald man sighs. “We’ve got four more sheds. ”

They go outside again. Earth that had been dug up, weeds, excrement, stinking puddles. In the second shed one cage moves more than the others, the wires shake and something white and woolly bounces, comes up and sinks back into the wave: that’s more like it, that’s more like it. Take a snout, a piece of tail, two red and weepy eyes: Rowdy. He still has his leash on, they had no right, a hell of a thing, but the bald man calm down, calm down, he’d have them get him out. He goes off with sluggish steps and a moment later comes back followed by a Negro-Indian half-breed in blue overalls: let’s see, he was to get that little whitish one out, Pancras. The half-breed opens the cage, pushes the animals apart, grabs Rowdy by the scruff of the neck, hands him to Santiago. Poor thing, he was trembling, but he turns him loose and he takes a step back, shaking himself.

“They always shit. ” The half-breed laughs. “It’s their way of saying we’re glad to be out of jail. ”

Santiago kneels down beside Rowdy, scratches his head, lets him lick his hands. He trembles, dribbles urine, staggers drunkenly, and only outside does he start to leap and scratch the ground, to run.

“Come with me, take a look at the conditions we work under. ” He takes Santiago by the arm, smiles at him acidly. “Write something for your paper, ask the city to increase our budget. ”

Sheds that were foul-smelling and falling apart, a gray steel roof, gusts of damp air. Fifteen feet from them a dark silhouette stands next to a sack and is struggling with a dachshund who protests in a voice too fierce for his minimal body as he twists hysterically: help him, Pancras. The short half-breed runs, opens the sack, the other slips the dachshund inside. They close the sack with a cord, put it on the ground, and Rowdy starts to growl, pulling on his leash, whining, what’s the matter, he watches, frightened, barks hoarsely. The men already have the clubs in their hands, are already beginning, one-two, to beat and grunt, and the sack dances, leaps, howls madly, one-two, the men grunt and beat. Santiago closes his eyes, upset.

“In Peru we’re still living in the stone age, friend. ” A bittersweet smile awakens the bald man’s face. “Look at the conditions we work under, tell me if it’s right. ”

The sack is quiet, the men beat it a little more, throw their clubs onto the ground, wipe their faces, rub their hands.

“We used to kill them the way God wanted, now there isn’t enough money, ” the bald man complains. “You tell him, the gentleman’s a reporter, he can make a protest in his paper. ”

He’s taller, younger than Pancras. He takes a few steps toward them and Santiago finally sees his face: oh my God! He releases the chain and Rowdy starts to run and bark and he opens and closes his mouth: oh my God!

“One sol for each animal, mister, ” the half-breed says. “And besides, we have to take them to the dump to be burned. Only one sol, mister. ”

It wasn’t him, all Negroes look alike, it couldn’t be him. He thinks: why can’t it be him? The half-breed bends down, picks up the sack, yes, it was him, carries it to a corner of the yard, throws it among other bloody sacks, comes back swaying on his long legs and drying his forehead. It was him, it was him. Hey, buddy, Pancras nudges him, go get yourself some lunch.

“You complain here, but when you go out in the truck to make pickups you have a great time, ” the bald man grumbles. “This morning you picked up this gentleman’s dog, which was on a leash and with its mistress, you nitwits. ”

The half-breed shrugs his shoulders, it was him: they hadn’t gone out on the truck that morning, boss, they’d spent it with their clubs. He thinks: him. The voice, the body are his, but he looks thirty years older. The same thin lips, the same flat nose, the same kinky hair. But now, in addition, there are purple bags on his eyelids, wrinkles on his neck, a greenish-yellow crust on his horse teeth. He thinks: they used to be so white. What a change, what a ruin of a man. He’s thinner, dirtier, so much older, but that’s his big, slow walk, those are his spider legs. His big hands have a knotty bark on them now and there’s a rim of saliva around his mouth. They’ve come in from the yard, they’re in the office, Rowdy rubs against Santiago’s feet. He thinks: he doesn’t know who I am. He wasn’t going to tell him, he wasn’t going to talk to him. Who would ever recognize you, Zavalita, were you sixteen? eighteen? and now you’re an old man of thirty. The bald man puts a piece of carbon paper between two sheets, scrawls a few lines in a cramped and stingy hand. Leaning against the doorjamb, the half-breed licks his lips.

“Just a little signature here, friend; and seriously, do us a small favor, write something in La Cró nica asking them to raise our budget. ” The bald man looks at the half-breed. “Weren’t you going to lunch? ”

“Could I have an advance? ” He takes a step forward and explains in a natural way: “I’m low in funds, boss. ”

“Half a pound. ” The bald man yawns. “That’s all I’ve got. ”

He accepts the banknote without looking at it and goes out with Santiago. A stream of trucks, buses and cars is crossing the Puente del Ejé rcito, what kind of a face would he put on it? in the mist the earthen-colored hulks of the shacks of Fray Martí n de Porres, would he start to run? seem to be part of a dream. He looks the half-breed in the eyes and the other one looks at him.

“If you’d killed my dog I think I would have killed all of you, ” and he tries to smile.

No, Zavalita, he doesn’t recognize you. He listens attentively and his look is muddled, distant and respectful. Besides getting old, he’s most likely turned into a dumb animal too. He thinks: fucked up too.

“Did they pick this woolly one up this morning? ” An unexpected glow breaks out in his eyes for an instant. “It must have been black Cé spedes, that guy doesn’t care about anything. He goes into backyards, breaks locks, anything just so he can earn his sol. ”

They’re at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to Alfonso Ugarte; Rowdy rolls on the ground and barks at the ash-gray sky.

“Ambrosio? ” He smiles, hesitates, smiles. “Aren’t you Ambrosio? ”

He doesn’t start to run, he doesn’t say anything. He looks with a dumbfounded and stupid expression and suddenly there’s a kind of vertigo in his eyes.

“Don’t you remember me? ” He hesitates, smiles, hesitates. “I’m Santiago, Don Fermí n’s boy. ”

The big hands go up into the air, young Santiago, mister? they hang in the air as if trying to decide whether to strangle or embrace him, Don Fermí n’s boy? His voice cracks with surprise or emotion and he blinks, blinded. Of course, man, didn’t he recognize him? Santiago, on the other hand, had recognized him the minute he saw him in the yard: what did he have to say? The big hands become active, I’ll be goddamned, they travel through the air again, how he’d grown, good Lord, they pat Santiago on the shoulders and back, and his eyes are laughing at last: I’m so happy, son.

“I can’t believe you’ve grown into a man. ” He feels him, looks at him, smiles at him. “I look at you and I can’t believe it, child. Of course I recognize you now. You look like your papa; a little bit of Señ ora Zoila too. ”

What about little Teté? and the big hands come and go, with feeling? with surprise? and Mr. Sparky? from Santiago’s arms to his shoulders to his back, and the eyes look tender and reminiscent as the voice tries hard to be natural. Weren’t coincidences strange? Who would have thought they’d ever meet again! And after such a long time, I’ll be goddamned.

“This whole business has made me thirsty, ” Santiago says. “Come on, let’s go have a drink. Do you know someplace around here? ”

“I know the place where I eat, ” Ambrosio says. “La Catedral, a place for poor people, I don’t know if you’ll like it. ”

“As long as they have cold beer I’ll like it, ” Santiago says. “Let’s go, Ambrosio. ”

It seemed impossible that little Santiago was drinking beer now, and Ambrosio smiles, his strong greenish-yellow teeth exposed to the air: time did fly, by golly. They go up the stairs, between the vacant lots on the first block of Alfonso Ugarte there’s a white Ford garage, and at the corner on the left, faded by the inexorable grayness, the warehouses of the Central Railroad appear. A truck loaded with crates hides the door of La Catedral. Inside, under the zinc roof, crowded on rough benches and around crude tables, a noisy voracious crowd. Two Chinese in shirtsleeves behind the bar watch the copper faces, the angular features that are chewing and drinking, and a frantic little man from the Andes in a shabby apron serves steaming bowls of soup, bottles, platters of rice. Plenty of feeling, plenty of kisses, plenty of love boom from a multicolored jukebox and in the back, behind the smoke, the noise, the solid smell of food and liquor, the dancing swarms of flies, there is a punctured wall—stones, shacks, a strip of river, the leaden sky—and an ample woman bathed in sweat manipulates pots and pans surrounded by the sputter of a grill. There’s an empty table beside the jukebox and among the scars on the wood one can make out a heart pierced by an arrow, a woman’s name: Saturnina.

“I had lunch already, but you have something to eat, ” Santiago says.

“Two bottles of Cristal, good and cold, ” Ambrosio shouts, cupping his hands to his mouth. “A bowl of fish soup, bread and stewed vegetables with rice. ”

You shouldn’t have come, you shouldn’t have spoken to him, Zavalita, you’re not fucked up, you’re crazy. He thinks: the nightmare will come back. It’ll be your fault, Zavalita, poor papa, poor old man.

“Taxi drivers, workers from the small factories in the neighborhood. ” Ambrosio points around them as if excusing himself. “They come all the way from the Avenida Argentina because the food is passable and, most important, cheap. ”

The Andean brings the beers, Santiago fills the glasses and they drink to your health, boy, to yours, Ambrosio, and there’s a compact, undecipherable smell that weakens, nauseates and wipes the head clean of memories.

“What a stinking job you’ve got for yourself, Ambrosio. Have you been at the dog pound a long time? ”

“A month, son, and I got the job thanks to the rabies, because there hadn’t been any openings. It certainly is stinking, it squeezes you dry. The only relief is when you go out on the truck to make pickups. ”

It smells of sweat, chili and onions, urine and accumulated garbage and the music from the jukebox mingles with the collective voice, the growl of motors and horns, and it comes to one’s ears deformed and thick. Singed faces, prominent cheekbones, eyes made drowsy by routine or indolence wander among the tables, form clusters at the bar, block the entrance. Ambrosio accepts the cigarette that Santiago offers him, smokes, throws the butt on the floor and buries it under his foot. He slurps the soup noisily, nibbles on the pieces of fish, picks up the bones and sucks them, leaves them all shiny, listening or answering or asking a question, and he swallows pieces of bread, takes long swigs of beer and wipes the sweat off with his hand: time swallows a person up before he realizes it, child. He thinks: why don’t I leave? He thinks: I have to go and he orders more beer. He fills the glasses, clutches his and, while he talks, remembers, dreams, or thinks he watches the circle of foam sprinkled with craters, mouths that silently open up, vomiting golden bubbles and disappearing into the yellow liquid that his hand warms. He drinks without closing his eyes, belches, takes out cigarettes and lights them, leans over to pet Rowdy: the things that have happened, Jesus. He talks and Ambrosio talks, the pouches on his eyelids are bluish, the openings in his nose vibrate as if he’d been running, as if he were drowning, and after each sip he spits, looks nostalgically at the flies, listens, smiles, or grows sad or confused, and his eyes seem to grow furious sometimes or frightened or go away; sometimes he has a coughing spell. There are gray hairs in his kinky mat, on top of his overalls he wears a jacket that must have been blue once too and had buttons, and a shirt with a high collar that is wrapped around his neck like a rope. Santiago looks at his enormous shoes: muddy, twisted, fucked up by the weather. His voice comes to him in a stammer, fearful, is lost, cautious, imploring, returns, respectful or anxious or constrained, always defeated: not thirty, forty, a hundred, more. Not only had he fallen apart, grown old, become brutalized; he probably was tubercular as well. A thousand times more fucked up than Carlitos or you, Zavalita. He was leaving, he had to go and he orders more beer. You’re drunk, Zavalita, you were about to cry. Life doesn’t treat people well in this country, son, since he’d left their house he’d gone through a thousand movie adventures. Life hadn’t treated him well either, Ambrosio, and he orders more beer. Was he going to throw up? The smell of frying, feet and armpits swirls about, biting and enveloping, over the straight-haired or bushy heads, over the gummy crests and the flat necks with mange and brilliantine, the music on the jukebox grows quiet and revives, grows quiet and revives, and now, more intense and irrevocable than the sated faces and square mouths and dark beardless cheeks, the abject images of memory are also there: more beer. Wasn’t this country a can of worms, boy, wasn’t Peru a brain-twister? Could you believe it, Odrí ists and Apristas, who used to hate each other so much, all buddy-buddy now? What would his father have said about all this, boy? They talk and sometimes he listens timidly, respectfully to Ambrosio, who dares protest: he had to go, boy. He’s small and inoffensive there in the distance, behind the long table that’s a raft of bottles and his eyes are drunken and afraid. Rowdy barks once, barks a hundred times. An inner whirlwind, an effervescence in the heart of his heart, a feeling of suspended time and bad breath. Are they talking? The jukebox stops blasting, blasts again. The thick river of smells seems to break up into tributaries of tobacco, beer, human skin and the remains of meals that circulate warmly through the heavy air of La Catedral, and suddenly they’re absorbed by an invincible higher stench: neither you nor I was right, papa, it’s the smell of defeat, papa. People who come in, eat, laugh, roar, people who leave and the eternal pale profile of the Chinese at the bar. They speak, they grow silent, they drink, they smoke, and when the Andean appears, bending over the tabletop bristling with bottles, the other tables are empty and the jukebox and the crackling of the grill can no longer be heard, only Rowdy barking, Saturnina. The Andean counts on his darkened fingers and he sees Ambrosio’s urgent face coming toward him: did he feel bad, boy? A little headache, it would go away. You’re acting ridiculous, he thinks, I’ve had a lot to drink, Huxley, here’s Rowdy, safe and sound, I took so long because I ran into a friend. He thinks: love. He thinks: stop it, Zavalita, that’s enough. Ambrosio puts his hand into his pocket and Santiago puts out his arms: don’t be foolish, man, he was paying. He staggers and Ambrosio and the Andean support him: let me go, he could walk by himself, he felt all right. By God, boy, it was to be expected, he’d had a lot to drink. He goes forward step by step through the empty tables and the crippled chairs of La Catedral, staring at the chancrous floor: O. K., it’s all gone. His brain is clearing, the weakness in his legs is going away, his eyes are clearing up. But the images are still there. Getting tangled in his feet, Rowdy barks impatiently.

“It’s good you had enough money, boy. Are you really feeling better? ”

“My stomach’s a little queasy, but I’m not drunk, the drinks didn’t do anything to me. My head’s spinning from thinking so much. ”

“It’s four o’clock, I don’t know what kind of story I can make up. I could lose my job, you don’t realize that. But thanks in any case. For the beer, for the lunch, for the conversation. I hope I can make it up to you someday, son. ”

They’re on the sidewalk. The Andean has just closed the big wooden door, the truck that hid the entrance has left, the mist wipes out the building fronts and in the steel-colored light of the afternoon, oppressive and identical, the stream of cars, trucks and buses flows over the Puente del Ejé rcito. There’s no one nearby, the distant pedestrians are faceless silhouettes that slip along through smoky veils. We say good-bye and that’s it, he thinks, you’ll never see him again. He thinks: I never saw him, I never spoke to him, a shower, a nap and that’s it.

“Do you really feel all right, son? Do you want me to go with you? ”

“The one who doesn’t feel well is you, ” he says without moving his lips. “All afternoon, four hours of this, it’s made you feel bad. ”

“Don’t you believe it, I’ve got a good head for drinking, ” Ambrosio says, and, for an instant, he laughs. He stands there with his mouth ajar, his hand petrified on his chin. He’s motionless, three feet from Santiago, his lapels turned up, and Rowdy, his ears stiff, his teeth showing, looks at Santiago, looks at Ambrosio, and scratches the ground, startled or restless or frightened. Inside La Catedral they’re dragging chairs and seem to be mopping the floor.

“You know damned well what I’m talking about, ” Santiago says. “Please don’t play dumb with me. ”

He doesn’t want to or he can’t understand, Zavalita: he hasn’t moved and in his eyes there’s still the same blind challenge, that terrible dark tenacity.

“If you don’t want me to go with you, son, ” he stammers and lowers his eyes, his voice, “do you want me to get you a taxi then? ”

“They need a janitor at La Cró nica, ” and he lowers his voice too. “It’s not as nasty a job as the one at the pound. I’ll see that they hire you without any papers. You’d be a lot better off. But please, stop playing dumb for a little while. ”

“All right, all right. ” There’s a growing uneasiness in his eyes, it’s as if his voice were going to break up into shreds. “What’s the matter, boy, why do you act like this? ”

“I’ll give you my whole month’s pay, ” and his voice suddenly becomes thick, but he doesn’t weep; he’s rigid, his eyes opened very wide. “Three thousand five hundred soles. Couldn’t you get along with that money? ”

He’s silent, he lowers his head and automatically, as if the silence had loosened an inflexible mechanism, Ambrosio’s body takes a step backward and he shrugs his shoulders and his hands come forward at the level of his stomach as if to defend himself or attack. Rowdy growls.

“Have the drinks gone to your head? ” he snorts, his voice upset. “What’s the matter, what is it you want? ”

“For you to stop playing dumb. ” He closes his eyes and breathes in some air. “For us to talk frankly about the Muse, about my father. Did he order you? It doesn’t matter anymore, I just want to know. Was it my father? ”

His voice is cut off and Ambrosio takes another step backward and Santiago sees him crouched and tense, his eyes open wide with fear or rage: don’t leave, come here. He hasn’t become brutalized, you’re not a boob, he thinks, come on, come on. Ambrosio wavers with his body, waves a fist, as if threatening or saying good-bye.

“I’m leaving so that you won’t be sorry for what you’ve said, ” he growls, his voice painful. “I don’t need work, I want you to know that I won’t take any favors from you, least of all your money. I want you to know that you don’t deserve the father you had, I want you to know that. You can go straight to shit hell, boy. ”

“All right, all right, I don’t care, ” Santiago says. “Come on, don’t leave, come back. ”

There is a short growl by his feet, Rowdy is looking too: the small dark figure is going off clinging to the fences of the vacant lots, standing out against the gleaming windows of the Ford garage, sinking into the stairway by the bridge.

“All right, ” Santiago sobs, leaning over, petting the stiff little tail, the anxious snout. “We’re going now, Rowdy. ”

He straightens up, sobs again, takes out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. For a few seconds he doesn’t move, his back against the door of La Catedral, getting the drizzle in his face full of tears once more. Rowdy rubs against his ankles, licks his shoes, whimpers softly, looking at him. He starts walking slowly, his hands in his pockets, toward the Plaza Dos de Mayo and Rowdy trots alongside. People are collapsed at the base of the monument and around them a dung heap of cigarette butts, peels and paper; on the corner people are storming the run-down buses that become lost in dust clouds as they head to the shantytowns; a policeman is arguing with a street vendor and the faces of both are hateful and discouraged and their voices seem to be curled by a hollow exasperation. He walks around the square, going into Colmena he hails a taxi: wouldn’t his dog dirty the seat? No, driver, he wouldn’t dirty it: Miraflores, the Calle Porta. He gets in, puts Rowdy on his lap, that bulge in his jacket. Play tennis, swim, lift weights, get mixed up, become alcoholic like Carlitos. He closes his eyes, leans his head against the back of the seat, his hand strokes the back, the ears, the cold nose, the trembling belly. You were saved from the pound, Rowdy, but no one’s ever going to get you out of the pound you’re in, Zavalita, tomorrow he’d visit Carlitos in the hospital and bring him a book, not Huxley. The taxi goes along through blind noisy streets, in the darkness he hears engines, whistles, fleeting voices. Too bad you didn’t take Norwin up on lunch, Zavalita. He thinks: he kills them with a club and you with editorials. He was better off than you, Zavalita. He’d paid more, he’d fucked himself up more. He thinks: poor papa. The taxi slows down and he opens his eyes: the Diagonal is there, caught in the headlights of the cab, oblique, silvery, boiling with cars, its lighted ads quivering already. The mist whitens the trees in the park, the church steeples drift off in the grayness, the tops of the ficus trees waver: stop here. He pays the fare and Rowdy starts to bark. He turns him loose, sees him go into the entrance to the elf houses like a rocket. Inside he hears the barking, straightens his jacket, his tie, hears Ana’s shout, imagines her face. He goes into the courtyard, the elf houses have their windows lighted, Ana’s silhouette as she hugs Rowdy and comes toward him, what took you so long, love, I was nervous, so frightened, love.

“Let’s get this animal inside, he’ll drive the whole street crazy, ” and he barely kisses her. “Quiet, Rowdy. ”

He goes to the bathroom and while he urinates and washes his face he listens to Ana, what happened, sweet, what took you so long, playing with Rowdy, at least you found him, love, and he hears the happy barking. He comes out and Ana is sitting in the small living room, Rowdy in her arms. He sits down beside her, kisses her on the temple.

“You’ve been drinking. ” She holds him by the jacket, looks at him, half merry, half annoyed. “You smell of beer, love. Don’t tell me you haven’t been drinking, right? ”

“I met a fellow I haven’t seen in a hundred years. We went to have a drink. I couldn’t get away, sweet. ”

“And me here half crazy with worry. ” He hears her plaintive, caressing, loving voice. “And you drinking beer with the boys. Why didn’t you at least call me at the German woman’s? ”

“There wasn’t any phone, we went to a dive. ” Yawning, stretching, smiling. “Besides, I don’t like to keep bothering that crazy German all the time. I feel lousy, I’ve got an awful headache. ”

You deserved it, having kept her nerves on edge all afternoon, and she runs her hand over his forehead and looks at him and smiles at him and speaks to him softly and pinches one ear: you deserve to have a headache, love, and he kisses her. Would he like to sleep a little, should she draw the curtains, love? Yes, he gets up, just for a bit, falls onto the bed, and the shadows of Ana and Rowdy busying themselves about him, looking for himself.

“The worst is that I spent all my money, love. I don’t know how we’ll get by till Monday. ”

“Oh, that’s all right. It’s good that the Chinaman on San Martí n always trusts me, it’s good that he’s the nicest Chinaman in the world. ”

“The worst is that we’ll miss our movies. Was there anything good showing today? ”

“One with Marlon Brando at the Colina, ” and Ana’s voice, far, far away, arrives as if through water. “One of those detective movies you like, sweet. If you want I can borrow some money from the German woman. ”

She’s happy, Zavalita, she forgives you for everything because you brought Rowdy back to her. He thinks: at this moment she’s happy.

“I’ll borrow some and we’ll go to the movies, but promise me that you won’t ever have a few beers with your buddies without telling me. ” Ana laughs, farther and farther away.

He thinks: I promise. The curtain has one corner folded over and Santiago can see a chunk of almost dark sky, and imagine, outside, up above, falling down onto the houses and their elves, Miraflores, Lima, the same miserable drizzle as always.