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“No one should notice, that was the main thing, ” Santiago says. “I don’t write poetry, I believe in God, I don’t believe in God. Always lying, always faking. ”

“Maybe you’d better not have any more to drink, son, ” Ambrosio says.

“In prep school, at home, in the neighborhood, in the study group, in the Party, at La Cró nica, ” Santiago says. “My whole life spent doing things without believing, my whole life spent pretending. ”

“I’m glad papa threw your Communist book into the garbage, ha-ha, ” Teté said.

“And my whole life spent wanting to believe in something, ” Santiago says. “And my whole life a lie, I don’t believe in anything. ”

Had it been a lack of faith, Zavalita, couldn’t it have been timidity? In the box of old newspapers in the garage behind the new copy of Politzer piling up were The Chief Task of Our Times, he thinks, books read and discussed in the group, The Origins of Family, Society and State, he thinks, poorly bound books with small print, The Class Struggle in France, he thinks, that came off on your fingers. Previously observed, studied, investigated, and brought into the group were Martí nez the Indian, who was studying Ethnology, and later on Soló rzano from Medicine, and then an almost albino girl whom they nicknamed The Bird. Hé ctor’s room became too small, the eyes of the deaf woman becoming alarmed at the chronic invasion, so they decided to rotate. Aí da offered her place, The Bird hers, and then they met alternately on Jesú s Marí a, in a small red-brick house on Rí mac, in an apartment on Petit Thouars with fleur-de-lis wallpaper. An effusive and gray-haired giant received them the first time they met at Aí da’s house, I’d like to introduce you to my father, and while he shook their hands he looked at them with melancholy. He’d been a printer and a union leader, he’d been imprisoned during the days of Sá nchez Cerro, he’d almost died of a heart attack. Now he worked by day at a press, and at night he was a proofreader at El Comercio, and was no longer involved in politics. And did he know that they were coming here to study Marxism? yes he knew, and didn’t it bother him? of course not, he thought it was fine.

“It must be great to have a relationship like a friend with your old man, ” Santiago said.

“The poor man has been my father, my friend and my mother too, ” Aí da said. “Ever since my real mother died. ”

“In order for me to get along with my old man I have to hide what I think, ” Santiago said. “He never agrees with me. ”

“How could he, being a bourgeois gentleman, ” Aí da said.

As the group grew, from the quantitative accumulation to the qualitative leap he thinks, it changed from a center of study into a political discussion group. Going from analyzing Mariá tegui’s essays to refuting the editorials in La Prensa, from historical materialism to the atrocities committed by Cayo Bermú dez, from the bourgeois shift of APRA to poisonous gossip against the subtle enemy: the Trotskyites. They had identified three of them, had spent hours, weeks, months guessing who they were, checking them out, spying on them and abominating them: intellectual, disturbing, they strolled through the courtyards of San Marcos, their mouths full of quotations and provocations, cataclysmic, heterodox. Were there many of them? Not many but quite dangerous Washington said, did they work with the police? Soló rzano asked, probably and in any case it was the same thing Hé ctor said, because dividing, confusing, deviating and intoxicating was worse than informing Jacobo said. In order to fool the Trotskyites, to avoid informers, they had agreed not to hang around together at the university, not to stop and chat when they met in the hallways. There was unity in the group, complicity, even solidarity, he thinks. He thinks: friendship only among the three of us. Were the others bothered by that little island they constituted, that tenacious triumvirate? They continued going to class together, to libraries and café s, strolling through the courtyards, seeing each other alone after meetings of the group. They chatted, discussed, walked, they went to the movies and Miracle in Milan had excited them, the white dove at the end was the dove of peace, the music was the Internationale, Vittorio de Sica must have been a Communist, and when a Russian film was announced at some neighborhood theater, with great hopes they fervently rushed over, even though they knew that they would probably be watching some old movie with interminable ballet scenes.

“A shudder? ” Ambrosio asks. “A cramp in the belly? ”

“The same as when I was a kid, at night, ” Santiago says. “I used to wake up in the dark, I’m going to die. I couldn’t move, not even light the lamp or cry out. I stayed there all huddled up, sweating, shaking. ”

“There’s someone in Economics who might want to join, ” Washington said. “The problem is that there are so many of us in the group already. ”

“But where does it come from, son? ” Ambrosio asks.

It appeared, there it was, tiny and glacial, gelatinous. It would twist delicately at the mouth of his stomach, secrete that liquid that wet the palms of his hands, make his heart beat faster, and go away with a shudder.

“Yes, it’s not wise for so many of us to meet, ” Hé ctor said. “The best thing would be to divide up into two groups. ”

“Yes, let’s split up, I was the one most convinced, it hadn’t even occurred to me, ” Santiago says. “Weeks later I woke up repeating like an idiot, it can’t be, it can’t be. ”

“What basis shall we use for the split? ” Indian Martí nez asked. “It has to be done right now, we can’t waste time. ”

“He’s in a hurry because he’s got his concept of unpaid work all sharpened up like a razor. ” Washington laughed.

“We could draw lots, ” Hé ctor said.

“Luck is a bit irrational, ” Jacobo said. “I propose that we split up alphabetically. ”

“Of course, that’s more rational and much easier, ” said The Bird. “The first four in one group, the rest in the other. ”

There hadn’t been any catch in his heart, the little worm hadn’t popped out. Only surprise and confusion, he thinks, only that sudden ill feeling. And that set idea: a mistake. And that set idea, he thinks: a mistake?

“Those who agree with Jacobo’s proposal raise your hands, ” Washington said.

A growing ill feeling, his brain dulled, a dizzy timidity silencing his tongue, raising his hand a few seconds after the others.

“All set, then, agreed, ” Washington said. “Jacobo, Aí da, Hé ctor and Martí nez one group and the other four of us the second. ”

He hadn’t turned his head to look at Aí da or Jacobo, he’d taken a long time to light a cigarette, thumbed through Engels, exchanged a smile with Soló rzano.

“Now, Martí nez, now you can show off, ” Washington said. “What’s the story on the unpaid work? ”

Not just the revolution, he thinks. Lukewarm, hidden, a heart too, and a small brain, alert, quick, calculating. Had he planned it, he thinks, had he made a sudden decision? The revolution, friendship, jealousy, envy, all together, all mixed in, he too, Zavalita, made from the same dirty clay, Jacobo too, Zavalita.

“There weren’t any pure people in the world, ” Santiago says. “Yes, that was when it was. ”

“Wouldn’t you see the girl anymore? ” Ambrosio asks.

“I was going to see her less, he was going to see her alone twice a week, ” Santiago says. “And besides, I was hurt by the low blow. Not for moral reasons, because of envy. I was timid and I never would have dared. ”

“He was sharper. ” Ambrosio laughs. “And you still haven’t forgiven him for that piece of bitchery. ”

Martí nez the Indian had the gestures and the voice of a schoolteacher, in brief, it was unpaid work, and was repetitious and monotonous, a proportion of the product tricked away from the worker which would increase the capital, and Santiago stared eternally at his round copper-colored face and listened endlessly to his didactic teacher’s voice, and looked around at the glow of cigarettes every time hands went up to lips and in spite of so many bodies crowded into such a miserly space there was that feeling of loneliness, that emptiness. The little worm was there now, making soft monotonous turns in his guts.

“Because I’m like those little animals that curl up in the face of danger and remain still, waiting to be stepped on or to have their heads cut off, ” Santiago says. “Being without faith and timid besides is like having syphilis and leprosy at the same time. ”

“All you do is say bad things about yourself, ” Ambrosio says. “If someone else said the things you’re saying about yourself, you wouldn’t stand for it. ”

Had something that seemed eternal been broken, he thinks, did it hurt me so much because of her, because of me, because of him? But you’d pretended as always, Zavalita, more than always, and you’d left the meeting with Jacobo and Aí da, and you’d talked too much while you walked down, Engels and unpaid work, without giving them a chance to answer, Politzer and The Bird and Marx, incessant and loquacious, interrupting them if they opened their mouths, killing topics and bringing them back to life, stumbling, profuse, confused, so that the monologue would never end, fabricating, exaggerating, lying, suffering, so that Jacobo’s proposal wouldn’t be mentioned, so that it wouldn’t be said that starting Saturday they would be on Petit Thouars and he on Rí mac, feeling too now and for the first time that they were together and were not, that the respiratory communication of past times was missing, the corporal intelligence of past times, while they crossed the Plaza de Armas, which horribly here and now was also something artificial and lying and isolated them, like the conversations with my old man, he thinks, and made them be wrong and began to turn them against one another. They had gone down the Jiró n de la Unió n without looking at one another, he talking and they listening. Was Aí da sorry about it, had Aí da worked it out in advance with him? and when they got to the Plaza San Martí n it was quite late, Santiago had looked at his watch, had hurried to catch the express bus, had put out his hand to them and left on the run, without setting up where and what time we’d meet tomorrow, he thinks. He thinks: for the first time.

Had it been during those last weeks of the second year, Zavalita, those last hollow days before final exams? He had set himself to reading furiously, working furiously in the study group, believing furiously in Marxism, growing thin. Boiled eggs were useless, Señ ora Zoila said, orangeade useless and corn flakes useless, you’d turned into a skeleton and one of those days you were going to fly away. Is it also against your ideas to eat, Superbrain? Sparky said, and you you didn’t eat because your face takes my appetite away and Sparky was going to whack you, Superbrain, he was going to hand you one. They still saw each other and the little head inevitably appeared when Santiago went into class and sat down with them, it opened its way through tangles of tissues and tendons and appeared, or when they went to have some coffee together at El Palermo, amidst bloody veins and white bones it appeared, or a glass of dark chicha at the Hué rfanos pastry shop, or a hero sandwich at the café -poolroom, and behind the little head the small acidy body appeared. They talked about classes and the upcoming exams, about the preparations for the election of Federated Centers, and about the discussions in their respective study groups and prisoners and Odrí a’s dictatorship and Bolivia and Guatemala. But they only saw each other because San Marcos and politics sometimes brought them together, he thinks, sometimes only by chance, sometimes only through obligation. Did they see each other alone after the meetings of their group? did they take walks, did they go to museums and bookstores or movies the way they did with him before? did they miss him, think about him, talk about him?

“A girl wants you on the phone, ” Teté told him. “My, how secret you keep it all. Who is she? ”

“If you listen in on the extension I’ll give you a rap, Teté, ” Santiago said.

“Can you come to my house for a minute? ” Aí da asked. “You’re not doing anything, are you, I’m not interrupting anything? ”

“What a thing to think, I’m on my way, ” Santiago said. “It’ll take me a half hour, maybe a little more. ”

“My, I’m on my way, my, what a thing to think, ” Teté said. “Can you come to my house for a minute? My, what a nice little voice. ”

It had appeared while he was waiting for a taxi on the corner of Larco and José Gonzales, grew as the car went up the Avenida Arequipa, and there it was, enormous and sticky, as he rode along huddled in the corner of the automobile, his back getting soaked in an icy substance, while he felt colder and colder, fear and hope, on that afternoon which was turning into night. Had something happened, was something going to happen? He thought that it had been a month now that we only saw each other at San Marcos, he thinks, she’d never called me on the phone, he thought probably, he thinks, he thought maybe. He’d seen her from the corner of Petit Thouars, a small figure that was fading into the dying light, waiting for him at the door of her house, she’d said hello with her hand and he’d seen her pale face, that blue dress, her serious eyes, that blue jumper, her serious mouth, those horrible black schoolgirl shoes, and he’d felt her hand trembling.

“Excuse me for calling you, I had to talk to you about something, ” that crisp voice seemed impossible, he thinks, that intimidated voice incredible. “Let’s walk a little, shall we? ”

“Aren’t you with Jacobo? ” Santiago asked. “Has something happened? ”

“Are you going to have enough money to pay for so many beers? ” Ambrosio asks.

“What had to happen had happened, ” Santiago says. “I thought that it had already happened and it had only just happened that morning. ”

They’d been together all morning, a little worm like a cobra, they hadn’t gone to class because Jacobo had told her I want to talk to you alone, a cobra as sharp as a knife, they’d walked along the Paseo de la Repú blica, a knife like ten knives, they’d sat down on a bench by the pool in the Parque de la Exposició n. Along the parallel lanes of Arequipa cars passed and one knife entered softly and another one came out and went back in slowly, and they went along between the trees where it was dark and empty, and another one, as into a loaf of bread with a thin crust and lots of body, into his heart, and suddenly the little voice became silent.

“And what did he want to talk to you about all alone? ” without looking at her, he thinks, without separating his teeth. “Something about me, something against me? ”

“No, nothing about you, something about me, ” a voice like the whimper of a kitten, he thinks. “He took me by surprise, he left me not knowing what to say. ”

“But what was it he told you? ” Santiago murmured.

“That he’s in love with me, ” like Rowdy’s whines when he was a puppy, he thinks.

“Block ten on Arequipa, December, seven o’clock at night, ” Santiago says. “Now I know, Ambrosio, it was there. ”

He’d taken his hands out of his pockets, had put them to his mouth and whistled and tried to smile. He’d seen Aí da uncross her arms, stop, hesitate, look for the nearest bench, he’d seen her sit down.

“Hadn’t you realized until now? ” Santiago asked. “Why do you think he proposed that the group be divided up that way? ”

“Because we were setting a bad example, because we were almost a faction and the others might have resented it and I believed him, ” an insecure little voice, he thinks. “And that it wouldn’t change anything and that even though we were in different groups it would all go on the same with the three of us. And I believed him. ”

“He wanted to be alone with you, ” Santiago said. “Anybody would have done the same thing in his place. ”

“But you got angry and didn’t look us up, ” alarmed and above all sorrowful, he thinks. “And we didn’t get together again, and nothing’s been the way it was before. ”

“I didn’t get angry, everything’s still the way it was before, ” Santiago said. “Except that I realized that Jacobo wanted to be alone with you and that I was in the way. But we’re still the same friends we were before. ”

It was someone else talking, he thinks, not you. The voice a little stronger now, more natural, Zavalita: it wasn’t he, it couldn’t be. He understood, he explained, he advised from neutral heights and thought it’s not me. He was something small and mistreated, something that huddled under that voice, something that slipped away and ran and fled. It wasn’t pride, or spite, or humiliation, he thinks, it wasn’t even jealousy. He thinks: it was timidity. She listened to him motionless, she was watching him with an expression that he couldn’t decipher and didn’t want to, and suddenly she’d got up and they’d walked half a block in silence, while, tenacious, silent, the knives went on with their butchery.

“I don’t know what to do, I feel confused, I have doubts, ” Aí da finally said. “That’s why I called you, I thought all of a sudden that you could help me. ”

“And I began to talk about politics, ” Santiago says. “See what I mean? ”

“Of course, ” Don Fermí n said. “Getting away from the house and Lima, disappearing. I’m not thinking about myself, you poor devil, I’m thinking about you. ”

“But what do you mean when you say that, ” as if startled, he thinks, scared.

“In the sense that love can make a person very much an individualist, ” Santiago said. “And then he gives it more importance than anything, the revolution included. ”

“But you were the one who said that the two things weren’t incompatible, ” hissing, he thinks, whispering. “Do you think they are now? How can you be sure that you’re never going to fall in love? ”

“I didn’t believe anything, I didn’t know anything, ” Santiago says. “Just wanting to leave, escape, disappear. ”

“But where, sir? ” Ambrosio said. “You don’t believe me, you’re kicking me out, sir. ”

“Then it’s not true that you have doubts, you’re in love with him too, ” Santiago said. “Maybe in your case and Jacobo’s they’re not incompatible. And besides, he’s a good boy. ”

“I know that he’s a good boy, ” Aí da said. “But I don’t know whether or not I’m in love with him. ”

“Of course you are, I’ve noticed it too, ” Santiago said. “And not just me, everybody in the group. You should accept him, Aí da. ”

You insisted Zavalita, he was a great boy, you were dogged Zavalita, Aí da was in love with him, you demanded, they’d get along very well and you repeated and you went back to it and she listening silently at the door of her house, her arms folded, calculating Santiago’s stupidity? her head down, taking measure of Santiago’s cowardice? her feet together. Did she really want that advice, he thinks, did she know that you were in love with her and wanted to find out if you dared say so? What would she have said if I, he thinks, what would I have said if she. He thinks: oh, Zavalita.

Or had it been when one day or week or month after seeing Aí da and Jacobo walking hand in hand on Colmena, they discovered that Washington was, in fact, the contact they’d been yearning for? There’d hardly been any comments in the group, only a joke by Washington, two of them had feathered their little love nest in the other group, such a quiet little love, only a passing comment from The Bird: and what a perfect little couple. There wasn’t time for anything else: the university elections were on top of them and they met every day, they discussed the candidates they would present for the Federated Centers, and the alliances they would accept and the slates they would support and the fliers and wall posters they would make, and one day Washington summoned the two groups to meet at The Bird’s place and he went into the small living room on Rí mac: he had something that was pure dynamite. Cahuide, he thinks. He thinks: Organization of the Communist Party of Peru. They were crowded in together, the smoke from the cigarettes fogged the mimeographed sheets that passed from hand to hand, irritated their eyes, Cahuide, which they avidly read, Organization, now and then, of the Communist Party of Peru, and they looked at the strong face of the Indian with wool cap, poncho, sandals and his belligerent fist raised, and once more the hammer and sickle crossed under the title. They’d read it aloud, commented, discussed, had riddled Washington with questions, had taken it home. He’d forgotten his resentment, his lack of faith, his frustration, his timidity, his jealousy. He wasn’t a legend, he hadn’t disappeared with the dictatorship: he existed. In spite of Odrí a, here too men and women, in spite of Cayo Bermú dez, secretly gathered and formed cells, informers and banishment, they printed Cahuide, jail and torture, and they were preparing the revolution. Washington knew who they were, how they operated, where they were, and he’ll sign me up he thought, he thinks, he’ll sign me up, that night, while he turned out the light on the night table and something risky, yet generous, anxious, burned in the darkness and kept on burning in his dreams, had it been there?

“HE 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 Bermú dez 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 Bermú dez 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 Bermú dez 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, ” Bermú dez 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, ” Bermú dez 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, ” Bermú dez 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, ” Bermú dez 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. ”