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The man with white hair gave him a friendly smile and offered him a chair: so, young Zavala, of course Clodomiro had spoken to him. In his eyes there was the gleam of an accomplice, in his hands something cheery and unctuous, his desk was immaculately clean. Yes, Clodomiro and he had been great friends ever since their schooldays; on the other hand his dad, Fermí n, right? he’d never known him, he was quite a bit younger than us, and he smiled again: so, you had problems at home? Yes, Clodomiro had told him. Well, that’s part of the times, young people want to be independent.

“That’s why I have to get a job, ” Santiago said. “My Uncle Clodomiro thought that maybe you …”

“You’re in luck. ” Mr. Vallejo nodded. “It so happens we’ve been looking for some extra help in the local news section. ”

“I haven’t got much experience, but I’ll do everything possible to learn fast, ” Santiago said. “I thought that if I got a job on La Cró nica, maybe I could still go to Law School. ”

“Since I’ve been here I haven’t seen many newspapermen who’ve gone on with their studies, ” Mr. Vallejo said. “I have to warn you about something, in case you didn’t know. Journalism is the worst-paying profession there is. The one that leads to the most bitterness too. ”

“I always had a liking for it, sir, ” Santiago said. “I always thought that it was the one that had the closest contact with life. ”

“Fine, fine. ” Mr. Vallejo ran his hand over his snowy head, nodded with benevolent eyes. “I know you haven’t worked on a newspaper before, we’ll see how it turns out. Now I’d like to get an idea of your qualifications. ” He became very serious, put on a somewhat affected voice: “A fire at the Casa Wiese. Two dead, five million soles in damages, the firemen worked all night to put the fire out. The police are investigating to find out whether it was an accident or a criminal act. Just a couple of typewritten pages. There are plenty of machines in the editorial room, take any one of them. ”

Santiago nodded. He stood up, went into the editorial room and when he sat down at the first desk his hands began to sweat. It was good there wasn’t anybody there. The Remington in front of him looked like a small coffin, Carlitos. That’s exactly what it was, Zavalita.

Next to the mistress’s bedroom was the study: three small easy chairs, a lamp, a bookcase. That’s where the master would shut himself up on his visits to the little house in San Miguel, and if he was with somebody, there wasn’t to be any noise, even Señ ora Hortensia would go down to the living room, turn off the radio and if there was a telephone call, she wouldn’t talk. What a bad temper the master must have had if they put on such an act, Amalia was surprised the first time. Why did the mistress have three servants if the master only came from time to time? Black Sí mula was fat, gray-haired, quiet, and she made a bad impression on her. On the other hand, she made friends right away with her daughter Carlota, tall and skinny, without breasts, kinky hair, very pleasant. She doesn’t have three because she needs them, Carlota told her, but so she can have something to spend the money the master gives her on. Was he very rich? Carlota widened her big eyes: very rich, he was in the government, he was a minister. That’s why when Don Cayo came to spend the night, two policemen would appear on the corner, and the chauffeur and the other man in the car would spend the whole night waiting for him by the door. How could such a young and pretty woman go with a man who only reached to her ear when she wore high heels? He was old enough to be her father and he was ugly and he didn’t even dress well. Do you think the mistress is in love with him, Carlota? How could she be in love with him, she’s more likely in love with his money. He must have had a lot in order to set her up in a house like that and to have bought her all those clothes and jewels and shoes. How come, being so pretty, she hadn’t been able to get him to marry her? But Señ ora Hortensia didn’t seem to care very much about marriage, she was happy the way she was. She never seemed anxious to have the master come. Of course, when he did appear, she killed herself looking after him, and when the master called to say I’m coming to have dinner with a few friends, she spent the whole day giving instructions to Sí mula, watching to see that Amalia and Carlota left the house spotless. But the master would leave and she wouldn’t mention him again, she never called him on the phone and she seemed so happy, so unworried, so involved with her girl friends that Amalia thought she doesn’t even think about him. The master wasn’t at all like Don Fermí n who you could see just by looking at him had breeding and money. Don Cayo was very small, his face was leathery, his hair yellowish like shredded tobacco, sunken eyes that looked coldly and from a distance, wrinkles on his neck, an almost lipless mouth and teeth stained from smoking, because he always had a cigarette in his hand. He was so skinny that the front part of his suit almost touched the back. When Sí mula couldn’t hear them, she and Carlota had a great time making fun of him: imagine him naked, what a little skeleton, such little arms, legs. He rarely ever changed suits, his neckties were poorly tied, and his nails were dirty. He never said hello or good-bye, when they greeted him he replied with a grunt and didn’t look. He always seemed busy, worried, in a hurry, he lighted his cigarettes with the butt of the one he was going to put out and when he spoke on the telephone he only said yes, no, tomorrow, all right, and when the mistress joked with him, he barely wrinkled his cheeks and that was his laugh. Could he be married, what kind of life did he live outside? Amalia imagined him living with an old, very religious woman who was always dressed in mourning.

“Hello, hello? ” General Espina’s voice repeated. “Hello, Alcibí ades? ”

“Yes? ” he said softly. “Uplander? ”

“Cayo? Well, at last. ” Espina’s voice was harshly jovial. “I’ve been calling you since the day before yesterday and there wasn’t any way to reach you. Not at the Ministry, not at home. I hope you’re not trying to avoid me, Cayo. ”

“You’ve been trying to call me? ” He had a pencil in his right hand, sketching a circle. “The first I heard of it, Uplander. ”

“Ten times, Cayo. What do I mean, ten times? fifteen at least. ”

“I’ll check on it and find out why they didn’t give me the message. ” A second circle, parallel to the other one. “Tell me what it is, Uplander, I’m at your service. ”

A pause, an uncomfortable cough, Espina’s spaced breathing:

“What’s the meaning of that plainclothesman in front of my house, Cayo? ” He was covering up his bad mood by speaking slowly, but it made it worse. “Is it for protection or to keep an eye on me or just what the hell is it? ”

“As an ex-minister you rate at least a doorman paid by the government, Uplander. ” He finished the third circle, paused, changed his tone. “I don’t know anything about it, friend. They’ve probably forgotten that you don’t need protection anymore. If that fellow bothers you, I’ll see that he’s removed. ”

“He doesn’t bother me, he surprises me, ” Espina said dryly. “Tell me straight, Cayo. Does that fellow there mean that the government doesn’t trust me anymore? ”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Uplander. If the government doesn’t trust you, who could they trust, then? ”

“That’s just it, that’s just it. ” Espina’s voice was slow, stumbled, was slow again. “Why shouldn’t I be surprised, Cayo. You probably think I’m too old not to recognize a plainclothesman when I see one. ”

“Don’t get all upset over foolishness. ” The fifth circle: smaller than the others, with a small dent in it. “Do you think we’d put a plainclothesman on you? It must be some Don Juan making time with your maid. ”

“Well, he’d better disappear from here, because I’m in a bad mood, you know well enough. ” Angry now, breathing heavily. “I might get worked up and put a bullet in him. I wanted to warn you just in case. ”

“Don’t waste bullets on a buzzard. ” He fixed the circle, made it bigger, rounded it, now it was the same size as the others. “I’m going to check on it today. Lozano was probably trying to butter me up by putting an agent on you to look after your house. I’ll have him removed, Uplander. ”

“All right, I wasn’t serious about shooting him. ” Calmer now, trying to joke. “But you can understand how this thing has made me mad, Cayo. ”

“You’re a mistrustful and ungrateful Uplander, ” he said. “What more could you ask but someone to guard your house with so many sneak thieves on the loose. All right, forget about the whole thing. How’s your family? Why don’t we have lunch one of these days? ”

“Whenever you say, I’ve got all the time in the world now. ” A little short, hesitant, as if ashamed of the peevishness he found in his own voice. “You’re the one who probably doesn’t have much time, right? Since I left the Ministry you haven’t called me even once. And it’s going on three months. ”

“You’re right, Uplander, but you know what it’s like here. ” Eight circles: five in one row, three underneath; he started the ninth one, carefully. “I’ve been about to call you several times. Next week, come what may. Take care, Uplander. ”

He hung up before Espina finished saying good-bye, looked at the nine circles for a moment, tore up the sheet of paper and threw the pieces into the wastebasket.

“It took me an hour to do it, ” Santiago said. “I rewrote the two pages four or five times, I corrected the punctuation by hand in front of Vallejo. ”

Mr. Vallejo was reading attentively, the pencil poised over the sheet of paper, he was nodding, he marked a small cross, he moved his lips a little, another cross, fine fine, simple and correct language, he calmed him with a merciful look, that means a lot already. Just that …

“If you hadn’t passed the test you would have gone back to the fold and now you’d be a model Mirafloran. ” Carlitos laughed. “Your name would be in the society columns like your brother’s. ”

“I was a little nervous, sir, ” Santiago said. “Shall I do it over again? ”

“Becerrita put me through the test, ” Carlitos said. “There was an opening on the police beat. I’ll never forget. ”

“Don’t worry, it’s not too bad. ” Mr. Vallejo shook his white head, looked at him with his friendly pale eyes. “Just that you’ll have to go on learning the trade if you’re going to work with us. ”

“A nut goes into a whorehouse on Huatica in a drunken rage and knifes four girls, the madam and two fairies, ” Becerrita grunted. “One of the chippies dies. Two pages in fifteen minutes. ”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Vallejo, ” Santiago said. “You don’t know how grateful I am. ”

“I had the feeling he was pissing on me, ” Carlitos said. “Oh, Becerrita. ”

“It’s simply a question of placing the facts according to their importance and also to economize your words. ” Mr. Vallejo had numbered a few sentences and given the pages back to him. “You have to start with the dead people, young man. ”

“We all said bad things about Becerrita, we all hated him, ” Santiago said. “And now all we do is talk about him, we all love him and we’d like to bring him back to life. It’s absurd. ”

“What’s most eye-catching, what attracts people’s attention, ” Mr. Vallejo added. “That makes the reader become concerned about the news. Maybe because we all have to die someday. ”

“He was the most authentic thing in Lima journalism, ” Carlitos said. “Human filth elevated to its maximum power, a perfect model. Who wouldn’t remember him with affection, Zavalita? ”

“And I put the deaths at the end, that was stupid of me, ” Santiago said.

“Do you know what those three lines are? ” Mr. Vallejo looked at him roguishly. “What the Americans, the sharpest newspapermen in the world, you should know, call the lead. ”

“He gave you the full lesson, ” Carlitos said. “On the other hand, Becerrita barked at me you write with your feet, you’re being kept on only because I’m tired of giving tests. ”

“All the important facts summed up in the first three lines, in the lead, ” Mr. Vallejo said affectionately. “Or: two dead and five million soles damage is the cost so far of the fire that destroyed a large part of the Casa Wiese, one of the main buildings of downtown Lima, last night; firemen had the flames under control after eight hours of dangerous work. Do you see? ”

“Try writing poetry after you’ve set those formulas in your head, ” Carlitos said. “A person has to be crazy to work on a newspaper if he has any liking for literature, Zavalita. ”

“Then you can color up the story, ” Mr. Vallejo said. “The origins of the fire, the anguish of the workers, the statements of witnesses, et cetera. ”

“I never had any more after my sister made a fool of me, ” Santiago said. “I was happy to join La Cró nica, Carlitos. ”

How different, on the other hand, Señ ora Hortensia. He so ugly and she so pretty, he so serious and she so merry. She wasn’t haughty like Señ ora Zoila, who seemed to be speaking from a throne, even when she raised her voice she didn’t make her feel like an inferior. She spoke to her without any pose, as if she were speaking to Miss Queta. And she really did such wild things. Such a lack of shame in certain things. My only vices are drinking and pills, but Amalia thought your only vice is cleanliness. If she saw a little dust on the rug, Amalia, the dust mop! an ashtray with butts, as if she’d seen a rat, Carlota, this filth! She bathed when she got up and when she went to bed, and, worst of all, she also wanted them to spend their lives in water. The day after Amalia came to the little house in San Miguel, when she was bringing up her breakfast in bed, the mistress looked her up and down: did you bathe yet? No, ma’am, Amalia said with surprise, and then she showed the signs of disgust of a little girl, run and get in the shower, she had to bathe every day here. And half an hour later, when Amalia, her teeth chattering, was under the spray of water, the bathroom door opened and the mistress appeared in her robe, a cake of soap in her hand. Amalia felt her body burning, turned off the faucet, didn’t dare reach for her clothes, stayed with her head down, frowning. Are you embarrassed by me? the mistress laughed. No, she stammered, and the mistress laughed again: you were taking a shower without any soap, just as I imagined; here, soap yourself up. And while Amalia was doing that—the soap slipped out of her hands three times, she rubbed so hard that her skin burned—the mistress remained there, tapping her toe, enjoying her embarrassment, now your little ears, now your little feet, giving her commands in a merry way, looking at her as bold as life. All right, that’s how she had to bathe and scrub herself every day and she opened the door to leave, but she took the time to give Amalia such a look: you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, even though you’re skinny, you’re not too bad. She left and outside another loud laugh.

Would Señ ora Zoila have done something like that? She felt nauseous, her face on fire. Button your uniform up all the way, don’t wear such short skirts. Later, while they were cleaning the living room, Amalia told Carlota about it and she rolled her eyes: that’s the way the mistress was, she wasn’t embarrassed by anything, she came in to see her showering too, to see if she was using plenty of soap. But not just that, she made her put powder under her armpits too, so she wouldn’t sweat. Every morning, half asleep, stretching, the mistress’s good morning was did you take a bath? did you use the deodorant? And just as she was intimate about things like that, she didn’t care if they saw her either. One morning Amalia saw her bed empty and heard water running in the bathroom: should she leave her breakfast on the night table, ma’am? No, bring it in to me here. She went in and the mistress was in the tub, her head resting on a pillow, her eyes closed. The room was full of steam, everything was warm and Amalia stopped in the doorway, looking with curiosity, with uncertainty at the white body under the water. The mistress opened her eyes: I’m really hungry, bring it here. Slowly she sat up in the tub and reached out her hands for the tray. In the foggy atmosphere, Amalia saw her breasts appear, covered with small drops of water, the dark nipples. She didn’t know where to look or what to do, and the mistress (with cheery eyes she began to drink her juice, butter her toast) suddenly saw her standing petrified by the tub. What was she doing there with her mouth open? and with a mocking voice don’t you like what you see? Ma’am, I, Amalia murmured, drawing back, and the mistress a loud laugh: go ahead, you can pick up the tray later. Would Señ ora Zoila have allowed her to come in while she was bathing? How different she was, how shameless, how pleasant. The first Sunday in the little house in San Miguel, in order to make a good impression she asked her, can I go to mass for a while? The mistress gave one of her laughs: go ahead, but watch out that the priest doesn’t rape you, little church mouse. She never goes to mass, Carlota told her afterward, we don’t go anymore either. That was why there wasn’t a single Sacred Heart of Jesus in the little house in San Miguel, a single Saint Rose of Lima. She too stopped going to mass after a little while.

There was a knock on the door, he said come in and Dr. Alcibí ades came in.

“I haven’t got much time, doctor, ” he said, pointing to the pile of newspaper clippings Alcibí ades was carrying. “Anything important? ”

“The news from Buenos Aires, Don Cayo. It appeared in all of them. ”

He reached out his hand, thumbed through the clippings. Alcibí ades had marked the headlines with red ink—“Anti-Peruvian incident in Buenos Aires, ” La Prensa said; “Apristas stone Peruvian Embassy in Argentina, ” said La Cró nica; “Peruvian flag torn and insulted by Apristas, ” El Comercio said, and he’d marked the end of the story with arrows.

“They all published the cable from Ansa, ” he yawned.

“United Press, Associated Press and the other agencies took the news out of their dispatches as we asked them to, ” Dr. Alcibí ades said. “Now they’re going to protest because Ansa got a scoop. Ansa wasn’t given any instructions, because as you …”

“It’s all right, ” he said. “Get me, what’s the name of that fellow at Ansa? Tallio, isn’t it? Have him come over immediately. ”

“Yes, Don Cayo, ” Dr. Alcibí ades said. “Mr. Lozano’s waiting outside now. ”

“Have him come in and don’t let anyone interrupt us, ” he said. “When the Minister gets in, tell him I’ll be in his office at three o’clock. I’ll sign the correspondence later. That’s all, doctor. ”

Alcibí ades left and he opened the first drawer of the desk. He took out a small bottle and looked at it for a moment with displeasure. He took out a pill, wet it with his saliva and swallowed it.

“How long have you been a newspaperman, sir? ” Santiago asked.

“About thirty years, just imagine. ” Mr. Vallejo’s eyes wandered off in the depths of time, a slight tremor shook his hand. “I began by carrying stories from the editorial room to the presses. Well, I’ve got no complaints. It’s an ungrateful profession, but it also gives a little satisfaction. ”

“The greatest satisfaction they gave him was by making him resign, ” Carlitos said. “I was always surprised that a guy like Vallejo was a newspaperman. He was so gentle, so innocent, so proper. It wasn’t possible, he had to end up in a bad way. ”

“You’ll start officially on the first. ” Mr. Vallejo looked at the Esso calendar on the wall. “Next Tuesday, that is. If you want to get into the swing of things, you can take a look into the editorial room at night before then. ”

“You mean that to be a newspaperman the first condition is not to know what the lead is? ” Santiago asked.

“No, to be a swine, or at least to know how to act like one. ” Carlitos nodded jovially. “I don’t have to make an effort anymore. You still do a little bit, Zavalita. ”

“Five hundred soles a month isn’t very much, ” Mr. Vallejo said. “While you’re catching on. You’ll get more later on. ”

When he left La Cró nica he passed a man at the entrance who had a millimetric little mustache and an iridescent tie, Herná ndez the headline writer, he thinks, but on the Plaza San Martí n he’d already forgotten about the interview with Vallejo: could he have been looking for him, left a note, be waiting for him? No, when he went into the boardinghouse, Señ ora Lucí a only said good evening to him. He went down the dark hallway to call his Uncle Clodomiro.

“It worked out fine, uncle, I start on the first. Mr. Vallejo was very nice. ”

“Well, I’m glad, Skinny, ” Uncle Clodomiro said. “I can see that you’re happy. ”

“Very happy, uncle. Now I can pay back what you loaned me. ”

“There’s no hurry. ” Uncle Clodomiro paused. “You ought to call your parents, don’t you think? They won’t ask you to come back home if you don’t want to, I already told you that. But you can’t leave them the way they are, with no news. ”

“I’ll call them soon, uncle. I’d rather wait a few more days. You’ve already told them I’m fine, that there’s no need to worry. ”

“You always talk about your father and never about your mother, ” Carlitos said. “Didn’t she go into a fit over your running away? ”

“She probably cried her eyes out, I suppose, but she didn’t come looking for me either, ” Santiago said. “She wasn’t going to lose the excuse to see herself as a martyr. ”

“You mean you still hate her, ” Carlitos said. “I thought you were all over that. ”

“I thought so too, ” Santiago said. “But you can see, all of a sudden I come out with something and it turns out that I’m not. ”

WHAT A DIFFERENT LIFE Señ ora Hortensia led. Such disorder, such habits. She would get up very late. Amalia would bring up her breakfast at ten o’clock, along with all the newspapers and magazines she could find at the stand on the corner, but after having her juice, her coffee and her toast, the mistress would stay in bed, reading or relaxing, and she never came downstairs before twelve. After Sí mula went over the accounts with her, the mistress would fix her little drink, her peanuts or potato chips, put on some records, and start her telephone calls. For no reason, just because, just like the ones between Missy Teté and her girl friends: did you see that the Chilean girl is going to work at the Embassy Club, Quetita? in Ú ltima Hora they said that Lula was twenty pounds overweight, Quetita, they accused China of fooling around with a bongo player, Quetita. She called Miss Queta most of all, told her dirty jokes, would jabber about everybody, Miss Queta probably told her stories and jabbered too. And what a mouth. During the first days at the little house in San Miguel she thought she was dreaming, was Polla really going to marry that faggot, Quetita? that dummy of a Paqueta was going bald, Quetita: the foulest words and laughing as if they were nothing. Sometimes the cursing would reach the kitchen and Sí mula would close the door. At first it shocked Amalia, later on she would die laughing and run to the pantry, what she was gossiping about to Miss Queta or Miss Carmincha or Miss Lucy or Señ ora Ivonne. When she sat down to lunch the mistress had already had two or three drinks and was flushed, her eyes glowing with deviltry, almost always in a good mood: are you still a virgin, black girl? and Carlota stupefied, her big mouth open, not knowing what to answer; do you have a lover, Amalia? what a thing to think, ma’am, and the mistress laughing: if you don’t have one, you probably have two, Amalia.

What was it that rubbed him the wrong way about him? His greasy face, his little pig eyes, his fawning eyes? Was it his smell of a plainclothesman, an informer, a brothel, armpits, gonorrhea? No, it wasn’t that. What was it, then? Lozano had sat down in one of the leather chairs and was meticulously putting papers and notebooks in order on the small desk. He picked up a pencil, his cigarettes, and sat down in another chair.

“How’s Ludovico getting along? ” Lozano smiled, leaning over. “Are you satisfied with him, Don Cayo? ”

“I haven’t got much time, Lozano. ” It was his voice. “Be as brief as possible, please. ”

“Of course, Don Cayo. ” The voice of an old whore, or a retired cuckold. “Where do you want to start, Don Cayo? ”

“Construction workers. ” He lighted a cigarette, watched the chubby hands riffling eagerly through the papers. “The election results. ”

“Espinoza’s ticket elected by a wide margin, no incidents, ” Lozano said with an enormous smile. “Senator Parra was present at the installation of the new union. They gave him a big hand, Don Cayo. ”

“How many votes did the redtails’ ticket get? ”

“Twenty-four as against a little over two hundred. ” Lozano’s hand made a gesture of disdain, his mouth tightened with disgust. “Agh, nothing. ”

“I hope you didn’t lock up all of Espinoza’s opponents. ”

“Only twelve of them, Don Cayo. Well-known redtails and Apristas. They’d been campaigning for Bravo’s ticket. I don’t think they’re dangerous people. ”

“Let them out after a few days, ” he said. “First the redtails, then the Apristas. We have to build up that rivalry. ”

“Yes, Don Cayo, ” Lozano said; and a few seconds later, proud: “You’ve probably seen the papers. That the elections were held very peacefully, that the nonpolitical ticket was elected democratically. ”

He’d never worked full time with them, sir. Only spells at a time, when Don Cayo went on a trip and loaned him to Mr. Lozano. What kind of chores, sir? Well, a little of everything. The first had to do with the shantytowns. This is Ludovico, Mr. Lozano had said, this is Ambrosio, that’s how they met. They shook hands, Mr. Lozano explained everything to them, then they went out to have a drink at a bar on the Avenida Bolivia. Would there be trouble? No, Ludovico thought it would be easy. Ambrosio was new here, right? He was on loan, he was a chauffeur.

“Mr. Bermú dez’ chauffeur? ” Ludovico had said, dumbstruck. “Let me give you a hug, let me congratulate you. ”

They hit it off, sir, Ludovico had made Ambrosio laugh telling him things about Hipó lito, the other one in the trio, the one who turned out to be a degenerate. Now Ludovico was Don Cayo’s chauffeur and Hipó lito his helper. At nightfall they got into the van, Ambrosio drove and they parked a long way off from the shantytown because it was a mud-hole. They continued on by shank’s mare, swishing flies, getting stuck in the mud, and asking around they found the guy’s house. A fat, Chinese-looking woman opened the door and looked at them with mistrust: could they talk to Mr. Calancha? He’d come out of the dark: fat, shoeless, in his undershirt.

“Are you the headman of this settlement? ” Ludovico had asked.

“There’s no room for anyone else. ” The fellow had looked at them with pity, sir. “We’re full up. ”

“We have to talk to you about something urgent, ” Ambrosio said. “Why don’t we take a walk while we talk? ”

The guy had stood looking at them without answering and finally come in, they could talk right here. No, sir, it had to be in private. Fine, anything you say. They walked in the wind, Ambrosio and Ludovico on either side of Calancha.

“You’re getting into deep water and we came to warn you, ” Ludovico said. “For your own good. ”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, ” the guy said in a weak voice.

Ludovico took out some oval cigarettes, offered him one, lighted it for him.

“Why are you going around telling people not to go to the rally on the Plaza de Armas on October twenty-seventh, mister? ” Ambrosio asked.

“Even going around saying bad things about General Odrí a, ” Ludovico said. “What’s the meaning of that? ”

“Who told you lies like that? ” As if he’d been pinched, sir, and then and there he sweetened up. “Are you from the police? Glad to make your acquaintance. ”

“If we were we wouldn’t be treating you so nice, ” Ludovico said.