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Hortensia got there first, noiselessly: he saw her silhouette on the threshold, hesitant, like a flame, and he saw her feel around in the dark and light the floor lamp. The black coverlet rose up in the mirror opposite, the curly tail of the dragon gave life to the mirror on the dressing table and he heard Hortensia start to say something and her voice got tangled up. Better, better. She was coming toward him trying to keep her balance and with her face wild with an idiotic expression that was erased when she entered the shadows of the corner where he was. He cut her off with a voice that sounded difficult and anxious: what about the madwoman, had the madwoman gone yet? Instead of continuing toward him, Hortensia’s silhouette changed course and zigzagged toward the bed, where she collapsed softly. There the light half exposed her, he saw her hand, which rose up and pointed to the door, and he looked: Queta had also sneaked in. Her long, full figure, her reddish hair, her aggressive stance. And he heard Hortensia: he didn’t want anything to do with her, he was calling you, Quetita, he was throwing her away and only asks about you. If only they couldn’t speak, he thought, and he gripped the shears decisively, a single, silent cut, snip, and he saw the two tongues fall to the floor. They were by his feet, two flat, red little animals that were staining the rug in their death throes. In his dark refuge he laughed and Queta, who stayed in the dark as if waiting for a command, laughed too: she didn’t want to have anything to do with little Cayo Shithead, girl, didn’t he want to leave, wasn’t he going to take off? Let him go, then, they didn’t need him and he with infinite anguish thought: she’s not drunk, not her. She was talking like a third-rate actress who’s also starting to lose her memory and is reciting slowly, afraid of forgetting her lines. Come in, Mrs. Heredia, he murmured, feeling an invincible deception, an anger that affected his voice. He saw her move, advance, pretending insecurity, and he heard Hortensia did you hear him, do you know that woman, Quetita? Queta had sat down beside Hortensia, neither of them was looking toward his corner and he sighed. They didn’t need him, girl, let him go to that woman: why did he pretend, why did he talk, snip. He didn’t move his face, only his eyes turned from the bed to the mirror on the closet to the one on the wall to the bed and his body felt hard and all his nerves were alert as if the pillows in the easy chair might suddenly sprout nails. They had already begun to undress each other and caress each other at the same time, but their movements were too vehement to be sincere, their embraces too quick or slow or tight, and the fury with which their mouths attacked was too sudden and I’ll kill them if, he would kill them if. But they didn’t laugh: they’d lain down, entwined, still half undressed, silent at last, kissing each other, their bodies rubbing with a hesitant slowness. He felt his fury diminishing, his hands wet with sweat, the bitter presence of the saliva in his mouth. Now they were quiet, caught in the mirror of the dressing table, a hand on the catch of the bra, fingers stretching out under a slip, a knee nestled between two thighs. He was waiting, tense, his elbows fastened to the arms of the chair. They weren’t laughing, yes, they’d forgotten about him, they weren’t looking into his corner and he swallowed his saliva. They seemed to be waking up, suddenly there seemed to be more of them, and his eyes went rapidly from one mirror to another and to the bed so as not to lose any of the diligent, loose, skillful little figures that were undoing a shoulder strap, rolling down a stocking, slipping off a pair of panties, and helping each other and pulled and didn’t speak. The items were dropping onto the rug and a wave of impatience and heat reached his corner. They were naked now and he saw Queta kneeling down, letting herself fall softly over Hortensia until she covered her almost completely with her large, dark body, but leaping from the ceiling to the bedspread to the closet he could still make her out, fragmented under the solid shadow lying over her: a piece of white buttock, a white breast, a very white foot, heels, and her black hair in the midst of Queta’s rumpled reddish hair as the latter began to rock. He heard them breathe, pant, and he caught the soft creaking of the springs, saw Hortensia’s legs break free from Queta’s and rise up and alight on top of them, he saw the growing glow of skins and now he could also smell. Only waists and buttocks were moving, in a deep and circular movement, while the upper part of their bodies remained glued together and motionless. He had his nostrils wide open and even then he lacked air; he closed and opened his eyes, breathed hard through his mouth and he seemed to smell flowing blood, pus, decomposing meat, and he heard a noise and looked. Queta was now on her back and Hortensia could be seen, tiny and white, curled up, her head leaning over with lips half open and moist between the dark virile legs that were opening up. He saw her mouth disappear, her closed eyes barely showing over the underbrush of black fuzz and his hands unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his undershirt, dropped his pants, and pulled furiously on the belt. He went toward the bed with the belt in the air, not thinking, not seeing, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the background, but he was only able to strike one blow: heads that rose up, hands that took hold of the belt, pulled and dragged him down. He heard a curse, heard his own laughter. He tried to separate the two bodies that were rebelling against him and he felt himself pushed, squashed, sweaty, in a blind and suffocating whirlwind, and he could hear the beating of his heart. An instant later he felt the pinprick in his temples and a kind of blow in the emptiness. He was motionless for a moment, breathing deeply, and then he separated himself from them, leaning his body away, with a distaste that he could feel growing cancerously. He remained lying down, his eyes closed, wrapped in a confused drowsiness, feeling darkly that they were rocking and panting again. He finally got up, nauseous, and, without looking behind, went into the bathroom: more sleep.

“And when are you getting married, Sparky? ” Santiago asked.

The waiter came over to the car, placed the tray on the window. Sparky poured Teté ’s Coca-Cola, their beers.

“I’d like to get married soon, but it’s hard right now because of work, ” he said. “Bermú dez left us practically bankrupt. Things are only just now getting back into shape and I can’t leave the old man alone. It’s been years since I’ve been working without a vacation. I’d like to do some traveling. I’m going to make up for it on my honeymoon, I’m going to visit at least five different countries. ”

“You’ll be so busy on your honeymoon that you won’t have time to see anything, ” Santiago said.

“Stop your dirty talk in front of the squirt, ” Sparky said.

“Tell me what the famous Cary is like, Teté, ” Santiago said.

“She’s not chicha and she’s not lemonade either, ” Teté said, laughing. “She’s a colorless girl from Punta who never opens her mouth. ”

“She’s a great girl, we get along very well, ” Sparky said. “One of these days I’ll introduce you, Superbrain. I would have brought her along one of these times, but, I don’t know, can’t you see all the problems you make for us with your foolishness? ”

“Does she know that I don’t live at home? ” Santiago asked. “What have you told her? ”

“That you’re half nutty, ” Sparky said. “That you had a fight with the old man and moved out. I haven’t even told her that Teté and I see you in secret, because all of a sudden she might come out with it at home. ”

“You’re always asking us what we’re doing but you never tell us anything about yourself, ” Teté said. “That’s not fair. ”

“He likes to play it mysterious, but it won’t work with me, Superbrain, ” Sparky said. “If you don’t tell me what you’re doing, who gives a damn. I just won’t ask you anything. ”

“But I’m dying with curiosity, ” Teté said. “Come on, Superbrain, tell me something. ”

“If the only thing you do is go from your boardinghouse to the newspaper and from the newspaper to your boardinghouse, when do you go to San Marcos? ” Sparky said. “You’ve been telling us a lot of tales. That’s a lie about your attending the university. ”

“Have you got a girl friend? ” Teté asked. “You can’t make me believe you don’t go out with girls. ”

“Just in order to prove that he’s different from everyone else, he’ll end up marrying a black, Chinese, or Indian girl. ” Sparky laughed. “You’ll see, Teté. ”

“Tell us at least about the boyfriends you have, come on, ” Teté said. “Are they still all Communists? ”

“He’s gone from Communists to drunks. ” Sparky laughed. “He’s got a friend in Chorrillos who looks like he was just let out of the Frontó n jail. The face of an outlaw and a breath that makes you seasick. ”

“If you don’t like newspaper work, I don’t know what you’re waiting for to make up with papa and come to work for him, ” Teté said.

“I like business even less than I do newspaper work, ” Santiago said. “That’s fine for Sparky. ”

“If you’re not going to be a lawyer and don’t want to go into business, you’re never going to have any money, ” Teté said.

“The problem is that I don’t want money, ” Santiago said. “What for, anyway? Sparky and you are going to be millionaires; you’ll give me something when I need it. ”

“You’re on tonight, ” Sparky said. “Might a person know what you’ve got against people who want to make money? ”

“Nothing, it’s just that I don’t want to make money, ” Santiago said.

“Well, there’s nothing easier in the world than that, ” Sparky said.

“Before you two get into a fight, let’s have some chicken, ” Teté said. “I’m dying of hunger. ”

The next morning she woke up before Sí mula. It was only six on the kitchen clock, but the sky was already light and it wasn’t cold. She swept her room and made the bed quite calmly, as always, she tested the water in the shower with her foot for some time and finally got in little by little; she soaped herself, smiling, remembering the mistress: footsies, breasties, behindy. She came out and Sí mula, who was making breakfast, told her to go wake Carlota. They had breakfast and at seven-thirty she went out to buy the papers. The boy at the newsstand was teasing her and instead of answering his bad manners in kind, she joked with him for a while. She felt in a good mood, there were only three days left until Sunday. They wanted to be awakened early too, Sí mula said, take their breakfast up right away. Only on the stairs did she see the picture in the newspaper. She knocked on the door several times, the mistress’s sleepy voice yes? and she walked in talking: there was a picture of the master in La Prensa, ma’am. In the semidarkness one of the two forms on the bed sat up, lighted the lamp on the night table. The mistress threw her hair back and while she was placing the tray on the chair and moving it over to the bed, the mistress was looking at the newspaper. Should she open the curtain, ma’am? but she didn’t answer: she was blinking, her eyes fastened to the newspaper. Finally, without moving her head, she stretched out her hand and shook Miss Queta.

“What do you want, ” the sheets complained. “Let me sleep, it’s midnight. ”

“He left, Queta. ” She was shaking her furiously, looking at the newspaper with surprise. “He took off, he went away. ”

Miss Queta got up, rubbed her swollen eyes with both hands, leaned over to look, and Amalia, as always, felt ashamed at seeing them so close together like that with nothing on.

“To Brazil, ” the mistress was repeating with a horrified voice. “Without coming by, without calling. He took off without saying a word to me, Queta. ”

Amalia was filling the cups, trying to read, but she only saw the mistress’s black hair, Miss Queta’s red hair, he’d gone away, what was going to happen.

“Well, he probably had to leave in a hurry, ” Miss Queta was saying, covering her breasts with the sheet. “Now he’ll send you a ticket. He certainly must have left some note for you. ”

The mistress had fallen to pieces and Amalia watched how her mouth was trembling, the hand that clutched the newspaper was crumpling it: that bastard, Queta, without phoning, without leaving her a cent, and she sobbed. Amalia turned half around and left the room: don’t act like that, girl, she heard while she flew down the stairs to tell Carlota and Sí mula.

He wiped his mouth, carefully cleaned his body, rubbed his head with a towel soaked in cologne. He dressed very slowly, his mind a blank and a thin buzzing in his ears. He went back to the bedroom and they had covered themselves with the sheets. In the shadows he could make out the hair in disarray, the rouge and mascara stains on the sated faces, the drowsy restfulness in their eyes. Queta had curled up to go to sleep already, but Hortensia was looking at him.

“Aren’t you going to stay? ” Her voice was indifferent and opaque.

“There’s no room, ” he said from the door, and he smiled at her before leaving. “I’ll come by tomorrow maybe. ”

He hurried down the stairs, picked up the briefcase on the rug, went out onto the street. Sitting on the garden wall, Ludovico and Ambrosio were chatting with the policemen from the corner. When they saw him they stopped talking and got to their feet.

“Good evening, ” he murmured, giving a couple of ten-sol notes to the policemen. “Get something to protect yourselves against the chill. ”

He scarcely glimpsed their smiles, heard their thanks, and got into the car: to Chaclacayo. He rested his head on the back of the seat, pulled up his jacket collar, told them to close the front windows. He listened, motionless, to the sound of Ambrosio and Ludovico’s conversation, and from time to time he would open his eyes and recognize streets, squares, the dark highway: everything was buzzing in his head, monotonously. Two flashlights fell on the car when it stopped. He heard commands and good evenings, made out the silhouettes of the guards who were opening the main door. What time tomorrow, Don Cayo? Ambrosio asked. Nine o’clock. The voices of Ambrosio and Ludovico were lost behind him, and from the entrance to the house he could make out figures pulling the garage doors open. He sat at the desk for a few minutes trying to jot down in his notebook the business of the following day. In the dining room he poured himself a glass of ice water and went up to the bedroom with heavy steps, feeling the glass trembling in his hand. The sleeping pills were on the bathroom shelf, beside the electric razor. He took two, with a long swallow of water. In the dark he wound the clock and set the alarm for eight-thirty. He pulled the sheets up to his chin. The maid had forgotten to draw the curtains and the sky was a black square dotted with tiny bright spots. The pills took between ten and fifteen minutes to put him to sleep. He had lain down at three-forty and the phosphorescent hands of the alarm clock said a quarter to four. Five more minutes of wakefulness.

THREE

HE GOT TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE a little before five o’clock and was taking his jacket off when the telephone in the back of the room rang. He saw Arispe pick up the receiver, move his mouth, take a look at the empty desks and look at him: Zavalita, please. He crossed the room, stopped in front of the table piled high with cigarette butts, scraps of paper, photographs and rolls of galley proofs.

“The dummies on the police beat don’t get here until seven o’clock, ” Arispe said. “You go, get the facts and give them to Becerrita later on. ”

“General Garzó n 311, ” Santiago read on the paper. “In Jesú s Marí a, right? ”

“Get on down there, I’ll get word to Periquito and Darí o, ” Arispe said. “We must have some pictures of her in the morgue. ”

“The Muse knifed? ” Periquito asked in the van while he was loading his camera. “That’s quite a story. ”

“She used to sing on Radio el Sol some years back, ” Darí o the driver said. “Who killed her? ”

“A crime of passion, it would seem, ” Santiago said. “I never heard of her. ”

“I took pictures of her when she was elected Carnival Queen, quite a woman, ” Periquito said. “Are you on the police beat now, Zavalita? ”

“I was the only one in the office when Arispe got the news, ” Santiago said. “It’ll teach me a lesson not to get in on time anymore. ”

The building was next to a drugstore, there were two patrol cars and people gathered in the street, there comes La Cró nica, a boy shouted. They had to show their press cards to a policeman and Periquito took pictures of the front, the stairs, the first landing. An open door, he thinks, cigarette smoke.

“You’re new to me, ” a jowly fat man dressed in blue said, examining his card. “What happened to Becerrita? ”

“He wasn’t at the paper when they called us. ” And Santiago smelled the strange odor, sweaty human flesh, he thinks, rotten fruit. “You don’t know me because I work in a different section, Inspector. ”

Periquito’s bulb flashed, the man with the jowls blinked and moved aside. Through the people who were whispering, Santiago could see a piece of wall with light blue paper, dirty tiles, a black coverlet. Excuse me, two men drew apart, his eyes went up, went down, and very quickly went up, the figure that was so white, he thinks, not pausing at the clotted blood, the red-black lips of the twisted wounds, the tangle of hair that covered her face, the mat of black fuzz bunched between her legs. He didn’t move, he didn’t say anything. Periquito’s rainbows were flashing right and left, could he take a picture of the face, Inspector? a hand drew the tangles aside and a waxen, intact face appeared with shadows under the curved lashes. Thank you, Inspector, Periquito said, crouching beside the bed now, and the gush of white light burst forth again. Ten years dreaming about her, Zavalita, if Anita knew she’d think you’d fallen in love with the Muse and would be jealous.

“I can see that our reporter friend is new, ” the jowly man said. “Don’t faint on us, young fellow, we’ve got enough trouble already with this lady here. ”

The faces veiled by smoke relaxed into smiles, Santiago made an effort and also smiled. When he touched his ballpoint, he discovered that his hand was sweating; he took out his notebook, his eyes took another look: splotches, breasts that overflowed, nipples that were scaly and somber like moles. The smell poured into his nose and made him nauseous.

“They even opened up her navel. ” Periquito was changing his bulbs with one hand, biting his tongue. “What a sadist. ”

“They opened up something else on her too, ” the man with the jowls said soberly. “Come closer, Periquito; you too, young fellow, do you want to see something awful? ”

“A hole in the hole, ” an affected voice said and Santiago heard tenuous little laughs and unintelligible comments. He took his eyes away from the bed, took a step toward the man in blue.

“Could you give me some information, Inspector? ”

“Introductions first, ” the one with the jowls said cordially and gave him a soft hand. “Adalmiro Peralta, Chief of the Homicide Division, and this is my adjutant, First Officer Ludovico Pantoja. Don’t leave him out either. ”

You tried to revive your smile, keep it on your face while you were taking notes, Zavalita, while you watched the hysterical scratching of the pen as it ran over the paper, slipping along with no direction.

“One favor for another, Becerrita will explain. ” While you listened to Inspector Peralta’s laughing and confidential voice. “We get you the scoop and you people give us a few plugs, which we can always use. ”

Laughter again, Periquito’s flashes, the smell, the smoke all over: there, Zavalita. Santiago nodded, the notebook folded over, tight against his chest, scribbling lines now, dots, watching letters take shape like hieroglyphics.

“We got the tip from an old woman who lives alone in the next apartment, ” the Inspector said. “She heard shouting, came out and found the door open. They had to take her to Emergency, her nerves were all shot. You can imagine the fright she must have got when she found this. ”

“Eight stab wounds, ” First Officer Ludovico Pantoja said. “Counted by the medical examiner, young man. ”

“She was probably doped up, ” Inspector Peralta said. “From the smell and the way her eyes were, it looks that way. She was almost always on dope lately. She had a file this fat at the division. The autopsy will give us the final word. ”

“She was mixed up in some drug affair a year ago, ” Officer Ludovico Pantoja said. “They arrested her along with a woman who was a well-known addict. She’d fallen pretty low. ”

“Could I get a picture of the knife, Inspector? ” Periquito asked.

“The lab men took it away, ” Inspector Peralta said. “An ordinary kind, a six-inch blade. Yes, lots of fingerprints. ”

“He hasn’t been caught, but we’ll grab him, ” Officer Ludovico Pantoja said. “He left traces all over the place, he didn’t even take the weapon with him, he did it in broad daylight. He wasn’t a professional, not by a long shot. ”

“We haven’t been able to identify him because this lady here didn’t have a lover, she had a whole lot of them, ” Inspector Peralta said. “Anybody could make it with her lately. She’d been going downhill, poor devil. ”

“All you have to do is look at the place she died in. ” Officer Pantoja pointed around the room with pity. “After having lived it up so much. ”

“She was Carnival Queen the year I joined La Cró nica, ” Periquito said. “Nineteen forty-four. Fourteen years ago, how about that. ”

“Life is like a swing, it goes up and down. ” Inspector Peralta smiled. “Put that in your little story, young fellow. ”

“I remembered her as being prettier, ” Periquito said. “Actually, she wasn’t very much. ”

“The years go by, Periquito, ” Inspector Peralta said. “And besides, getting stabbed hasn’t helped her looks any. ”

“Shall I take a picture of you, Zavalita? ” Periquito asked. “Becerrita always has one taken beside the corpse, for his private collection. He must have a thousand or more by now. ”

“I know Becerrita’s collection, ” Inspector Peralta said. “Enough to give the shivers even to a guy like me who’s seen all there is to see. ”

“When I get back to the paper I’ll have Mr. Becerra call you, Inspector, ” Santiago said. “I won’t bother you anymore now. Thank you very much for the information. ”

“Tell him to come by the office around eleven o’clock, ” Inspector Peralta said. “Nice meeting you, young man. ”

They went out and on the landing Periquito stopped to take a picture of the door of the neighbor woman who had discovered the body. The onlookers were still on the sidewalk, peeking at the stairs over the shoulder of the policeman guarding the door, and Darí o was in the van smoking: why hadn’t they let him in, he would have liked to see it. They got in, drove off, a moment later they passed the van from Ú ltima Hora.

“You fucked them out of the scoop, ” Darí o said. “There goes Norwin. ”

“Why, of course, man. ” Periquito cracked his knuckles and nudged Santiago. “She was Cayo Bermú dez’ mistress. I saw her going into a Chinese restaurant on the Calle Capó n with him once. Of course, man. ”

“I didn’t see the newspapers and I don’t know what you’re talking about, ” Ambrosio says. “I must have been in Pucallpa when it happened, son. ”

“Cayo Bermú dez’ mistress? ” Darí o said. “Then it really is a story. ”

“You felt like a Sherlock Holmes, digging into that foul story, ” Carlitos said. “And look what it cost you. ”

“You were his chauffeur and you didn’t know that he had a mistress? ” Santiago asks.

“I didn’t know and I never saw her, ” Ambrosio says. “It’s the first I ever heard of it, son. ”

An anxious excitation had replaced the dizziness of the first moment, a crude excitement as the van crossed the downtown area and you were trying to decipher the scribbling in your notebook and reconstruct the conversation with Inspector Peralta, Zavalita. He leaped out and strode up the stairs at La Cró nica. The lights in the editorial office were on, the desks occupied, but he didn’t stop to chat with anyone. Did you win the lottery? Carlitos asked him, and he a big story, Carlitos. He sat down at the typewriter and for an hour didn’t take his eyes off the paper, writing, correcting and smoking ceaselessly. Then, chatting with Carlitos, he waited, impatient and proud of yourself, Zavalita, for Becerrita to arrive. And finally you saw him come in, dumpy, he thinks, adipose, ill-humored, aged Becerrita, with hat left over from other days, his ex-boxer’s face, his ridiculous little mustache and his fingers stained with nicotine. What a disappointment, Zavalita. He didn’t answer your hello, he practically didn’t read the three pages, he listened without any expression of interest to the story Santiago was telling him. What was one crime more or less for Becerrita who got up in the morning, lived and went to bed in the midst of murders, Zavalita, robberies, embezzlements, fires, holdups, who had lived for a quarter of a century off stories of junkies, thieves, whores, cheating wives. But the disappointment didn’t last long, Zavalita. He thinks: he never got enthusiastic about anything, but he knew his trade. He thinks: maybe he liked it. He took off his turn-of-the-century hat, his jacket, rolled up his sleeves which he had fastened at the elbows with a bookkeeper’s armbands, he thinks, and loosened the necktie that was as threadbare and dirty as his suit and shoes, and weary and vinegary he went through the office indifferent to the nods, stolidly and slowly and straight to Arispe’s desk. Santiago went over to Carlitos’ corner to listen. Becerrita gave a little rap with his knuckles on the typewriter and Arispe raised his head: what could he do for him, my good sir?

“The centerfold all for me. ” His voice harsh and sickly, he thinks, weak, mocking. “And Periquito at my disposal for at least three or four days. ”

“Do you also want a house on the beach with a piano, my good sir? ” Arispe asked.

“And some reinforcements, Zavalita, for example, because two people in my section are on vacation, ” Becerrita said dryly. “If you want us to do a thorough job on this, you’ll have to put a writer on it night and day. ”

Arispe chewed his red pencil thoughtfully, thumbing through the pages; then his eyes wandered about the room, searching. You screwed yourself, Carlitos said, get out of it under any pretext. But you didn’t use any, Zavalita, you went happily over to Arispe’s desk, happily over to the jaws of the wolf. Excitement, emotion, blood: already fucked up for some time, Zavalita.

“Do you want to transfer to the police beat for a few days? ” Arispe said. “Becerrita has asked for you. ”

“Do people have a choice now? ” Becerrita muttered acidly. “When I started out on La Cró nica nobody asked me what I thought. Go cover the police stations, we’re setting up a police section and you’re going to be in charge of it. They’ve kept me on it for twenty-five years and they still haven’t asked me whether I like it or not. ”

“One day your bad mood’s going to boil up in here, my good sir, ” Arispe touched his heart with his red pencil, “and it’ll explode like a balloon. Besides, if they took you off the police page you’d die of sorrow, Becerrita. You’re the top ace of the gory page in all Peru. ”

“I don’t know what good it does me, because every week I’m in debt up to here, ” Becerrita grunted, immodestly. “I’d rather not get so much praise and have my salary raised. ”

“Twenty years eating free off the most expensive whores, getting drunk free in the best brothels, and you’re still complaining, my good sir? ” Arispe said. “What effect do you think it has on those of us who have to pay out of our own pockets every time we have to get ourselves a drink or a fuck? ”

The clicking of the machines had stopped, smiling faces followed the dialogue between Arispe and Becerrita from the desks, and the latter had begun to smile in a hybrid way, releasing little spasms of that hoarse and unpleasant laugh that would change into a thunder of hiccuping, belching and invectives when he was drunk, he thinks.