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But China interrupted him with her torrential, fluvial laugh: they already knew, she’d told them what happened herself. Ada Rosa was like that, she’d get someone all worked up and back down at the last minute, a tease, crazy. China laughed with contortions, clapping her hands like a seal. Her lips were painted in the shape of a heart, a very high baroque hairdo that gave her face a haughty aggressiveness, and everything about her seemed more excessive than ever that night: her gestures, her curves, her beauty spots. And Carlitos was suffering because of that, he thinks, his anguish, his serenity all depended on that.

“She made me sleep on the rug, ” Santiago said. “My body doesn’t ache from the accident but from that hard floor you’ve got at your place. ”

Carlitos and China stayed and chatted for about an hour, and as soon as they left the nurse came in. She had a malicious smile hovering on her lips, and a devilish look.

“Well, well, such girl friends as you’ve got, ” she said as she arranged the pillows. “Isn’t that Marí a Antonieta Pons who was just here one of the Bim-Bam-Booms? ”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve seen the Bim-Bam-Booms too? ” Santiago said.

“I’ve seen pictures of them, ” she said; and let out a little serpentine laugh. “Is that Ada Rosa another one of the Bim-Bam-Booms? ”

“Ah, you were spying on us. ” Santiago laughed. “Did we use a lot of dirty words? ”

“A whole lot, especially that Marí a Antonieta Pons. I had to cover my ears, ” the nurse said. “And your little friend, the one who made you sleep on the floor, does she have the same kind of garbage-can mouth? ”

“Even worse than this one, ” Santiago said. “She’s nothing to me, she didn’t give me a tumble. ”

“With that saintly little face, no one would have ever thought you were a wild one, ” she said, breaking up with laughter.

“Are they going to discharge me tomorrow? ” Santiago asked. “I don’t feel like spending Saturday and Sunday here. ”

“Don’t you like my company? ” she asked. “I’ll stay with you, what more could you want. I’m on duty this weekend. But now that I see you hang out with chorus girls, I don’t trust you anymore. ”

“And what have you got against chorus girls? ” Santiago asked. “Aren’t they women just like any others? ”

“Are they? ” she said, her eyes sparkling. “What are chorus girls like, what do they do? Tell me, you know them so well. ”

It had started like that, gone on like that, Zavalita: jokes, games. You thought what a flirt she is, lucky to have her there, she helped kill time, you thought too bad she isn’t prettier. Why her, Zavalita? She kept coming into the room, bringing meals, and she would stay and chat until the head nurse or nun came and then she would start adjusting the sheets or would stick the thermometer into your mouth and put on a comical professional expression. She would laugh, she loved to tease you, Zavalita. It was impossible to know if her terrible, universal curiosity—how did a person get to be a newspaperman, what was it like being a newspaperman, how were stories written—was sincere or strategic, if her flirting was disinterested and sporting or if she really had zeroed in on you or whether you, the way she was with you, were only helping her kill time. She’d been born in Ica, she lived near the Plaza Bolognesi, she’d finished nursing school a few months before, she was serving her internship at La Maison de Santé. She was talkative and obliging, she sneaked him cigarettes and loaned him newspapers. On Friday the doctor said that the tests were not satisfactory and that the specialist was going to have a look at him. The name of the specialist was Mascaró, and after glancing apathetically at the x-ray pictures, he said they’re no good, take some new ones. Carlitos appeared at dusk on Saturday with a package under his arm, sober and very sad: yes, they’d had a fight, this time it’s over for good. He’d brought some Chinese food, Zavalita, they wouldn’t throw him out, would they? The nurse got them some plates and silverware, chatted with them and even tried a little of the fried rice. When visiting hours were over, she let Carlitos stay a while longer and offered to sneak him out. Carlitos had also brought some liquor in a small bottle without a label, and with the second drink he began to curse La Cró nica, China, Lima and the world and Ana was looking at him scandalized. At ten o’clock she made him leave. But she came back to take the plates away and, as she left, she winked at him from the door: I hope you dream about me. She left and Santiago could hear her laughing in the hall. On Monday the specialist examined the new x-rays and said disappointedly you’re healthier than I am. Ana was off that day. You’d left her a note at the desk, Zavalita. Thanks so much for everything, he thinks, I’ll give you a call one of these days.

“But what was that Don Hilario like? ” Santiago asks. “Besides being a thief, I mean. ”

Ambrosio had come back a little tight from his first talk with Don Hilario Morales. The guy had acted stuck-up at first, he’d told Amalia, he saw my color and thought I didn’t have a cent to my name. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ambrosio was going to propose a business deal between equals, but that he’d come to beg for some little job. But maybe the man had come back tired from Tingo Marí a, Ambrosio, maybe that’s why he didn’t give you a good reception. Maybe, Amalia: the first thing he’d done when he saw Ambrosio was to tell him, panting like a toad and pouring out curses, that the truck he brought back from Tingo Marí a had been stopped eight times by washouts after the storm, and that the trip, God damn it, had taken thirty-five hours. Anyone else would have taken the initiative and said come on, I’ll buy you a beer, but not Don Hilario, Amalia; although in that, Ambrosio had screwed him. Maybe the man didn’t like to drink, Amalia had consoled him.

“A man of about fifty, son, ” Ambrosio says. “He was always picking his teeth. ”

Don Hilario had received him in his ancient spotted office on the Plaza de Armas without even telling him to have a seat. He’d left him waiting on his feet while he read the letter from Ludovico that Ambrosio had handed him, and only after he had finished reading it had he pointed to a chair, without friendliness, with resignation. He had looked him up and down and finally had deigned to open his mouth: how was that rascal of a Ludovico?

“Doing fine now, sir, ” Ambrosio had said. “After dreaming for so many years about getting on the regular list, he’s finally made it. He’s been going up the ladder and now he’s subchief of the Homicide Division. ”

But Don Hilario didn’t seem the least bit enthusiastic about the news, Amalia. He’d shrugged his shoulders, he’d scratched a black tooth with the nail of his little finger, which he kept very long, spat, and murmured who can figure him out. Because even though he was his nephew, Ludovico had been born dumb and a failure.

“And a stud horse, son, ” Ambrosio says. “Three homes in Pucallpa, each with its own woman and a mob of kids in all three of them. ”

“Well, tell me what I can do for you, ” Don Hilario had finally muttered. “What brings you to Pucallpa? ”

“Looking for work, like Ludovico says in the letter, ” Ambrosio had said.

Don Hilario laughed with the croak of a parrot, shaking all over.

“Are you out of your mind? ” he had said, scratching his tooth furiously. “This is the last place on earth to come to looking for work. Haven’t you seen all those guys walking up and down the street with their hands in their pockets? Eighty percent of the people here are unemployed, there’s no work to be had. Unless you want to go work with a hoe on some farm or work as a day laborer for the army men who are building the highway. But it’s not easy and they’re jobs that don’t give you enough to eat. There’s no future here. Get back to Lima as fast as you can go. ”

Ambrosio had felt like telling him to go to hell, Amalia, but he’d held back, smiled amiably, and that was where he’d screwed him: would he like to go somewhere and have a beer, sir? It was hot, why couldn’t they have a little talk while they were drinking something cool, sir. He’d left him surprised with that invitation, Amalia, he’d realized that Ambrosio wasn’t what he thought he was. They’d gone to the Calle Comercio, taken a small table at El Gallo de Oro, ordered two ice-cold beers.

“I didn’t come to ask you for a job, sir, ” Ambrosio had said after the first sip, “But to make you a business proposition. ”

Don Hilario had drunk slowly, looking at him attentively. He’d put his glass down on the table, scratched the back of his neck with its greasy creases, spat into the street, watched the thirsty ground swallow his saliva.

“Aha, ” he had said slowly, nodding, and as if speaking to the halo of buzzing flies. “But in order to do business you need capital, my friend. ”

“I know that, sir, ” Ambrosio had said. “I’ve got a little money saved up. I wanted to see if you could help me invest it in something good. Ludovico told me my Uncle Hilario is a fox when it comes to business. ”

“You screwed him again there, ” Amalia had said, laughing.

“He became a different person, ” Ambrosio had said. “He began to treat me like a human being. ”

“Oh, that Ludovico, ” Don Hilario had rasped with a sudden good-natured air. “He told you the absolute truth. Some people are born to be aviators, others to be singers. I was born for business. ”

He’d smiled roguishly at Ambrosio: he was wise to have come to him, he would pilot him. They would find something where they could make a little money. And out of the blue: let’s go to a Chinese restaurant, he was beginning to get hungry, how about it? All of a sudden as smooth as silk, see the way people are, Amalia?

“He lived in all three of them at the same time, ” Ambrosio says. “And later on I found out that he had a wife and kids in Tingo Marí a too, just imagine, son. ”

“But you still haven’t told me how much you’ve got saved up, ” Amalia had dared to ask.

“Twenty thousand soles, ” Don Fermí n had said. “Yes, yours, for you. It will help you get started again, help you disappear, you poor devil. No crying, Ambrosio. Go on, on your way. God bless you, Ambrosio. ”

“He bought me a big meal and we had half a dozen beers, ” Ambrosio had said. “He paid for everything, Amalia. ”

“In business, the first thing is to know what you’re dealing with, ” Don Hilario had said. “The same as in war. You have to know what forces you have to send into battle. ”

“My forces right now are fifteen thousand soles, ” Ambrosio had said. “I have more in Lima, and if the deal suits me, I can get that money later. ”

“It isn’t too much, ” Don Hilario had reflected, two greedy fingers in his mouth. “But something can be done. ”

“With all that family I’m not surprised he was a thief, ” Santiago says.

Ambrosio would have liked something related to the Morales Transportation Co., sir, because he’d been a chauffeur, that was his field. Don Hilario had smiled, Amalia, encouraging him. He explained that the company had been started five years before with two vans, and that now it had two small trucks and three vans, the first for cargo and the second for passengers, which made up the Tingo Marí a–Pucallpa line. Hard work, Ambrosio: the highway a disaster, it ruined tires and motors. But as he could see, he’d brought the business along.

“I was thinking about a secondhand pickup. I’ve got the down payment, the rest I’ll pay off as I work. ”

“That’s out, because you’d be in competition with me, ” Don Hilario had said with a friendly chuckle.

“Nothing is set yet, ” Ambrosio had said. “He said we’ve made the first contacts. We’ll talk again tomorrow. ”

They’d seen each other the next day and the next and the one after that, and each time Ambrosio had come back to the cabin tight and with the smell of beer, stating that this Don Hilario turned out to be quite a boozer! At the end of a week they’d reached an agreement, Amalia: Ambrosio would drive one of Morales Transportation’s buses with a base salary of five hundred plus ten percent of the fares, and he would go in as Don Hilario’s partner in a little deal that was a sure thing. And Amalia, seeing that he was hesitating, what little deal?

“Limbo Coffins, ” Ambrosio had said, a little drunk. “We bought it for thirty thousand, Don Hilario says the price was a giveaway. I won’t even have to look at the dead people, he’s going to run the funeral parlor and give me my share of the profits every six months. Why are you making that face, what’s wrong with it? ”

“There’s probably nothing wrong with it, but I have a funny feeling, ” Amalia had said. “Especially since the dead people are children. ”

“We’ll make boxes for old people too, ” Ambrosio had said. “Don Hilario says it’s the safest thing there is because people are always dying. We’ll go fifty-fifty on the profits. He’ll run the place and won’t collect anything for that. What more could I want, isn’t that so? ”

“So you’ll be traveling to Tingo Marí a all the time now, ” Amalia had said.

“Yes, and I won’t be able to keep an eye on the business, ” Ambrosio had answered. “You’ll have to keep your eyes wide open, count all the coffins that come out. It’s good we’re so close by. You can keep an eye on it without leaving the house. ”

“All right, ” Amalia had said. “But it gives me a funny feeling. ”

“All in all, for months on end I did nothing but start up, put on the brakes, pick up speed, ” Ambrosio said. “I was driving the oldest thing on wheels in the world, son. It was called The Jungle Flash. ”

“SO YOU WERE THE FIRST ONE to get married, son, ” Ambrosio says. “You set the example for your brother and sister. ”

From La Maison de Santé he went to the boardinghouse in Barranco to shave and change his clothes and then to Miraflores. It was only three in the afternoon, but he saw Don Fermí n’s car parked by the outside door. The butler received him with a grave face: the master and mistress had been worried because he hadn’t come to lunch on Sunday, master. Teté and Sparky weren’t there. He found Señ ora Zoila watching television in the little room she had fixed up under the stairway for the young people’s Thursday canasta parties.

“It’s about time, ” she muttered, raising her furrowed brow. “Have you come to see if we’re still alive? ”

He tried to break through her annoyance with jokes—you were in a good mood, Zavalita, free after being shut up in the hospital—but she, while she cast continuous involuntary glances at her soap opera, kept scolding him: they’d set a place for him on Sunday, Teté and Popeye and Sparky and Cary had waited until three o’clock for you, you ought to be more considerate to your father, who’s not well. Knowing that he counts the days until he can see you, he thinks, knowing how upset he gets when you don’t come. He thinks: he’d listened to the doctors, he wasn’t going to the office, he was resting, you thought he was completely recovered. And still that afternoon you could see he wasn’t, Zavalita. He was in the study, alone, a blanket over his knees, sitting in the usual easy chair. He was thumbing through a magazine and when he saw Santiago come in he smiled at him with affectionate crossness. His skin, still tanned from the summer, had grown old, a strange tic had appeared on his face, and it was as if in a few days he had lost twenty pounds. He was tieless, with a corduroy jacket, and tufts of grayish fuzz peeped through the open collar of his shirt. Santiago sat down beside him.

“You’re looking very well, papa, ” he said, kissing him. “How do you feel? ”

“Better, but your mother and Sparky make me feel so useless, ” Don Fermí n complained. “They only let me go to the office for a little while and make me take naps and spend hours here like an invalid. ”

“Only until you’re completely recovered, ” Santiago said. “Then you can let yourself go, papa. ”

“I warned them that I’ll only put up with this fossil routine until the end of the month, ” Don Fermí n said. “On the first I’m going back to my normal life. Right now I don’t even know how things are going. ”

“Let Sparky take care of them, papa, ” Santiago said. “He’s doing all right, isn’t he? ”

“Yes, he’s doing fine, ” Don Fermí n said, nodding. “He practically runs everything. He’s serious, he’s got a good head on his shoulders. It’s just that I can’t resign myself to being a mummy. ”

“Who would have thought that Sparky would end up as a full-fledged businessman. ” Santiago laughed. “The way things turned out, it was a lucky thing he was kicked out of the Naval Academy. ”

“The one who’s not doing so well is you, Skinny, ” Don Fermí n said with the same affectionate tone and a touch of weariness. “Yesterday I stopped by your boardinghouse and Señ ora Lucí a told me you hadn’t been home to sleep for several days. ”

“I was in Trujillo, papa. ” He’d lowered his voice, he thinks, made a gesture as if saying just between you and me, your mother doesn’t know anything. “They sent me off on an assignment. I was sent off in a hurry and didn’t have time to let you know. ”

“You’re too big for me to scold you or give you advice, ” Don Fermí n said, with a softness both affectionate and sorrowful. “Besides, I know it wouldn’t do any good. ”

“You can’t think that I’ve set out purposely to live a bad life, papa, ” Santiago said, smiling.

“I’ve been getting alarming reports for some time, ” Don Fermí n said, without changing his expression. “That you’re seen in bars, nightclubs. And not the best places in Lima. But since you’re so sensitive, I haven’t dared ask you anything, Skinny. ”

“I go once in a while, like anybody else, ” Santiago said. “You know I’m not a carouser, papa. Don’t you remember how mama used to have to force me to go to parties when I was a kid? ”

“A kid? ” Don Fermí n laughed. “Do you feel so very old now? ”

“You shouldn’t pay any attention to people’s gossip, ” Santiago said. “I may be a lot of things, but not that, papa. ”

“That’s what I thought, Skinny, ” Don Fermí n said after a long pause. “At first I thought let him have a little fun, it might even be good for him. But now it’s been so many times that they come and tell me we saw him here, there, drinking, with the worst kind of people. ”

“I haven’t got either the time or the money to go off on toots, ” Santiago said. “It’s absurd, papa. ”

“I don’t know what to think, Skinny. ” He’d grown serious, Zavalita, his voice had become grave. “You go from one extreme to the other, it’s hard to understand you. Look, I think I’d rather have you end up as a Communist than as a drunkard and a carouser. ”

“Neither one, papa, you can rest assured, ” Santiago said. “It’s been years since I’ve known what politics is all about. I read all the newspaper except for the political news. I don’t know who’s a minister or who’s a senator. I even asked them not to send me out to cover political stories. ”

“You say that with a terrible resentment, ” Don Fermí n murmured. “Are you that disturbed at not having dedicated yourself to bomb-throwing? Don’t reproach me for it. I just gave you a piece of advice, that’s all, and remember that you’ve been going against me all your life. If you didn’t become a Communist it’s because deep down you weren’t so sure about it. ”

“You’re right, papa, ” Santiago said. “Nothing bothers me, I never think about all that. I was just trying to calm you down. Neither a Communist nor a carouser, don’t worry about it. ”

They talked about other things in the warm atmosphere of books and wooden shelves in the study, watching the sun set, rarefied by the first mists of winter, listening to the voices from the soap opera in the distance, and, little by little, Don Fermí n was mustering his courage to bring up the eternal theme and repeat the ceremony celebrated so many times: come back home, get your law degree, come to work for me.

“I know you don’t like me to talk about it. ” It was the last time he tried, Zavalita. “I know I’m running the risk of driving you away from home again if I talk about it. ”

“Don’t talk nonsense, papa, ” Santiago said.

“Aren’t four years enough, Skinny? ” Had he become resigned from that point on, Zavalita? “Haven’t you done enough damage to yourself already, haven’t you hurt us enough? ”

“But I am registered, papa, ” Santiago said. “This year …”

“This year you’re going to do a lot of talking, just like in past years. ” Or had he been cherishing to the bitter end, secretly, the hope that you’d come back, Zavalita? “I don’t believe you anymore, Skinny. You register, but you don’t set foot in the university or take any exams. ”

“I’ve been very busy the past few years, ” Santiago insisted. “But now I’m going to start going to classes. I have my schedule all made out so I can get to bed early and …”

“You’ve got used to staying up late, to your paltry little salary, to your carousing friends on the newspaper, and that’s your life. ” Without anger, without bitterness, Zavalita, with a tender affliction. “How can I stop repeating to you that it can’t be, Skinny? You’re not what you’re trying to show yourself as being. You can’t go on being a mediocrity, son. ”

“You’ve got to believe me, papa, ” Santiago said. “I swear that this time it’s true. I’ll go to class, I’ll take the exams. ”

“I’m not asking it for your sake now, but for mine. ” Don Fermí n leaned over, put his hand on his arm. “Let’s arrange a schedule which will let you study and you’ll make more than at La Cró nica. It’s time you got to know all about things. I might drop dead anytime and then you and Sparky will have to keep things going at the office. Your father needs you, Santiago. ”

He wasn’t furious or hopeful or anxious as on other occasions, Zavalita. He was depressed, he thinks, he repeated the standard phrases out of routine or stubbornness, like someone betting his last reserves on one last hand, knowing that he’s going to lose that one too. He had a disheartened glow in his eyes and clasped his hands together under the blanket.

“I’d only get in your way at the office, papa, ” Santiago said. “It would be a real problem for you and Sparky. I’d feel that you were paying me a salary as a favor. Besides, stop talking about dropping dead. You told me yourself that you never felt better. ”

Don Fermí n lowered his head for a few seconds, then he raised his face and smiled, in a resigned way: it was all right, he didn’t want to try your patience anymore by harping on the same thing, Skinny. He thinks: just to tell you that it would be the happiest moment of my life if one day you came through that door and told me I’ve quit my job at the paper, papa. But he stopped talking because Señ ora Zoila had come in, pushing a little wagon with toast and tea. Well, the soap opera was over at last, and she began to talk about Popeye and Teté. She was concerned, he thinks, Popeye wanted to get married the following year but Teté was still a child, she advised them to wait a little while longer. Your old mother doesn’t want to be a grandmother yet, Don Fermí n joked. What about Sparky and his girl friend, mama? Ah, Cary was very nice, charming, she lived in La Punta, she could speak English. And so serious, so proper. They were talking about getting married next year too.

“At least, in spite of all your crazy things, you haven’t got there yet, ” Señ ora Zoila said cautiously. “I don’t imagine that you’re thinking about getting married, are you? ”

“But you probably have a girl friend, ” Don Fermí n said. “Who is she? Tell us. We won’t say anything to Teté so she won’t drive you crazy. ”

“I don’t, papa, ” Santiago said. “I swear I don’t. ”

“But you ought to, what are you waiting for? ” Don Fermí n said. “You don’t want to end up an old bachelor like poor Clodomiro. ”

“Teté got married a few months after I did, ” Santiago says. “Sparky a little over a year later. ”

I knew he’d come, Queta thought. But she thought it incredible that he would have dared. It was after midnight, impossible to move. Malvina was drunk and Robertito was sweating. Hazy in the half-light, poisoned by smoke and cha-cha-cha, the couples were swaying in place. From time to time, Queta could catch the saucy laughter of Malvina at different places along the bar or in the small parlor or in the upstairs rooms. He stayed in the doorway, large and frightened, with his loud, striped brown jacket and his red tie, his eyes going back and forth. Looking for you, Queta thought, amused.

“Madame doesn’t allow niggers in here, ” Martha said beside her. “Get him out, Robertito. ”

“He’s Bermú dez’ strong-arm man, ” Robertito said. “I’ll go see. Madame will decide. ”

“Get him out, whoever he is, ” Martha said. “It’ll give the place a bad name. Get him out of here. ”

The boy with a shadow of a mustache and a fancy vest who had asked her to dance three times in a row without saying a word to her came back over to Queta and managed to say with anguish shall we go up? Yes, pay me for the room and go on up, it was number twelve, she’d get the key. She made her way through the people dancing, faced the black man and saw his eyes: burning, frightened. What did he want, who had sent him here? He looked away, looked at her again, and all she heard was good evening.

“Señ ora Hortensia, ” he whispered, with a shamed voice, averting his eyes. “She’s been waiting for you to call her. ”

“I’ve been busy. ” She didn’t send you, he didn’t know how to lie, you came because of me. “Tell her I’ll call tomorrow. ”

She took half a turn, went upstairs, and while she was asking Ivonne for the key to number twelve, she thought he’ll go away but he’ll be back. He’d be waiting for her in the street, one day he’d follow her, finally he’d get his courage up and he’d come over, trembling. She came down a half hour later and saw him sitting at the bar with his back to the couples in the salon. He was drinking, looking at the figures with protuberant breasts that Robertito had sketched on the walls with colored chalk; his white eyes were rolling around in the shadows, bright and intimidated, and the nails on the hand that held the glass of beer seemed phosphorescent. He dared, Queta thought. She didn’t feel surprised, she didn’t care. But Martha did, she was dancing and grunted did you see? when Queta passed by her, now they’re letting niggers in. She said good-bye at the door to the boy in the vest, went back to the bar and Robertito was serving the black man another beer. There were still a lot of men without partners, crowded together and standing, looking, and Malvina couldn’t be heard anymore. She crossed the dance floor, a hand pinched her on the hip and she smiled without stopping, but before she reached the bar, a puffy face with musty eyes and shaggy brows was interposed: let’s dance.

“The lady’s with me, mister, ” the black man’s strangled voice mumbled; he was beside the lamp and the shade with its green stars was touching his shoulder.

“I got there first. ” The other one hesitated, looking at the long, motionless body. “But it’s O. K., let’s not fight over her. ”

“I’m not with him, I’m with you, ” Queta said, taking the man by the hand. “Come on, let’s dance. ”

She pulled him onto the dance floor, laughing inside, thinking how many beers to get his courage up? thinking I’m going to teach you a lesson, you’ll see, you’ll see. She danced and felt her partner stumbling, unable to follow the music, and she saw the musty eyes out of control as they watched the black man, who, still standing, was now looking carefully at the drawings on the wall and the people in the corners. The number was over and the man wanted to withdraw. He couldn’t be afraid of the darky, could he? they could dance another one. Let go, it had gotten late, he had to leave. Queta laughed, let go of him, went to sit on one of the bar stools and an instant later the black man was beside her. Without looking at him, she felt his face falling apart with confusion, his thick lips opening.

“Is it my turn yet? ” he said heavily. “Could we dance now? ”

She looked into his eyes, serious, and saw him lower his head at once.

“And what happens if I tell Cayo Shithead? ” Queta asked.