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“The old man had a good idea, ” Santiago said. “It was quite logical to put everything in your name in order to avoid complications. ”

“Not everything, ” Sparky said very quickly, smiling, raising his hands a little. “Just the lab, the company. Just the business. Not the house or the apartment in Ancó n. Besides, you’ve got to understand that the transfer is only a fiction. Just because the companies are in my name doesn’t mean that I’m going to keep it all. Mama’s part and Teté ’s part have already been arranged. ”

“Then everything’s fine, ” Santiago said. “Business is over and now the soup begins. It has a good look to it, Sparky. ”

There his face, Zavalita, his fluttering, his blinking, his reticent disbelief, his uncomfortable relief, and the liveliness of his hand reaching for the bread, the butter, and filling your glass with beer.

“I know I’m boring you with all this, ” Sparky said. “But we can’t let any more time go by. We’ve got to straighten out your situation too. ”

“What’s wrong with my situation? ” Santiago asked. “Pass me the chili, please. ”

“The house and the apartment were going to be in mama’s name, naturally, ” Sparky said. “But she doesn’t want to have anything to do with the apartment, she says she’ll never set foot in Ancó n again. It’s some kind of quirk. We’ve come to an agreement with Teté. I’ve bought the shares of stock that would have been hers in the lab and the other companies. It’s as if she were getting her inheritance, see? ”

“I see, ” Santiago said. “That’s why I’m so frightfully bored with all this, Sparky. ”

“That leaves only you. ” Sparky laughed, not listening to him, and blinked. “You’re a candle holder in this burial too, even though it bores you. That’s what we’ve got to talk about. I’ve thought that we can come to an agreement like the one we made with Teté. We’ll figure out what you have coming and, since you detest business, I’ll buy out your share. ”

“Stick my share up your ass and let me finish my soup, ” Santiago said, laughing, but Sparky was looking at you very seriously, Zavalita, and you had to be serious too. “I made the old man understand that I would never put my nose in his business, so forget about my situation and my share. I disinherited myself on my own when I moved out, Sparky. So no stocks, no sale, and that puts an end to the whole matter for good, O. K.? ”

There was his fierce blinking, Zavalita, his aggressive, bestial confusion: he was holding his spoon in the air and a thin stream of reddish soup poured back into the plate and a few drops spattered on the tablecloth. He was looking at you half surprised and half disconsolate, Zavalita.

“Stop your foolishness, ” he finally said. “You left home, but you were still the old man’s son, weren’t you? I’m beginning to think you’ve lost your mind. ”

“I have, ” Santiago said. “There’s no share for me and, if there is, I don’t want a single penny of the old man’s money, O. K., Sparky? ”

“Don’t you want any stock? ” Sparky asked. “All right, there’s another possibility. I’ve discussed it with Teté and mama and they agree. We’ll put the Ancó n apartment in your name. ”

Santiago started to laugh and slapped his hand on the table. A waiter came over to ask what they wanted, oh, I’m sorry. Sparky was serious and seemed in control of himself again, the uneasiness had left his eyes and he was looking at you now with affection and superiority, Zavalita.

“Since you don’t want any stock, that’s the most sensible thing, ” Sparky said. “They agree. Mama doesn’t want to set foot there, she’s got the notion that she hates Ancó n. Teté and Popeye are building a house in Santa Marí a. Popeye’s doing quite well in business now that Belaú nde’s president, you know. And I’m so loaded down with work I could never afford the luxury of a summer vacation. So the apartment …”

“Donate it to the poor, ” Santiago said. “Period, Sparky. ”

“You don’t have to use it if Ancó n gets you fucked up, ” Sparky said. “Sell it and buy one in Lima and you can live better that way. ”

“I don’t want to live any better, ” Santiago said. “If you don’t stop, we’re going to get into a fight. ”

“Stop acting like a child, ” Sparky went on, with sincerity, he thinks. “You’re a grown man now, you’re married, you’ve got responsibilities. Stop putting yourself on that ridiculous level. ”

Now he felt calm and secure, Zavalita, the bad moment was over now, the shock, now he could give you advice and help you and sleep peacefully. Santiago smiled at him and patted him on the arm: period, Sparky. The maî tre d’ came over all eager and worried to ask if anything was wrong with the soup: nothing, it was delicious, and they’d taken a few spoonfuls to convince him they were telling the truth.

“Let’s not argue anymore, ” Santiago said. “We’ve spent our whole life fighting and now we get along, isn’t that true, Sparky? Well, let’s keep it that way. But don’t ever bring this matter up with me again, O. K.? ”

His annoyed, disconcerted, regretful face had smiled weakly, Zavalita, and he’d shrugged his shoulders, made a grimace of stupor or final commiseration and remained silent for a while. They only tasted the duck and rice and Sparky forgot about the crê pes with blancmange. They brought the check, Sparky paid, and before getting into the car they filled their lungs with the damp and salty air, exchanging banal remarks about the waves and some passing girls and a sports car that roared down the street. On the way to Miraflores, they didn’t say a single word. When they got to the elf houses, when Santiago already had one leg out of the car, Sparky took his arm.

“I’ll never understand you, Superbrain, ” and for the first time that day his voice was so sincere, he thinks, so feeling. “What the devil do you want out of life? Why do you do everything you can to fuck yourself up all by yourself? ”

“Because I’m a masochist. ” Santiago smiled at him. “So long, Sparky, give my best to the old lady and to Cary. ”

“Go ahead, stay with your nuttiness, ” Sparky said, also smiling. “I just want you to know that if you ever need anything …”

“I know, I know, ” Santiago said. “Now be on your way so I can take a little nap. So long, Sparky. ”

If you hadn’t told Ana you probably would have avoided a lot of fights, he thinks. A hundred, Zavalita, two hundred. Had pride fucked you up? he thinks. He thinks: see how proud your husband is, love, he refused everything from them, love, he told them to go to hell with their stocks and their houses, love. Did you think she was going to admire you, Zavalita, did you want her to? She was going to throw it up to you, he thinks, she was going to reproach you every time they went through your salary before the end of the month, every time they had to ask the Chinaman for credit or borrow from the German woman. Poor Anita, he thinks. He thinks: poor Zavalita.

“It’s getting awfully late, son, ” Ambrosio insisted again.

“A little farther, we’re getting there, ” Queta said, and thought: so many workers. Was it quitting time at the factories? Yes, she’d picked the worst hour. The whistles were blowing and a tumultuous human wave rolled down the avenue. The taxi moved along slowly, dodging figures, several faces came close to the window and looked at her. They whistled at her, said delicious, oh mama, made obscene faces. The factories were followed by alleys and the alleys by factories, and over the heads Queta saw the stone fronts, the tin roofs, the columns of smoke from the chimneys. Sometimes in the distance the trees of orchards as the avenue cut through them: this is it. The taxi stopped and she got out. The driver looked into her eyes with a sarcastic smile on his lips.

“Why all the smiles? ” Queta asked. “Have I got two heads? ”

“Don’t get offended, ” the driver said. “For you it’s only ten soles. ”

Queta paid the money and turned her back on him. When she was pushing open the small door set in the faded pink wall, she heard the motor of the taxi as it drove away. There wasn’t anybody in the garden. In the leather easy chair in the hall she found Robertito, polishing his nails. He looked at her with his black eyes.

“Why, hello, Quetita, ” he said with a slightly mocking tone. “I knew you were coming today. Madame is waiting for you. ”

Not even how are you or are you better now, Queta thought, not even a handshake. She went into the bar and before her face saw Señ ora Ivonne’s sharp silver nails, the ring that exhaled brilliance and the ballpoint pen with which she was addressing an envelope.

“Good afternoon, ” Queta said. “How nice to see you again. ”

Señ ora Ivonne smiled at her without warmth, while she examined her from head to toe in silence.

“Well, here you are back again, ” she finally said. “I can just imagine what you’ve been through. ”

“It was pretty bad, ” Queta said and was silent and could feel the prick of the injections in her arms, the coldness of the probe between her legs, could hear the sordid arguments of the women around her and could see the orderly with stiff bristly hair crouching down to pick up the basin.

“Did you see Dr. Zegarra? ” Señ ora Ivonne asked. “Did he give you your certificate? ”

Queta nodded. She took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to her. You’ve gone to ruin in one month, she thought, you use three times as much makeup and you can’t even see anymore. Señ ora Ivonne was reading the paper attentively and with a great deal of effort, holding it almost on top of her squinting eyes.

“Fine, you’re healthy now. ” Señ ora Ivonne examined her again up and down and made a disappointed gesture. “But skinny as a rail. You’ve got to put some weight on again, we’ll have to get some color back in your cheeks. In the meantime, take off those clothes you’ve got on. Give them a good soaking. Didn’t you bring anything to change into? Have Malvina lend you something. Right away, you’re not going to stand around full of germs. Hospitals are full of germs. ”

“Will I have the same room as before, ma’am? ” Queta asked and thought I’m not going to get mad, I’m not going to give you that pleasure.

“No, the one in back, ” Señ ora Ivonne said. “And take a hot bath. With lots of soap, just in case. ”

Queta nodded. She went up to the second floor, clenching her teeth, looking at the same garnet-colored carpet with the same stains and the same burns from cigarettes and matches without seeing it. On the landing she saw Malvina, who opened her arms: Quetita! They embraced, kissed each other on the cheek.

“How wonderful that you’re all better, Quetita, ” Malvina said. “I wanted to go visit you but the old woman scared me. I called you a whole lot of times but they told me only people who paid for them had telephones. Did you get my packages? ”

“Thank you so much, Malvina, ” Queta said. “What I thank you for most is the food. The meals there were awful. ”

“I’m so glad you’re back, ” Malvina repeated, smiling at her. “I got so mad when you caught that dirty thing, Quetita. The world’s so full of bastards. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, Quetita. ”

“A month, ” Queta sighed. “It seemed like ten to me, Malvina. ”

She got undressed in Malvina’s room, went to the bathroom, filled the tub and sank into the water. She was soaping herself when she saw the door open and in peeped the profile, the silhouette of Robertito: could he come in, Quetita?

“No, you can’t, ” Quetita said grumpily. “Go on, get out, beat it. ”

“Does it bother you for me to see you naked? ” Robertito laughed. “Does it bother you? ”

“Yes, ” Queta said. “I didn’t give you permission. Close the door. ”

He laughed, came in and closed the door: then he’d stay, Quetita, he always went against the current. Queta sank down in the tub up to her neck. The water was dark and sudsy.

“My, you were filthy, you turned the water black, ” Robertito said. “How long has it been since you had a bath? ”

Queta laughed: since she went into the hospital, a month! Robertito held his nose and put on a look of disgust: pooh, you little pig. Then he smiled amiably and took a couple of steps over to the tub: was she glad to be back? Queta nodded her head: of course she was. The water became agitated and her bony shoulders emerged.

“Do you want me to tell you a secret? ” she said, pointing to the door.

“Tell me, tell me, ” Robertito said. “I’m mad about gossip. ”

“I was afraid the old lady would send me away, ” Queta said. “Because of her mania about germs. ”

“You would have had to go to a second-rate house, you would have gone down in station, ” Robertito said. “What would you have done if she’d sent you away? ”

“I would have been fried, ” Queta said. “A second-or third-rate or God knows what kind of house. ”

“Madame is a good person, ” Robertito said. “She protects her business against wind and tide and she’s right. She’s behaved well toward you, you know that she won’t take back people who’ve caught it as bad as you did. ”

“Because I’ve helped her earn a lot of good money, ” Queta said. “Because she owes me a lot too. ”

She’d sat up and was soaping her breasts. Robertito pointed at them with his finger: hoowee, the way they’ve drooped, Quetita, you’ve got so skinny. She nodded: she’d lost thirty pounds in the hospital, Robertito. Then you’ve got to fatten yourself up, Quetita, if you don’t, you won’t make any good conquests.

“The old lady said I was skinny as a rail, ” Queta said. “At the hospital I ate practically nothing, just when one of the packages Malvina sent me came. ”

“Now you can have your revenge. ” Robertito laughed. “Eating like a hog. ”

“My stomach must have shrunk, ” Queta said, closing her eyes and sinking into the tub. “Oh, this hot water is so delicious. ”

Robertito came over, dried the edge of the tub with a towel and sat down. He started looking at Queta with a malicious and smiling roguishness.

“Do you want me to tell you a secret too? ” he said, lowering his voice and opening his eyes, scandalized at his own daring. “Do you want me to? ”

“Yes, tell me all the gossip of the house, ” Queta said. “What’s the latest? ”

“Last week Madame and I went to pay a call on your ex. ” Robertito had raised a finger to his lips, his eyelashes were fluttering. “To your ex’s ex, I mean. I have to tell you that he behaved like the swine he is. ”

Queta opened her eyes and sat up in the tub: Robertito was wiping off some drops that had landed on his pants.

“Cayo Shithead? ” Queta said. “I don’t believe it. Is he here in Lima? ”

“He’s come back to Peru, ” Robertito said. “It turns out that he has a house in Chaclacayo with a pool and everything. And two big dogs the size of tigers. ”

“You’re lying, ” Queta said, but she lowered her voice because Robertito signaled her not to talk so loud. “Has he come back, really? ”

“A beautiful house, set smack in the middle of an enormous garden, ” Robertito said. “I didn’t want to go. I told Madame, it’s a whim, you’re going to be disappointed, and she didn’t pay any attention to me. Still thinking about her deal with him. He’s got capital, he knows that I treat my partners right, we were friends. But he treated us like a couple of beggars and threw us out. Your ex, Quetita, your ex’s ex. What a swine he was. ”

“Is he going to stay in Peru? ” Queta asked. “Has he gotten into politics again? ”

“He said he was just passing through. ” Robertito shrugged his shoulders. “You can imagine how loaded he must be. A house like that, just to stop off in. He’s living in the United States. He’s exactly the same, I tell you. Old, ugly and nasty. ”

“Didn’t he ask you anything about …? ” Queta said. “He must have said something to you, didn’t he? ”

“About the Muse? ” Robertito said. “A swine, I tell you, Quetita. Madame talked to him about her, we felt so awful about what happened to the poor thing, he must have heard. And he didn’t bat an eye. I didn’t feel so bad, he said, I knew that the madwoman would come to a bad end. And then he asked about you, Quetita. Yes, yes. The poor thing’s in the hospital, imagine. And what do you think he said? ”

“If he said that about Hortensia, I can imagine what he’d say about me, ” Queta said. “Come on, don’t keep my curiosity waiting. ”

“Tell her, just in case, that I won’t give her a nickel, that I’ve given her enough already. ” Robertito laughed. “That if you went to see him to try to extort anything from him, that’s why he’s got the Great Danes. Those very words, Quetita, ask Madame, you’ll see. But don’t do that, don’t even mention him to her, she came back so distraught, he’d treated her so badly that she doesn’t ever want to hear his name again. ”

“He’ll pay for it someday, ” Queta said. “You can’t be such a shit and live so happily. ”

“He can, that’s why he’s got money, ” Robertito said. He started to laugh again and leaned a little closer to Queta. He lowered his voice: “Do you know what he said when Madame proposed a little business deal to him? He laughed in her face. Do you think I’m interested in the business of whores, Ivonne? That all he was interested in now was decent business. And then and there he told us you know the way out, I don’t want to see your faces around here again. Those very words, I swear. Are you crazy, what are you laughing about? ”

“Nothing, ” Queta said. “Hand me the towel, it’s got cold and I’m freezing. ”

“I’ll dry you too, if you want, ” Robertito said. “I’m always at your command, Quetita. Especially now that you’ve got more pleasant. You’re not as grouchy as you used to be. ”

Queta got up, stepped out of the tub and came forward on tiptoes, dripping water on the chipped tiles. She put one towel around her waist and another over her shoulders.

“No belly and your legs are still beautiful. ” Robertito laughed. “Are you going to look up your ex’s ex? ”

“No, but if I ever run into him he’s going to be sorry, ” Queta said. “For what he said to you about Hortensia. ”

“You’ll never run into him, ” Robertito said. “He’s way above you now. ”

“Why did you come and tell me all this? ” Queta asked suddenly, stopping her wiping. “Go on, beat it, get out of here. ”

“Just to see how you’d react. ” Robertito laughed. “Don’t get mad. So you’ll see that I’m your friend, I’m going to tell you another secret. Do you know why I came in? Because Madame told me go see if she’s really taking a bath. ”

He’d come from Tingo Marí a in short stages, just in case: in a truck to Huá nuco, where he stayed one night, then by bus to Huancayo, from there to Lima by train. When he crossed the Andes the altitude had made him nauseous and given him palpitations, son.

“It was just a little over two years since I’d left Lima when I got back, ” Ambrosio says. “But what a difference. The last person I could ask for help was Ludovico. He’d sent me to Pucallpa, he’d recommended me to his relative, Don Hilario, see? And if I couldn’t go to him, who could I go to, then? ”

“My father, ” Santiago says. “Why didn’t you go to him, how come you didn’t think of that? ”

“Well, it isn’t that I didn’t think of it, ” Ambrosio says. “You have to realize, son …”

“I can’t, ” Santiago says. “Haven’t you said you admired him so much, haven’t you said he had such a high regard for you? He would have helped you. Didn’t you think of that? ”

“I wasn’t going to get your papa in any trouble, for the very reason that I respected him so much, ” Ambrosio says. “Remember who he was and who I was, son. Was I going to tell him I’m on the run, I’m a thief, the police are looking for me because I sold a truck that wasn’t mine? ”

“You trusted him more than you do me, isn’t that right? ” Santiago asks.

“A man, no matter how fucked up he is, has his pride, ” Ambrosio says. “Don Fermí n thought well of me. I was trash, garbage, you see? ”

“Why do you trust me? ” Santiago asks. “Why weren’t you ashamed to tell me about the truck? ”

“Probably because I haven’t got any pride left, ” Ambrosio says. “But I did have then. Besides, you’re not your papa, son. ”

The four hundred soles from Itipaya had disappeared because of the trip and for the first three days in Lima he hadn’t had a bite to eat. He’d wandered about ceaselessly, keeping away from the downtown area, feeling his bones go cold every time he saw a policeman and going over names in his mind and eliminating them: Ludovico, not a thought; Hipó lito was probably still in the provinces or had come back to work with Ludovico. Hipó lito, not a thought, not a thought for him. He hadn’t thought about Amalia or Amalita Hortensia or Pucallpa: only about the police, only about eating, only about smoking.

“Just imagine, I never would have dared beg for something to eat, ” Ambrosio says. “But I did for a smoke. ”

When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he would stop just anybody on the street and ask him for a cigarette. He’d done everything, as long as it wasn’t a steady job and they didn’t ask for papers: unloading trucks at Porvenir, burning garbage, catching stray cats and dogs for the wild animals of the Cairoli Circus, cleaning sewers, and he’d even worked for a knife grinder. Sometimes, on the Callao docks, he would take the place of some regular stevedore by the hour, and even though he had to give him a big split, he had enough left over to eat for two or three days. One day someone gave him a tip: the Odrí ists needed guys to put up posters. He’d gone to the place, had spent a whole night plastering the downtown streets, but they’d only paid them with food and drink. During those months of drifting, ravenous hunger, walking and odd jobs that lasted a day or two, he’d met Pancras. At first he’d been sleeping in the Parada market, under the trucks, in ditches, on sacks in the warehouses, feeling protected, hidden among so many beggars and vagrants who slept there, but one night he’d heard that every so often police patrols came around asking to see papers. So he’d begun to go into the world of the shantytowns. He’d known them all, slept once in one, another time in another, until he’d found Pancras in the one called La Perla and there he stayed. Pancras lived alone and made room for him in his shack.

“The first person who was good to me in such a long time, ” Ambrosio says. “Without knowing me or having any reason to. A heart of gold, that nigger has, I tell you. ”

Pancras had worked at the dog pound for years and when they became friends he’d taken him to the supervisor one day: no, there weren’t any vacancies. But a while later they sent for him. Except that he’d asked him for papers: voting card, draft card, birth certificate? He’d had to invent a lie: I lost them. Oh, well, it’s out, no work without papers. Bah, don’t be foolish, Pancras had told him, who’s going to remember that truck, just take him your papers. He’d been afraid, he’d better not, Pancras, and he’d kept on with those little jobs on the sly. Around that time he’d gone back to his hometown, Chincha, son, the last time. What for? Thinking he could get different papers, get baptized again by some priest and with a different name, and even out of curiosity, to see what the town was like now. He’d been sorry he’d gone though. He left La Perla early with Pancras and they’d said good-bye on Dos de Mayo. Ambrosio had walked along Colmena to the Parque Universitario. He went to check on bus fares and he bought a ticket on one leaving at ten, so he had time to get a cup of coffee and walk around a little. He looked in the shop windows on the Avenida Iquitos, trying to decide whether or not to buy a new shirt so that he’d return to Chincha looking more presentable than when he’d left fifteen years before. But he had only a hundred soles left and he thought better of it. He bought a tube of mints and all during the trip he felt that perfumed coolness on his gums, nose and palate. But in his stomach he felt a tickling: what would the people who recognized him say when they saw him like that. They all must have changed a good deal, some must have died, others had probably moved away from town, the city had most likely changed so much that he wouldn’t even recognize it. But as soon as the bus stopped on the Plaza de Armas, even though everything had gotten smaller and flatter, he recognized it all: the smell of the air, the color of the benches and the roofs, the triangular tiles on the sidewalk by the church. He’d felt sorrowful, nauseous, ashamed. Time hadn’t passed, he hadn’t left Chincha, there, around the corner, would be the small office of the Chincha Transportation Co., where he’d started his career as a driver. Sitting on a bench, he’d smoked, looked around. Yes, something had changed: the faces. He was anxiously observing men and women and he’d felt his heart beating hard when he saw a tired, barefoot figure approaching, wearing a straw hat and feeling his way along with a cane: blind Rojas! But it wasn’t him, it was a blind albino, still young, who went over to squat under a palm tree. He got up, started walking, and when he got to the shantytown he saw that some of the streets had been paved and they’d built some little houses with gardens that had withered grass in them. In back, where the ditches along the road to Grocio Prado began, there was a sea of huts now. He’d gone back and forth through the dusty alleys of the shantytown without recognizing a single face. Then he’d gone to the cemetery, thinking that the old black woman’s grave would probably be next to Perpetuo’s. But it wasn’t and he hadn’t dared ask the guard where she’d been buried. He’d gone back to the center of town at dusk, disappointed, having forgotten about his new baptism and the papers, and hungry. At the café -restaurant called Mi Patria, which was now named Victoria and had two waitresses instead of Don Ró mulo, he had a steak and onions, sitting beside the door, looking at the street all the time, trying to recognize some face: all different. He’d remembered something that Trifulcio had told him that night just before he’d left for Lima, while they were walking in the dark: here I am in Chincha and I feel as if I’m not, I recognize everything and I don’t recognize anything. Now he understood what he’d been trying to tell him. He’d wandered through still more neighborhoods: the José Pardo School, the San José Hospital, the Municipal Theater, the market had been modernized a little. Everything the same but smaller, everything the same but flatter, only the people different: he’d been sorry he’d come, son, he’d left that night, swearing I’ll never come back. He already felt fucked up enough here, son, and on that day back there, besides being fucked up, he’d felt terribly old. And when the rabies scare was over, would your work at the pound be through, Ambrosio? Yes, son. What would he do? What he’d been doing before the supervisor had Pancras bring him in and told him, O. K., give us a hand for a few days even if you haven’t got any papers. He would work here and there, maybe after a while there’d be another outbreak of rabies and they’d call him in again, and after that here and there, and then, well, after that he would have died, wasn’t that so, son?

About the Author

Mario Vargas Llosa was born in Peru is 1936. He is the author of some of the last half-century’s most important novels, including The War of the End of the World, The Feast of the Goat, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter and Conversation in the Cathedral. In 2010 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.