第2章

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FROM THE DOORWAY of La Crónica Santiago looks at the Avenida Tacna without love: cars, uneven and faded buildings, the gaudy skeletons of posters floating in the mist, the gray midday. At what precise moment had Peru fucked itself up? The newsboys weave in and out among the vehicles halted by the red light on Wilson, hawking the afternoon papers, and he starts to walk slowly toward Colmena. His hands in his pockets, head down, he goes along escorted by people who are also going in the direction of the Plaza San Martín. He was like Peru, Zavalita was, he'd fucked himself up somewhere along the line. He thinks: when? Across from the Hotel Crillón a dog comes over to lick his feet: don't get your rabies on me, get away. Peru all fucked up, Carlitos all fucked up, everybody all fucked up. He thinks: there's no solution. He sees a long line at the taxi stop for Miraflores, he crosses the square, and there's Norwin, hello, at a table in the Zela Bar, have a seat, Zavalita, fondling a chilcano and having his shoes shined, he invites him to have a drink. He doesn't look drunk yet and Santiago sits down, tells the bootblack to shine his shoes too. Yes, sir, boss, right away, boss, they'll look like a mirror, boss.

"No one's seen you for ages, Mr. Editorial Writer," Norwin says. "Are you happier on the editorial page than with the local news?"

"There's less work." He shrugs his shoulders, it was probably that day when the editor called him in, he orders a cold Cristal, did he want to take Orgambide's place, Zavalita? He thinks: that's when I fucked myself up. "I get in early, they give me my topic, I hold my nose, and in two or three hours all set, I unbuckle my chains and that's it."

"I wouldn't write editorials for all the money in the world," Norwin says. "It's too far removed from the news, and journalism is news, Zavalita, believe me. I'll end my days on the police beat, that's all. By the way, did Carlitos die yet?"

"He's still in the hospital, but they're going to let him out soon," Santiago says. "He swears he's off the bottle this time."

"Is it true that one night he saw cockroaches and spiders when he went to bed?" Norwin asks.

"He lifted up the sheet and thousands of tarantulas and mice came at him," Santiago says. "He ran out into the street bare-ass and hollering."

Norwin laughs and Santiago closes his eyes: the houses in Chorrillos are cubes with gratings on them, caves cracked by earthquakes, inside there's a traffic of utensils and reeking little old women with slippers and varicose legs. A small figure runs among the cubes, his shrieks make the oily predawn shudder and infuriate the ants and scorpions that pursue him. Consolation through alcohol, he thinks, against the slow death of the blue devils of hallucination. He was all right, Carlitos was, you had to defend yourself against Peru as best you could.

"One of these days I'm going to come across the creatures too." Norwin contemplates his chilcano with curiosity, half smiles. "But there's no such thing as a teetotaling newspaperman, Zavalita. Drinking gives you inspiration, believe me."

The bootblack is through with Norwin and now he's putting polish on Santiago's shoes, whistling. How were things at última Hora, what were the scoundrels there saying? They were complaining about your ingratitude, Zavalita, that you should stop by and see them sometime, the way you used to. But since you have lots of free time now, Zavalita, did you take a second job?

"I read, I take naps," Santiago says. "Maybe I'll go back to law school."

"You get away from the news and now you want a degree." Norwin looks at him sadly. "The editorial page is the end of the road, Zavalita. You'll get a job as a lawyer, you'll leave the newspaper business. I can already see you as a proper bourgeois."

"I've just turned thirty," Santiago says. "That's kind of late for me to start being a bourgeois."

"Thirty, is that all?" Norwin is thoughtful. "I'm thirty-six and I could pass for your father. The police page puts you through the grinder, believe me."

Male faces, dull and defeated eyes at the tables of the Zela Bar, hands that reach for ashtrays and glasses of beer. How ugly people are here, Carlitos is right. He thinks: what's come over me today? The bootblack cuffs away two dogs that are panting among the tables.

"How long is the campaign against rabies in La Crónica going to last?" Norwin asks. "It's getting boring, another whole page on it this morning."

"I wrote all the editorials against rabies," Santiago says. "Hell, that doesn't bother me as much as writing on Cuba or Vietnam. Well, the line's gone now. I'm going to catch a taxi."

"Let's have lunch, I'm inviting," Norwin says. "Forget about your wife, Zavalita. Let's bring back the good old days."

Hot coney and cold beer, the Rinconcito Cajamarquino in the Bajo el Puente district and a view of the vague waters of the Rímac River slipping along over snot-colored rocks, the muddy Haitian coffee, gambling at Milton's place, chilcanos and a shower at Norwin's, the midnight apotheosis at the whorehouse with Becerrita, which brought on deflation, the acid sleep, the nausea and the doubts of dawn. The good old days, maybe it had been then.

"Ana's made some shrimp soup and I wouldn't want to miss that," Santiago says. "Some other time."

"You're afraid of your wife," Norwin says. "Boy, you really are fucked up, Zavalita."

Not because of what you thought, brother. Norwin insists on paying for the beer, the shine, and they shake hands. Santiago goes back to the taxi stop, the car he takes is a Chevrolet and the radio is on, Inca Cola refreshed the best, then a waltz, rivers, canyons, the veteran voice of Jesús Vásquez, it was my Peru. There were still some jams downtown, but República and Arequipa were empty and the car was able to move along, another waltz, Lima women had traditional souls. Why are all Peruvian waltzes so goddamned stupid? He thinks: what's come over me today? He has his chin on his chest and his eyes are half closed, as if he's spying on his belly: God, Zavalita, every time you sit down you get that bulge in your jacket. Was it the first time he'd drunk beer? Fifteen, twenty years ago? Four weeks without seeing his mother, Teté. Who would have thought that Popeye would become an architect, Zavalita, who would have thought that you'd end up writing editorials against the dogs of Lima? He thinks: I'll be potbellied in a little while. He'd go to the Turkish baths, play tennis at the Terrazas, in six months the fat would burn away and he'd have a flat belly again the way he did when he was fifteen years old. Get moving, break the inertia, shake himself up. He thinks: sports, that's the answer. Miraflores Park already, Quebrada, the Malecón, the corner of Benavides, driver. He gets out, walks toward Porta, his hands in his pockets, his head down, what's come over me today? The sky is still cloudy, the atmosphere is even grayer and the light drizzle has begun: mosquito legs on his skin, the caress of a cobweb. Not even that, a more furtive and disagreeable feeling. Even the rain is fucked up in this country. He thinks: if at least there were a heavy rain. What were they showing at the Colina, the Montecarlo, the Marsano? He'd have lunch, a chapter of Point Counter Point, which would drag and carry him in its arms to the sticky sleep of siesta time, maybe they were showing a crime movie, like Rififi, a cowboy picture like Rio Grande. But Ana would have her tear-jerker all checked off in the newspaper, what's come over me today? He thinks: if the censors would only ban all Mexican films he'd fight less with Ana. And after the movies, what then? They'd take a walk along the Malecón, smoke under the cement shelters in Necochea Park listening to the sea roaring in the darkness, they would return to the elf houses, we fight a lot, love, we argue a lot, love, and between yawns, Huxley. The two rooms would fill up with smoke and the smell of oil, was he very hungry, love? The morning alarm clock, the cold water in the shower, the taxi, walking among office workers along Colmena, the voice of the editor, would he rather have the bank strike, the fishing crisis, or Israel? Maybe it would be worth putting out a little effort and getting a degree. He thinks: going backward. He sees the harsh orange wails, the red tiles, the small barred windows of the elf houses. The apartment door is open but Rowdy doesn't appear, mongrel, leaping, noisy and effusive. Why do you leave the door open when you go to the Chinaman's, dear? But no, there's Ana, what's the matter, her eyes are puffy and weepy, her hair disheveled: they took Rowdy away, love.

"They pulled him out of my hands," Ana sobs. "Some dirty niggers, love. They put him in the truck. They stole him, they stole him."

The kiss on the temple, calm down, love, he caresses her face, how did it happen, he leads her to the house by the shoulder, don't cry, silly.

"I called you at La Crónica and you weren't there." Ana pouts. "Bandits, Negroes with the faces of criminals. I had him on the leash and everything. They grabbed him, put him in the truck, they stole him."

"I'll have lunch and go to the pound and get him out." Santiago kisses her again. "Nothing will happen to him, don't be silly."

"He started to kick his legs, wag his tail." She wipes her eyes with the apron, sighs. "He seemed to understand, love. Poor thing, poor little thing."

"Did they grab him out of your arms?" Santiago asks. "What a bunch. I'm going to raise hell."

He picks up the jacket he threw onto a chair and takes a step toward the door, but Ana holds him back: he should eat first, quickly, love. Her voice is soft, dimples on her cheeks, her eyes sad, she's pale.

"The soup must be cold by now." She smiles, her lips trembling. "I forgot about everything with what happened, sweet. Poor little Rowdy."

They eat lunch without talking, at the small table against the window that looks out on the courtyard of the houses: earth the color of brick, like the tennis courts at the Terrazas, a twisting gravel path with geranium pots on the side. The soup has grown cold, a film of grease tints the edges of the plate, the shrimp look like tin. She was on her way to the Chinaman's on San Martín to buy a bottle of vinegar, love, and all of a sudden a truck put on its brakes beside her and two Negroes with criminal faces got out, the worst kind of bandits, one of them gave her a shove and the other one grabbed the leash and before she knew what was happening they'd put him in the cage and had gone. Poor thing, poor little creature. Santiago gets up: they'd hear from him about an abuse like that. Did he see, did he see? Ana is sobbing again; he too was afraid they were going to kill him, love.

"They won't do anything to him, sweet." He kisses Ana on the cheek, a momentary taste of raw meat and salt. "I'll bring him right back, you'll see."

He jogs to the pharmacy on Porta and San Martín, asks to use the telephone and calls La Crónica, Solórzano the court reporter answers: how in hell would he know where the dog pound was, Zavalita.

"Did they take your dog away?" The druggist puts his solicitous head forward. "The pound's by the Puente del Ejército. You'd better hurry, they killed my brother-in-law's Chihuahua, a very expensive animal."

He jogs to Larco, takes a group taxi, how much would the trip from the Paseo Colón to the Puente del Ejército cost? he counts a hundred eighty soles in his wallet. On Sunday they wouldn't have a cent left, too bad Ana had left the hospital, they'd better not go to the movies that night, poor Rowdy, no more editorials against rabies. He gets out on the Paseo Colón, on the Plaza Bolognesi he finds a taxi, the driver doesn't know where the pound is, sir. An ice cream vendor on the Plaza Dos de Mayo gives them directions: farther on a small sign near the river, Municipal Dog Pound, there it was. A broad yard surrounded by a run-down, shit-colored adobe wall—the color of Lima, he thinks, the color of Peru—flanked by shacks that mix and thicken in the distance until they turn into a labyrinth of straw mats, poles, tiles, zinc plates. Muffled, remote whining. A squalid structure stands beside the entrance, a plaque says Office. In shirtsleeves, wearing glasses, a bald man is dozing by a desk covered with papers and Santiago raps on the table: they'd stolen his dog, they'd snatched it out of his wife's hands, the man sits up, startled, by God, he wasn't going to leave it at that.

"What do you mean coming into this office spouting goddamns?" The bald man rubs his stupefied eyes and makes a face. "Show some respect."

"If anything's happened to my dog I'm not going to leave it at that." He takes out his press card, pounds the table again. "And the characters who attacked my wife are going to be sorry, I can assure you."

"Calm down." He looks the card over, yawns, the displeasure on his face dissolves into beatific weariness. "Did they pick up your dog a couple of hours ago? Then he must be with the ones the truck brought in just now."

He shouldn't get that way, my newspaper friend, it wasn't anyone's fault. His voice is bland, dreamy, like his eyes, bitter, like the folds of his mouth: fucked up too. The dogcatchers were paid by the number of animals, sometimes they committed abuses, what could you do, it was all part of the struggle to buy a little something to eat. Some muffled blows in the yard, whines that seemed filtered through cork walls. The bald man half smiles and, gracelessly, lazily, gets to his feet, goes out of the office muttering. They cross an open stretch, go into a shed that smells of urine. Parallel cages, crammed with animals who push against each other and jump in place, sniff the wire, growl. Santiago leans over each cage, not there, he explores the promiscuous surface of snouts, rumps, tails stiff and quivering, not there either. The bald man walks beside him, his look far away, dragging his feet.

"Take a look, there's no more room to keep them," he protests suddenly. "Then your newspaper attacks us, it's not fair. The city gives us almost nothing, we have to perform miracles."

"God damn it," Santiago says, "not here either."

"Be patient," the bald man sighs. "We've got four more sheds."

They go outside again. Earth that had been dug up, weeds, excrement, stinking puddles. In the second shed one cage moves more than the others, the wires shake and something white and woolly bounces, comes up and sinks back into the wave: that's more like it, that's more like it. Take a snout, a piece of tail, two red and weepy eyes: Rowdy. He still has his leash on, they had no right, a hell of a thing, but the bald man calm down, calm down, he'd have them get him out. He goes off with sluggish steps and a moment later comes back followed by a Negro-Indian half-breed in blue overalls: let's see, he was to get that little whitish one out, Pancras. The half-breed opens the cage, pushes the animals apart, grabs Rowdy by the scruff of the neck, hands him to Santiago. Poor thing, he was trembling, but he turns him loose and he takes a step back, shaking himself.

"They always shit." The half-breed laughs. "It's their way of saying we're glad to be out of jail."

Santiago kneels down beside Rowdy, scratches his head, lets him lick his hands. He trembles, dribbles urine, staggers drunkenly, and only outside does he start to leap and scratch the ground, to run.

"Come with me, take a look at the conditions we work under." He takes Santiago by the arm, smiles at him acidly. "Write something for your paper, ask the city to increase our budget."

Sheds that were foul-smelling and falling apart, a gray steel roof, gusts of damp air. Fifteen feet from them a dark silhouette stands next to a sack and is struggling with a dachshund who protests in a voice too fierce for his minimal body as he twists hysterically: help him, Pancras. The short half-breed runs, opens the sack, the other slips the dachshund inside. They close the sack with a cord, put it on the ground, and Rowdy starts to growl, pulling on his leash, whining, what's the matter, he watches, frightened, barks hoarsely. The men already have the clubs in their hands, are already beginning, one-two, to beat and grunt, and the sack dances, leaps, howls madly, one-two, the men grunt and beat. Santiago closes his eyes, upset.

"In Peru we're still living in the stone age, friend." A bittersweet smile awakens the bald man's face. "Look at the conditions we work under, tell me if it's right."

The sack is quiet, the men beat it a little more, throw their clubs onto the ground, wipe their faces, rub their hands.

"We used to kill them the way God wanted, now there isn't enough money," the bald man complains. "You tell him, the gentleman's a reporter, he can make a protest in his paper."

He's taller, younger than Pancras. He takes a few steps toward them and Santiago finally sees his face: oh my God! He releases the chain and Rowdy starts to run and bark and he opens and closes his mouth: oh my God!

"One sol for each animal, mister," the half-breed says. "And besides, we have to take them to the dump to be burned. Only one sol, mister."

It wasn't him, all Negroes look alike, it couldn't be him. He thinks: why can't it be him? The half-breed bends down, picks up the sack, yes, it was him, carries it to a corner of the yard, throws it among other bloody sacks, comes back swaying on his long legs and drying his forehead. It was him, it was him. Hey, buddy, Pancras nudges him, go get yourself some lunch.

"You complain here, but when you go out in the truck to make pickups you have a great time," the bald man grumbles. "This morning you picked up this gentleman's dog, which was on a leash and with its mistress, you nitwits."

The half-breed shrugs his shoulders, it was him: they hadn't gone out on the truck that morning, boss, they'd spent it with their clubs. He thinks: him. The voice, the body are his, but he looks thirty years older. The same thin lips, the same flat nose, the same kinky hair. But now, in addition, there are purple bags on his eyelids, wrinkles on his neck, a greenish-yellow crust on his horse teeth. He thinks: they used to be so white. What a change, what a ruin of a man. He's thinner, dirtier, so much older, but that's his big, slow walk, those are his spider legs. His big hands have a knotty bark on them now and there's a rim of saliva around his mouth. They've come in from the yard, they're in the office, Rowdy rubs against Santiago's feet. He thinks: he doesn't know who I am. He wasn't going to tell him, he wasn't going to talk to him. Who would ever recognize you, Zavalita, were you sixteen? eighteen? and now you're an old man of thirty. The bald man puts a piece of carbon paper between two sheets, scrawls a few lines in a cramped and stingy hand. Leaning against the doorjamb, the half-breed licks his lips.

"Just a little signature here, friend; and seriously, do us a small favor, write something in La Crónica asking them to raise our budget." The bald man looks at the half-breed. "Weren't you going to lunch?"

"Could I have an advance?" He takes a step forward and explains in a natural way: "I'm low in funds, boss."

"Half a pound." The bald man yawns. "That's all I've got."

He accepts the banknote without looking at it and goes out with Santiago. A stream of trucks, buses and cars is crossing the Puente del Ejército, what kind of a face would he put on it? in the mist the earthen-colored hulks of the shacks of Fray Martín de Porres, would he start to run? seem to be part of a dream. He looks the half-breed in the eyes and the other one looks at him.

"If you'd killed my dog I think I would have killed all of you," and he tries to smile.

No, Zavalita, he doesn't recognize you. He listens attentively and his look is muddled, distant and respectful. Besides getting old, he's most likely turned into a dumb animal too. He thinks: fucked up too.

"Did they pick this woolly one up this morning?" An unexpected glow breaks out in his eyes for an instant. "It must have been black Céspedes, that guy doesn't care about anything. He goes into backyards, breaks locks, anything just so he can earn his sol."

They're at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to Alfonso Ugarte; Rowdy rolls on the ground and barks at the ash-gray sky.

"Ambrosio?" He smiles, hesitates, smiles. "Aren't you Ambrosio?"

He doesn't start to run, he doesn't say anything. He looks with a dumbfounded and stupid expression and suddenly there's a kind of vertigo in his eyes.

"Don't you remember me?" He hesitates, smiles, hesitates. "I'm Santiago, Don Fermín's boy."

The big hands go up into the air, young Santiago, mister? they hang in the air as if trying to decide whether to strangle or embrace him, Don Fermín's boy? His voice cracks with surprise or emotion and he blinks, blinded. Of course, man, didn't he recognize him? Santiago, on the other hand, had recognized him the minute he saw him in the yard: what did he have to say? The big hands become active, I'll be goddamned, they travel through the air again, how he'd grown, good Lord, they pat Santiago on the shoulders and back, and his eyes are laughing at last: I'm so happy, son.

"I can't believe you've grown into a man." He feels him, looks at him, smiles at him. "I look at you and I can't believe it, child. Of course I recognize you now. You look like your papa; a little bit of Se?ora Zoila too."

What about little Teté? and the big hands come and go, with feeling? with surprise? and Mr. Sparky? from Santiago's arms to his shoulders to his back, and the eyes look tender and reminiscent as the voice tries hard to be natural. Weren't coincidences strange? Who would have thought they'd ever meet again! And after such a long time, I'll be goddamned.

"This whole business has made me thirsty," Santiago says. "Come on, let's go have a drink. Do you know someplace around here?"

"I know the place where I eat," Ambrosio says. "La Catedral, a place for poor people, I don't know if you'll like it."

"As long as they have cold beer I'll like it," Santiago says. "Let's go, Ambrosio."

It seemed impossible that little Santiago was drinking beer now, and Ambrosio smiles, his strong greenish-yellow teeth exposed to the air: time did fly, by golly. They go up the stairs, between the vacant lots on the first block of Alfonso Ugarte there's a white Ford garage, and at the corner on the left, faded by the inexorable grayness, the warehouses of the Central Railroad appear. A truck loaded with crates hides the door of La Catedral. Inside, under the zinc roof, crowded on rough benches and around crude tables, a noisy voracious crowd. Two Chinese in shirtsleeves behind the bar watch the copper faces, the angular features that are chewing and drinking, and a frantic little man from the Andes in a shabby apron serves steaming bowls of soup, bottles, platters of rice. Plenty of feeling, plenty of kisses, plenty of love boom from a multicolored jukebox and in the back, behind the smoke, the noise, the solid smell of food and liquor, the dancing swarms of flies, there is a punctured wall—stones, shacks, a strip of river, the leaden sky—and an ample woman bathed in sweat manipulates pots and pans surrounded by the sputter of a grill. There's an empty table beside the jukebox and among the scars on the wood one can make out a heart pierced by an arrow, a woman's name: Saturnina.

"I had lunch already, but you have something to eat," Santiago says.

"Two bottles of Cristal, good and cold," Ambrosio shouts, cupping his hands to his mouth. "A bowl of fish soup, bread and stewed vegetables with rice."

You shouldn't have come, you shouldn't have spoken to him, Zavalita, you're not fucked up, you're crazy. He thinks: the nightmare will come back. It'll be your fault, Zavalita, poor papa, poor old man.

"Taxi drivers, workers from the small factories in the neighborhood." Ambrosio points around them as if excusing himself. "They come all the way from the Avenida Argentina because the food is passable and, most important, cheap."

The Andean brings the beers, Santiago fills the glasses and they drink to your health, boy, to yours, Ambrosio, and there's a compact, undecipherable smell that weakens, nauseates and wipes the head clean of memories.

"What a stinking job you've got for yourself, Ambrosio. Have you been at the dog pound a long time?"

"A month, son, and I got the job thanks to the rabies, because there hadn't been any openings. It certainly is stinking, it squeezes you dry. The only relief is when you go out on the truck to make pickups."

It smells of sweat, chili and onions, urine and accumulated garbage and the music from the jukebox mingles with the collective voice, the growl of motors and horns, and it comes to one's ears deformed and thick. Singed faces, prominent cheekbones, eyes made drowsy by routine or indolence wander among the tables, form clusters at the bar, block the entrance. Ambrosio accepts the cigarette that Santiago offers him, smokes, throws the butt on the floor and buries it under his foot. He slurps the soup noisily, nibbles on the pieces of fish, picks up the bones and sucks them, leaves them all shiny, listening or answering or asking a question, and he swallows pieces of bread, takes long swigs of beer and wipes the sweat off with his hand: time swallows a person up before he realizes it, child. He thinks: why don't I leave? He thinks: I have to go and he orders more beer. He fills the glasses, clutches his and, while he talks, remembers, dreams, or thinks he watches the circle of foam sprinkled with craters, mouths that silently open up, vomiting golden bubbles and disappearing into the yellow liquid that his hand warms. He drinks without closing his eyes, belches, takes out cigarettes and lights them, leans over to pet Rowdy: the things that have happened, Jesus. He talks and Ambrosio talks, the pouches on his eyelids are bluish, the openings in his nose vibrate as if he'd been running, as if he were drowning, and after each sip he spits, looks nostalgically at the flies, listens, smiles, or grows sad or confused, and his eyes seem to grow furious sometimes or frightened or go away; sometimes he has a coughing spell. There are gray hairs in his kinky mat, on top of his overalls he wears a jacket that must have been blue once too and had buttons, and a shirt with a high collar that is wrapped around his neck like a rope. Santiago looks at his enormous shoes: muddy, twisted, fucked up by the weather. His voice comes to him in a stammer, fearful, is lost, cautious, imploring, returns, respectful or anxious or constrained, always defeated: not thirty, forty, a hundred, more. Not only had he fallen apart, grown old, become brutalized; he probably was tubercular as well. A thousand times more fucked up than Carlitos or you, Zavalita. He was leaving, he had to go and he orders more beer. You're drunk, Zavalita, you were about to cry. Life doesn't treat people well in this country, son, since he'd left their house he'd gone through a thousand movie adventures. Life hadn't treated him well either, Ambrosio, and he orders more beer. Was he going to throw up? The smell of frying, feet and armpits swirls about, biting and enveloping, over the straight-haired or bushy heads, over the gummy crests and the flat necks with mange and brilliantine, the music on the jukebox grows quiet and revives, grows quiet and revives, and now, more intense and irrevocable than the sated faces and square mouths and dark beardless cheeks, the abject images of memory are also there: more beer. Wasn't this country a can of worms, boy, wasn't Peru a brain-twister? Could you believe it, Odríists and Apristas, who used to hate each other so much, all buddy-buddy now? What would his father have said about all this, boy? They talk and sometimes he listens timidly, respectfully to Ambrosio, who dares protest: he had to go, boy. He's small and inoffensive there in the distance, behind the long table that's a raft of bottles and his eyes are drunken and afraid. Rowdy barks once, barks a hundred times. An inner whirlwind, an effervescence in the heart of his heart, a feeling of suspended time and bad breath. Are they talking? The jukebox stops blasting, blasts again. The thick river of smells seems to break up into tributaries of tobacco, beer, human skin and the remains of meals that circulate warmly through the heavy air of La Catedral, and suddenly they're absorbed by an invincible higher stench: neither you nor I was right, papa, it's the smell of defeat, papa. People who come in, eat, laugh, roar, people who leave and the eternal pale profile of the Chinese at the bar. They speak, they grow silent, they drink, they smoke, and when the Andean appears, bending over the tabletop bristling with bottles, the other tables are empty and the jukebox and the crackling of the grill can no longer be heard, only Rowdy barking, Saturnina. The Andean counts on his darkened fingers and he sees Ambrosio's urgent face coming toward him: did he feel bad, boy? A little headache, it would go away. You're acting ridiculous, he thinks, I've had a lot to drink, Huxley, here's Rowdy, safe and sound, I took so long because I ran into a friend. He thinks: love. He thinks: stop it, Zavalita, that's enough. Ambrosio puts his hand into his pocket and Santiago puts out his arms: don't be foolish, man, he was paying. He staggers and Ambrosio and the Andean support him: let me go, he could walk by himself, he felt all right. By God, boy, it was to be expected, he'd had a lot to drink. He goes forward step by step through the empty tables and the crippled chairs of La Catedral, staring at the chancrous floor: O.K., it's all gone. His brain is clearing, the weakness in his legs is going away, his eyes are clearing up. But the images are still there. Getting tangled in his feet, Rowdy barks impatiently.

"It's good you had enough money, boy. Are you really feeling better?"

"My stomach's a little queasy, but I'm not drunk, the drinks didn't do anything to me. My head's spinning from thinking so much."

"It's four o'clock, I don't know what kind of story I can make up. I could lose my job, you don't realize that. But thanks in any case. For the beer, for the lunch, for the conversation. I hope I can make it up to you someday, son."

They're on the sidewalk. The Andean has just closed the big wooden door, the truck that hid the entrance has left, the mist wipes out the building fronts and in the steel-colored light of the afternoon, oppressive and identical, the stream of cars, trucks and buses flows over the Puente del Ejército. There's no one nearby, the distant pedestrians are faceless silhouettes that slip along through smoky veils. We say good-bye and that's it, he thinks, you'll never see him again. He thinks: I never saw him, I never spoke to him, a shower, a nap and that's it.

"Do you really feel all right, son? Do you want me to go with you?"

"The one who doesn't feel well is you," he says without moving his lips. "All afternoon, four hours of this, it's made you feel bad."

"Don't you believe it, I've got a good head for drinking," Ambrosio says, and, for an instant, he laughs. He stands there with his mouth ajar, his hand petrified on his chin. He's motionless, three feet from Santiago, his lapels turned up, and Rowdy, his ears stiff, his teeth showing, looks at Santiago, looks at Ambrosio, and scratches the ground, startled or restless or frightened. Inside La Catedral they're dragging chairs and seem to be mopping the floor.

"You know damned well what I'm talking about," Santiago says. "Please don't play dumb with me."

He doesn't want to or he can't understand, Zavalita: he hasn't moved and in his eyes there's still the same blind challenge, that terrible dark tenacity.

"If you don't want me to go with you, son," he stammers and lowers his eyes, his voice, "do you want me to get you a taxi then?"

"They need a janitor at La Crónica," and he lowers his voice too. "It's not as nasty a job as the one at the pound. I'll see that they hire you without any papers. You'd be a lot better off. But please, stop playing dumb for a little while."

"All right, all right." There's a growing uneasiness in his eyes, it's as if his voice were going to break up into shreds. "What's the matter, boy, why do you act like this?"

"I'll give you my whole month's pay," and his voice suddenly becomes thick, but he doesn't weep; he's rigid, his eyes opened very wide. "Three thousand five hundred soles. Couldn't you get along with that money?"

He's silent, he lowers his head and automatically, as if the silence had loosened an inflexible mechanism, Ambrosio's body takes a step backward and he shrugs his shoulders and his hands come forward at the level of his stomach as if to defend himself or attack. Rowdy growls.

"Have the drinks gone to your head?" he snorts, his voice upset. "What's the matter, what is it you want?"

"For you to stop playing dumb." He closes his eyes and breathes in some air. "For us to talk frankly about the Muse, about my father. Did he order you? It doesn't matter anymore, I just want to know. Was it my father?"

His voice is cut off and Ambrosio takes another step backward and Santiago sees him crouched and tense, his eyes open wide with fear or rage: don't leave, come here. He hasn't become brutalized, you're not a boob, he thinks, come on, come on. Ambrosio wavers with his body, waves a fist, as if threatening or saying good-bye.

"I'm leaving so that you won't be sorry for what you've said," he growls, his voice painful. "I don't need work, I want you to know that I won't take any favors from you, least of all your money. I want you to know that you don't deserve the father you had, I want you to know that. You can go straight to shit hell, boy."

"All right, all right, I don't care," Santiago says. "Come on, don't leave, come back."

There is a short growl by his feet, Rowdy is looking too: the small dark figure is going off clinging to the fences of the vacant lots, standing out against the gleaming windows of the Ford garage, sinking into the stairway by the bridge.

"All right," Santiago sobs, leaning over, petting the stiff little tail, the anxious snout. "We're going now, Rowdy."

He straightens up, sobs again, takes out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. For a few seconds he doesn't move, his back against the door of La Catedral, getting the drizzle in his face full of tears once more. Rowdy rubs against his ankles, licks his shoes, whimpers softly, looking at him. He starts walking slowly, his hands in his pockets, toward the Plaza Dos de Mayo and Rowdy trots alongside. People are collapsed at the base of the monument and around them a dung heap of cigarette butts, peels and paper; on the corner people are storming the run-down buses that become lost in dust clouds as they head to the shantytowns; a policeman is arguing with a street vendor and the faces of both are hateful and discouraged and their voices seem to be curled by a hollow exasperation. He walks around the square, going into Colmena he hails a taxi: wouldn't his dog dirty the seat? No, driver, he wouldn't dirty it: Miraflores, the Calle Porta. He gets in, puts Rowdy on his lap, that bulge in his jacket. Play tennis, swim, lift weights, get mixed up, become alcoholic like Carlitos. He closes his eyes, leans his head against the back of the seat, his hand strokes the back, the ears, the cold nose, the trembling belly. You were saved from the pound, Rowdy, but no one's ever going to get you out of the pound you're in, Zavalita, tomorrow he'd visit Carlitos in the hospital and bring him a book, not Huxley. The taxi goes along through blind noisy streets, in the darkness he hears engines, whistles, fleeting voices. Too bad you didn't take Norwin up on lunch, Zavalita. He thinks: he kills them with a club and you with editorials. He was better off than you, Zavalita. He'd paid more, he'd fucked himself up more. He thinks: poor papa. The taxi slows down and he opens his eyes: the Diagonal is there, caught in the headlights of the cab, oblique, silvery, boiling with cars, its lighted ads quivering already. The mist whitens the trees in the park, the church steeples drift off in the grayness, the tops of the ficus trees waver: stop here. He pays the fare and Rowdy starts to bark. He turns him loose, sees him go into the entrance to the elf houses like a rocket. Inside he hears the barking, straightens his jacket, his tie, hears Ana's shout, imagines her face. He goes into the courtyard, the elf houses have their windows lighted, Ana's silhouette as she hugs Rowdy and comes toward him, what took you so long, love, I was nervous, so frightened, love.

"Let's get this animal inside, he'll drive the whole street crazy," and he barely kisses her. "Quiet, Rowdy."

He goes to the bathroom and while he urinates and washes his face he listens to Ana, what happened, sweet, what took you so long, playing with Rowdy, at least you found him, love, and he hears the happy barking. He comes out and Ana is sitting in the small living room, Rowdy in her arms. He sits down beside her, kisses her on the temple.

"You've been drinking." She holds him by the jacket, looks at him, half merry, half annoyed. "You smell of beer, love. Don't tell me you haven't been drinking, right?"

"I met a fellow I haven't seen in a hundred years. We went to have a drink. I couldn't get away, sweet."

"And me here half crazy with worry." He hears her plaintive, caressing, loving voice. "And you drinking beer with the boys. Why didn't you at least call me at the German woman's?"

"There wasn't any phone, we went to a dive." Yawning, stretching, smiling. "Besides, I don't like to keep bothering that crazy German all the time. I feel lousy, I've got an awful headache."

You deserved it, having kept her nerves on edge all afternoon, and she runs her hand over his forehead and looks at him and smiles at him and speaks to him softly and pinches one ear: you deserve to have a headache, love, and he kisses her. Would he like to sleep a little, should she draw the curtains, love? Yes, he gets up, just for a bit, falls onto the bed, and the shadows of Ana and Rowdy busying themselves about him, looking for himself.

"The worst is that I spent all my money, love. I don't know how we'll get by till Monday."

"Oh, that's all right. It's good that the Chinaman on San Martín always trusts me, it's good that he's the nicest Chinaman in the world."

"The worst is that we'll miss our movies. Was there anything good showing today?"

"One with Marlon Brando at the Colina," and Ana's voice, far, far away, arrives as if through water. "One of those detective movies you like, sweet. If you want I can borrow some money from the German woman."

She's happy, Zavalita, she forgives you for everything because you brought Rowdy back to her. He thinks: at this moment she's happy.

"I'll borrow some and we'll go to the movies, but promise me that you won't ever have a few beers with your buddies without telling me." Ana laughs, farther and farther away.

He thinks: I promise. The curtain has one corner folded over and Santiago can see a chunk of almost dark sky, and imagine, outside, up above, falling down onto the houses and their elves, Miraflores, Lima, the same miserable drizzle as always.

2

POPEYE ARéVALO HAD SPENT the morning on the beach at Miraflores. You look toward the stairs in vain, the neighborhood girls tell him, Teté's not coming. And, as a matter of fact, Teté didn't go swimming that morning. Defrauded, he went home before noon, but while he was going up the hill on Quebrada he could see Teté's little nose, her curls, her small eyes, and he grew emotional: when are you going to notice me, when, Teté? He reached home with his reddish hair still damp, his freckled face burning from the sun. He found the senator waiting for him: come here, Freckle Face, they would have a little chat. They shut themselves up in the study and the senator, did he still want to study architecture? Yes, papa, of course he wanted to. Except that the entrance exam was so hard, a whole bunch took it and only a small few got in. But he'd grind and he'd probably get in. The senator was happy that he'd finished high school without failing any courses and since the end of the year he'd been like a mother to him, in January he'd increased his allowance from twenty to forty soles. But even then Popeye didn't expect so much: well, Freckle Face, since it was hard to get into Architecture it would be better not to take a chance this year, he could enroll in the prep course and study hard, and that way you'll get in next year for sure: what did he think, Freckle Face? Wild, papa, Popeye's face lighted up even more, his eyes glowed. He'd grind, he'd kill himself studying and the next year he'd get in for sure. Popeye had been afraid of a deadly summer, no swimming, no matinees, no parties, days and nights all soaked up in math, physics and chemistry, and, in spite of so much sacrifice, I won't get in and my vacation will be completely wasted. There it was, recovered now, the beach of Miraflores, the waves of Herradura, the bay of Ancón, and the images were as real, the orchestra seats in the Leuro, the Montecarlo and the Colina, as wild, the dance halls where he and Teté danced boleros, as those of a technicolor movie. Are you happy? the senator asked, and he quite happy. What a nice person he is, he thought as they went into the dining room, and the senator that's right, Freckle Face, just as soon as summer's over he'll break his hump, did he promise? and Popeye swore he would, papa. During lunch the senator teased him, Zavala's daughter still hadn't given you a tumble, Freckle Face? and he blushed: a little bit now, papa. You're too much of a child to have a girl friend, his old lady said, he should still keep away from foolishness. What an idea, he's already grown up, the senator said, and besides, Teté was a pretty girl. Don't let your arm be twisted, Freckle Face, women like to be begged, it had been awful rough on him courting the old lady, and the old lady dying with laughter. The telephone rang and the butler came running: your friend Santiago, child. He had to see him urgently, Freckle Face. At three o'clock at the Cream Rica on Larco, Skinny? At three on the dot, Freckle Face. Was your brother-in-law going to beat the tar out of you if you didn't leave Teté alone, Freckle Face? the senator smiled, and Popeye thought what a good mood he's in today. Nothing like that, he and Santiago were buddies, but the old lady frowned: that boy's got a screw loose, don't you think? Popeye raised a spoonful of ice cream to his mouth, who said that? another of meringue, maybe he could convince Santiago for them to go to his house and listen to records and call Teté just to talk a little, Skinny. Zoila herself had said so at canasta last Friday, the old lady insisted. Santiago was giving her and Fermín a lot of headaches lately, he spent all day fighting with Teté and Sparky, he'd become disobedient and he talked back. Skinny had come out first in the final exams, Popeye protested, what more did his old man and old lady want?

"He doesn't want to go to the Catholic University but to San Marcos," Se?ora Zoila said. "That upset Fermín very much."

"I'll bring him to his senses, Zoila, don't you get involved," Don Fermín said. "He's at the foolish age, you have to know how to lead him. If you fight with him, he'll get all the more stubborn."

"If instead of advice you'd give him a couple of whacks, he'd pay more attention to you," Se?ora Zoila said. "The one who doesn't know how to raise him is you."

"She married that boy who used to come to the house," Santiago says. "Popeye Arévalo, Freckle Face Arévalo."

"Skinny doesn't get along with his old man because they don't have the same ideas," Popeye said.

"And what ideas does that snotnose still wet behind the ears have?" The senator laughed.

"Study hard, get your law degree and you can dip your spoon into politics," Don Fermín said. "Right, Skinny?"

"Skinny gets mad because his old man backed Odría in his revolt against Bustamante," Popeye said. "He's against the military."

"Is he a Bustamantist?" the senator asked. "And Fermín thinks he's the genius of the family. He can't be much of that if he admires that weak sister Bustamante."

"He might have been a weak sister, but he was a decent person and he'd been a diplomat," Popeye's old lady said. "Odría, on the other hand, is a coarse soldier and a half-breed."

"Don't forget that I'm an Odríist senator," the senator laughed, "so stop half-breeding Odría, silly."

"He's got the notion of going to San Marcos because he doesn't like priests and because he wants to go where the people go," Popeye said. "He's really doing it because he's an againster. If his folks told him to go to San Marcos, he'd say no, Catholic University."

"Zoila's right, at San Marcos he'd lose his contacts," Popeye's old lady said. "Boys from good families go to the Catholic University."

"There are enough Indians at the Catholic University to give you a good scare too, mama," Popeye said.

"With all the money Fermín's bringing in now that he's buddy-buddy with Cayo Bermúdez, the squirt won't need any contacts," the senator said. "O.K., Freckle Face, on your way."

Popeye left the table, brushed his teeth, combed his hair and went out. It was only two-fifteen, it was better to go along marking time. Aren't we pals, Santiago? come on, give me a little push with Teté. He went up Larco blinking in the sunlight and stopped to look in the windows of the Casa Nelson: those deerskin moccasins with brown shorts and that yellow shirt, wild. He got to the Cream Rica before Santiago, settled down at a table from where he could see the avenue, and ordered a vanilla milk shake. If he couldn't convince Santiago to go listen to records at his house they would go to the matinee or to gamble at Coco Becerra's, what was it that Skinny wanted to talk to him about. And at that moment Santiago came in, long face, feverish eyes: his folks had fired Amalia, Freckle Face. The doors of the branch of the Banco de Crédito had just opened and through the windows of the Cream Rica Popeye watched the revolving doors swallow up the people who had been waiting on the sidewalk. The sun was shining, the express buses went by loaded, men and women fought for taxis on the corner of Shell. Why had they waited until now to throw her out, Skinny? Santiago shrugged his shoulders, his folks didn't want him to think that they were firing her because of the business of the other night, as if he was so stupid. He seemed even thinner with that mournful face, his jet black hair raining over his forehead. The waiter came over and Santiago pointed to Popeye's glass, vanilla too? yes. After all, it's not so bad, Popeye cheered him up, she'll get another job soon, they need maids all over. Santiago looked at his nails: Amalia was a nice person, when Sparky, Teté, or I were in a bad mood they let off steam abusing her and she never told the folks on us, Freckle Face. Popeye stirred his milk shake with the straw, how can I convince you to go listen to records at your place, brother-in-law? he sucked in the froth.

"Your old lady made her complaints to the senator's wife about the San Marcos business," he said.

"She can take her complaints to the King of Rome," Santiago said.

"If San Marcos upsets them so much, enroll at the Catholic University, what difference does it make to you?" Popeye said. "Or are they tougher at the Catholic University?"

"My folks don't give a damn about that," Santiago said. "They don't like San Marcos because there are half-breeds there and because there's a lot of politics, only for that reason."

"You've got yourself into a bind," Popeye said. "You're always against everything, you put everything down and you take things too much to heart. Don't give your life a bitter taste just for the hell of it, Skinny."

"Put your advice back in your pocket," Santiago said.

"Don't act as if you were so smart, Skinny," Popeye said. "It's all right for you to be a grind, but there's no reason for thinking that everyone else is a half-wit. Last night you treated Coco in a way that made me wonder why he didn't kill you."

"If I don't feel like going to mass I don't have to make excuses to that sexton," Santiago said.

"You're playing the atheist too now," Popeye said.

"I'm not playing the atheist," Santiago said. "The fact that I don't like priests doesn't mean that I don't believe in God."

"What do they say at home about your not going to church?" Popeye asked. "What does Teté say, for example?"

"That business about the Indian girl has got me all bitter, Freckle Face," Santiago said.

"Forget about it, don't be a fool," Popeye said. "Speaking of Teté, why didn't she come to the beach this morning?"

"She went to the Regatas Club with some girl friends," Santiago said. "I don't know why you haven't learned your lesson."

"The redhead, the one with freckles," Ambrosio says. "Senator Emilio Arévalo's boy, sure. Did she marry him?"

"I don't like people with red hair or people with freckles." Teté made a face. "And he's both. Ugh, it makes me sick."

"What upsets me most is that they fired her because of me," Santiago said.

"You should have said because of Sparky," Popeye consoled him. "You didn't know what yohimbine was."

Santiago's brother was only called Sparky now, but before, during the time he decided to show off at the Terrazas Club lifting weights, they called him Sparky Tarzan. He'd been a cadet at the Naval School for a few months and when they expelled him (he said for having struck an ensign), he drifted around for quite a while, given over to gambling and drinking and playing the tough. He would show up at San Fernando Square and go over menacingly to Santiago, pointing to Popeye, To?o, Coco, or Lalo: come on, Superbrain, with which one of them did he want to match his strength. But since he went to work in Don Fermín's office he'd become very proper.

"I knew what it was but I'd never seen it," Santiago said. "Do you think it drives women crazy?"

"One of Sparky's stories," Popeye whispered. "Did he tell you it drives them crazy?"

"It does, but if you lay a hand on them you could turn them into a corpse, Sparky boy," Ambrosio said. "Don't get me into any trouble. Remember that if your papa catches on to it, I've had it."

"And did he tell you that with one spoonful any female would throw herself at you?" Popeye whispered. "Stories, Skinny."

"It would have to be tested," Santiago said. "Even if only to see if it's true, Freckle Face."

He was silent, with an attack of nervous laughter, and Popeye laughed too. They nudged each other, the hard thing was to find the one to do it with, excited, worn out, that was it, and the table and the milk shakes trembled with the quivering: they were crazy, Skinny. What had Sparky told him when he gave it to him? Sparky and Santiago got on like cat and dog and whenever he could Sparky played dirty tricks on Skinny and Skinny on Sparky whenever he could: it was probably one of your brother's dirty tricks, Skinny. No, Freckle Face, Sparky had come home like an Easter angel, I won a lot of money at the track, and what was unheard of, before going to bed he went into Santiago's room to give him some advice: it's time for you to shake yourself up, aren't you ashamed of still being a virgin, a big man like you? and he offered him a cigarette. Don't be scared, Sparky said, have you got a girl friend? Santiago lied that he did and Sparky, worried: it's time to devirginize you, Skinny, it really is.

"Haven't I been asking you all the time to take me to a whorehouse?" Santiago said.

"You might catch something and the old man would kill me," Sparky said. "Besides, real men earn what they get, they don't pay for it. You play the know-it-all and you're up on the moon when it comes to females, Superbrain."

"I don't play the know-it-all," Santiago said. "I attack when I'm attacked. Come on, Sparky, take me to a whorehouse."

"Then why do you argue with the old man so much? You get him all upset opposing everything he says."

"I only oppose him when he starts defending Odría and the militarists," Santiago said. "Come on, Sparky."

"And why are you against the military?" Sparky asked. "What the fuck has Odría ever done to you?"

"They came to power by force," Santiago said. "Odría's put a lot of people in jail."

"Only Apristas and Communists," Sparky said. "He's really been gentle with them. I would have shot them all. The country was a mess under Bustamante, decent people couldn't work in peace."

"Then you're not a decent person," Santiago said, "because in Bustamante's time you were bumming around."

"You're asking for a whack, Superbrain," Sparky said.

"I've got my ideas and you've got yours," Santiago said. "Come on, take me to a whorehouse."

"The whorehouse is out," Sparky said, "but I will help you work it out with a woman."

"And do they sell yohimbine in drugstores?" Popeye asked.

"Under the counter," Santiago said. "It's kind of illegal."

"A little bit in a Coca-Cola, on a hot dog," Sparky said, "and you wait for it to take effect. When she starts to get a little restless then it's up to you."

"How old do they have to be for you to give it to them, just for example, Sparky?" Santiago asked.

"You wouldn't be dumb enough to give it to a ten-year-old." Sparky laughed. "You can to one who's fourteen, but just a little. Except that at that age it won't make it easier for you, you'll get into a crazy mess."

"Is it real?" Popeye asked. "Couldn't he have given you a little salt or sugar?"

"I tested it with the tip of my tongue," Santiago said. "It hasn't got any smell, it's a powder with a little bite to it."

On the street there was an increase in the number of people who were trying to get into the crowded taxis and express buses. They didn't stand in line, they were a small mob waving their hands at the buses with blue and white grilles that passed without stopping. Suddenly, among the bodies, two tiny identical silhouettes, two heads of dark hair: the Valler-riestra twins. Popeye pushed the curtain aside and waved to them, but they didn't see him or didn't recognize him. They were tapping their heels impatiently, their fresh and tanned little faces kept looking at the clock on the Banco de Crédito, they must have been going to some matinee downtown, Skinny. Every time a taxi approached they went out onto the street with a determined air, but they always lost their place.

"They're probably going by themselves," Popeye said. "Let's go to the matinee with them, Skinny."

"Are you dying for Teté, yes or no, turncoat?" Santiago asked.

"I'm dying only for Teté," Popeye said. "Of course, if instead of the matinee you want to go to your house and listen to records, I'm all for it."

Santiago shook his head without enthusiasm: he'd got hold of some money, he was going to take it to the Indian girl, she lived around there, in Surquillo. Popeye opened his eyes, to Amalia? and began to laugh, are you going to give her your allowance because your folks threw her out? Not my allowance, Santiago snapped the straw in two, he'd taken a hundred soles from the piggy bank. And Popeye put a finger to his temple: heading right for the booby hatch, Skinny. It was my fault they fired her, Santiago said, what was so bad about giving her a little money? Even if you'd fallen in love with the Indian, Skinny, a hundred soles was a lot of money, with that we can invite the twins to the movies. But at that moment the twins were getting into a green Morris and Popeye too late, brother. Santiago had started to smoke.

"I don't think that Sparky gave any yohimbine to his girl friend, he made that up to look like a devil," Popeye said. "Would you give yohimbine to a decent girl?"

"Not to my sweetheart," Santiago said. "But why not to a half-breed girl?"

"So what are you going to do?" Popeye whispered. "Are you going to give it to someone or are you going to throw it away?"

He'd thought about throwing it away, Freckle Face, and Santiago lowered his voice and blushed, then he was thinking and he stammered, that's when he got an idea. Just to see what it was like, Freckle Face, what did he think.

"So stupid there's no name for it, you can do a thousand things with a hundred soles," Popeye said. "But it's up to you, it's your money."

"Come with me, Freckle Face," Santiago said. "It's right here, in Surquillo."

"But then we'll go to your house to hear records," Popeye said. "And you'll call Teté."

"You really are a shithead suitor, Freckle Face," Santiago said.

"And what if your folks find out?" Popeye asked. "What about Sparky?"

"My folks are going to Ancón and won't be back until Monday," Santiago said. "And Sparky's gone to a friend's ranch."

"Be prepared in case it doesn't agree with her, in case she faints on us," Popeye said.

"We'll only give her a little bit," Santiago said. "Don't be chicken, Freckle Face."

A small light went on in Popeye's eyes, do you remember when we spied on Amalia in Ancón, Skinny? From the roof you could see the servants' bathroom, two faces side by side in the skylight and below a hazy outline, a black bathrobe, delicious, the half-breed, Skinny. The couple at the next table got up and Ambrosio pointed to the woman: that one was a hooker, son, she spent the day in La Catedral looking for customers. They saw the couple go out onto Larco, saw them cross the Calle Shell. The bus stop was deserted now. Express buses and taxis passed half empty now. They called the waiter, split the check, and how did he know that she was a hooker? Because besides being a restaurant and bar La Catedral was also a pickup place, son, behind the kitchen there was a little room and they rented it for two soles an hour. They went along Larco, looking at the girls who were coming out of the shops, the women pushing carriages with crying babies. In the park Popeye bought última Hora and read the gossip aloud, thumbed through the sports pages, and as they passed in front of La Tiendecita Bianca hi, Lalo. On the Alameda Ricardo Palma they crumpled the newspaper and took a few steps until it fell apart and was abandoned on a corner in Surquillo.

"All we need is for Amalia to get mad and tell me to go to hell," Santiago said.

"A hundred soles is a fortune," Popeye said. "Shell receive you like a king."

They were near the Cine Miraflores, across from the market with booths of wood, matting and awnings where flowers, ceramics and fruit were sold, and into the street there came shots, galloping, Indian war cries, children's voices: Death in Arizona, They stopped to look at the posters: a cowboy picture, Skinny.

"I'm a little jumpy," Santiago said. "I couldn't get to sleep last night, that must be why."

"You're jumpy because you've lost your nerve," Popeye said. "You put on for me, nothing's going to happen, don't be chicken, and at the zero hour you're the one who loses his nerve. Let's go to the movies, then."

"I haven't lost my nerve, it's passed," Santiago said. "Wait, I'm going to see if my folks have left."

The car wasn't there, they'd gone. They went in through the garden, passed by the tiled fountain, and what if she'd gone to bed, Skinny? They'd wake her up, Freckle Face. Santiago opened the door, the click of the switch and the shadows turned into rugs, pictures, mirrors, tables with ashtrays, lamps. Popeye was going to sit down but, Santiago, let's go up to my room first. A courtyard, a study, a stairway with an iron railing. Santiago left Popeye on the landing, go in and put some music on, he was going to call her. School pennants, a picture of Sparky, another one of Teté in her first-communion dress, beautiful Popeye thought, a big-eared, snouty pig on the bureau, he picked it up, how much money could there be. He sat down on the bed, turned on the clock radio, a waltz by Felipe Pinglo, steps, Skinny: everything O.K., Freckle Face. He'd found her awake, bring me up some Coca-Colas, and they laughed: shh, she was coming, could it be her? Yes, there she was at the door, surprised, examining them with suspicion. She'd folded up against the door, a pink jumper and a blouse without buttons, she didn't say anything. It was Amalia and it wasn't, Popeye thought, how could it be the one in a blue apron who went through Skinny's house with trays or a duster in her hands. Her hair was tangled now, good afternoon, child, a pair of men's shoes and you could see she was frightened: hello, Amalia.

"My mother said you'd left the house," Santiago said. "What a shame that you're leaving."

Amalia left the door, looked at Popeye, how was he, young master, who smiled at her in a friendly way from the sidewalk, and turned to Santiago: she hadn't left because she wanted to, Se?ora Zoila had thrown her out. But why, ma'am, and Se?ora Zoila because she felt like it, pack your bags this instant. She spoke and was making her hair peaceful with her hands, adjusting her blouse. Santiago listened to her with an uncomfortable face. She didn't want to leave the house, child, she'd begged the mistress.

"Put the tray on the table," Santiago said. "Stay awhile, we're listening to music."

Amalia put the tray with the glasses and the Coca-Cola in front of the picture of Sparky and remained standing by the bureau, her face puzzled. She was wearing the white dress and low-heeled shoes of her uniform but not the apron or the cap. Why was she standing there? come here, sit down, there's room. How could she sit down, and she gave a little laugh, the mistress didn't like her to go into the boys' rooms, didn't he know? Silly, my mother's not home, Santiago's voice suddenly became tense, neither he nor Popeye would tell on her, sit down, silly. Amalia laughed again, he said that now but as soon as he got annoyed he'd tell on her and the mistress would take it out on her. I swear that Skinny won't tell on you, Popeye said, don't make us beg you and sit down. Amalia looked at Santiago, looked at Popeye, sat down on a corner of the bed and now her face was serious. Santiago got up, went to the tray, don't let your hand slip, Popeye thought and looked at Amalia: did she like the way that group sang? He pointed to the radio, the real thing, right? She liked it, they sang pretty. She had her hands on her knees, she kept herself stiff, she was squinting as if to hear better: they were the Trovadores del Norte, Amalia. Santiago was still pouring the Coca-Colas and Popeye was spying on him, uneasy. Did Amalia know how to dance? Waltzes, boleros, guarachas? Amalia smiled, turned serious, smiled again: no, she didn't know how. She moved a little closer to the edge of the bed, crossed her arms. Her movements were forced, as if her clothes were too tight or her back itched: her shadow was motionless on the floor.

"I brought you this for you to buy something," Santiago said.

"Me?" Amalia looked at the banknotes, without taking them. "But Se?ora Zoila paid me for the whole month, child."

"My mother didn't send it to you," Santiago said. "I'm giving it to you."

"But why should you be giving me your money, child?" Her cheeks were red, she looked confusedly at Skinny. "How can I accept it?"

"Don't be foolish," Santiago insisted. "Go ahead, Amalia."

He set the example for her: he lifted up his glass and drank. Now they were playing "Siboney," and Popeye had opened the window: the garden, the small trees on the street lighted by the lamppost on the corner, the trembling surface of the fountain, the tile base glimmering, I hope nothing happens, Skinny. Well, child, to your health, and Amalia took a long drink, sighed and took the glass away from her lips half empty: delicious, nice and cold. Popeye went over to the bed.

"If you want, we can teach you how to dance," Santiago said. "That way, when you get a boyfriend you'll be able to go to parties with him without being a wallflower."

"She probably has a boyfriend already," Popeye said. "Tell the truth, Amalia, have you got one?"

"Look how she's laughing, Freckle Face." Santiago took her by the arm. "Of course you have, we've found out your secret, Amalia."

"You have, you have." Popeye dropped down beside her, took her other arm. "Look at the way you're laughing, you devil."

Amalia was twisting with laughter and shook her arms but they didn't let her go, how could she have one, child, she didn't, she elbowed them to keep them away. Santiago put his arm around her waist, Popeye put a hand on her knee, and Amalia a slap: none of that, child, no touching her. But Popeye returned to the attack: devil, devil. She probably even knew how to dance and was lying that she couldn't, come on, confess: all right, child, she accepted. She took the bills that wrinkled in her fingers, just to prove to Santiago that she didn't want to beg, that's all, and she put them in the pocket of her jumper. But she was sorry to take his money, now he wouldn't have any even for the Sunday matinee.

"Don't worry," Popeye said. "If he hasn't got any, we'll take up a collection in the neighborhood and invite him."

"Friends that you are," and Amalia opened her eyes as if remembering. "But come in, even if just for a minute. Excuse my poor place."

She didn't give them time to refuse, she went running into the house and they followed her. Grease spots and soot, a few chairs, religious pictures, two unmade beds. They couldn't stay very long, Amalia, they had an appointment. She nodded, dusted the table in the center of the room with her skirt, just a few minutes. A malicious spark broke out in her eyes, would they wait for her and talk a little while? she was going to buy something to serve them, she'd be right back. Santiago and Popeye looked at each other surprised, delighted, she's a different person, Skinny, she's gone batty. Her laughter echoed through the whole room, her face was sweaty and there were tears in her eyes, her bravado had infected the bed with a squeaking shudder. Now she too was accompanying the music with clapping: yes, yes she knew how. Once they had taken her to Agua Dulce and she'd danced at a place where an orchestra was playing, she's completely mad Popeye thought. He stood up, turned off the radio, turned on the phonograph, went back to the bed. Now he wanted to see her dance, how happy you are, you devil, come on let's go, but Santiago got up: he was going to dance with her, Freckle Face. You bastard, Popeye thought, you take advantage because she's your servant, and what if Teté appeared? and he felt his knees weaken and a desire to leave, bastard. Amalia had stood up and was doing steps by herself across the room, bumping into the furniture, clumsy and heavy, humming, spinning blindly, until Santiago embraced her. Popeye leaned his head on the pillow, reached out his hand and turned out the lamp, darkness, then the glow of the street light sketchily illuminated the two silhouettes. Popeye watched them floating in a circle, heard Amalia's shrill voice, and put his hand in his pocket, did he see that she did know how to dance, child? When the record was over and Santiago came back to sit on the bed Amalia kept leaning against the window, her back to them, laughing: Sparky was right, look what's happened to her, shut up you bastard. She was talking, singing and laughing as if she were drunk, she didn't even see them, her eyes were rolling, Freckle Face, Santiago was a little frightened, what if she faints? Stop talking nonsense, Popeye said in his ear, bring her to the bed. His voice was determined, urgent, he had a hard on, Skinny, didn't you? anguished, thick: he too, Freckle Face. They would undress her, they would fondle her: they would jump her, Skinny. Leaning halfway out over the garden, Amalia was slowly swaying, murmuring something, and Popeye made out her silhouette outlined against the dark sky: another record, another record. Santiago stood up, a background of violins and the voice of Leo Marini, pure velvet Popeye thought, and he saw Santiago go to the balcony. The two shadows came together, he'd given him the idea for all this and now he had him twiddling his thumbs in great shape, you'll pay me for this trick, you bastard. They weren't even moving now, the breed girl was short and seemed to be hanging from Skinny, he must have been petting her beautifully, it was too much, and he imagined Santiago's voice, aren't you tired? clogged up and weak and as if she were strangled, did she want to lie down? bring her over, he thought. They were beside him, Amalia was dancing like a sleepwalker, her eyes were closed, Skinny's hands ran up and down, disappeared behind her back and Popeye couldn't make out their faces, he was kissing her and he an innocent bystander, it was too much, help yourselves, boys.

"I brought these straws too," Amalia said. "That's how you drink it, right?"

"Why did you bother," Santiago said. "We were just leaving."

She handed them the Coca-Colas and the straws, dragged over a chair and sat down opposite them; she had combed her hair, had put on a hairband and buttoned her jumper and was watching them drink. She didn't have any.

"You shouldn't have spent your money like that, silly," Popeye said.

"It's not mine, it's what young Santiago gave me." Amalia laughed. "Just to do a little something for you."

The street door was open, outside it was beginning to grow dark and sometimes and in the distance the sound of streetcars was heard. A lot of people were passing along the sidewalk, voices, laughter, some faces paused to look for a moment.

"They're getting out of the factories now," Amalia said. "It's too bad your father's laboratory isn't near here, child. I'll have to take the streetcar to the Avenida Argentina and then the bus."

"Are you going to work at the lab?" Santiago asked.

"Didn't your papa tell you?" Amalia said. "Yes, starting Monday."

She was leaving the house with her suitcase and she met Don Fermín, would you like me to get you a job in the lab? and she of course, Don Fermín, anywhere, and then he called young Sparky and told him to telephone Carrillo to give her a job: what a show-off, Popeye thought.

"Oh, that's good," Santiago said. "You'll be much better off in the lab."

Popeye took out his pack of Chesterfields, offered a cigarette to Santiago, doubted a moment, and another to Amalia, but she didn't smoke, child.

"You probably do smoke and you're fooling us the way you did the other day," Popeye said. "You told us I can't dance and you knew how."

He saw her grow pale, no, child, no, he heard her stammer, he sensed that Santiago was moving in his chair and he thought I put my foot in it. Amalia had lowered her head.

"I was kidding," he said, and his cheeks were burning. "What have you got to be ashamed of, did anything happen, silly?"

She was getting her color back, her voice: she didn't even want to remember, child. How bad she felt, the next day everything was still all mixed up in her head and things danced in her hands. She raised her face, looked at them timidly, enviously, with amazement: didn't Coca-Cola do anything to them? Popeye looked at Santiago, Santiago looked at Popeye and they both looked at Amalia: she'd vomited all night long, she'd never drink Coca-Cola again in her life. And still, she'd drunk beer and nothing happened, and Pasteurina, nothing, and Pepsi-Cola, nothing, could that Coca-Cola have gone bad, child? Popeye bit his tongue, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose furiously. He squeezed his nose and felt that his stomach was going to explode: the record was over, now was the time, and he quickly took his hand out of his pants pocket. They were still sunk in half darkness, come on come on, sit down for a while and he heard Amalia: the music had finished, child. A difficult voice, why had the other child turned out the light, barely fluttering, that they should turn it back on or she was leaving, complaining without strength, as if some overpowering dream or languor were extinguishing her, she didn't like the dark, she didn't like it that way. It was a shapeless silhouette, one more shadow among the other shadows of the room and they seemed to be struggling in a sham way between the night table and the bureau. He got up and went over to them, go out into the garden, Freckle Face, and he it's too much, he bumped into something, his ankle hurt, he wasn't going, bring her to the bed, let me go, child. Amalia's voice rose up, what's the matter, child, she was getting furious, and now Popeye had found her shoulders, let me go, he should let her go, and he dragged her, what a nerve, how dare the young master, eyes closed, breathing heavy and he rolled onto the bed with them: there it was, Skinny. She laughed, don't tickle me, but her arms and legs kept on struggling and Popeye laughed anxiously: get out of here, Freckle Face, leave me alone. He wasn't leaving, why should he leave, and now Santiago was pushing Popeye and Popeye was pushing him, I'm not leaving and there was a confusion of clothing and wet skins in the shadows, a whirl of legs, hands, arms and blankets. They were smothering her, child, she couldn't breathe: the way you laugh, you devil. Get away, they should let her go, a drowned voice, a regular, slow animal panting, and suddenly shh, shoves and little shouts, and Santiago shh, and Popeye shh: the street door, shh. Teté, he thought, and he felt his body dissolve. Santiago had run to the window and he couldn't move: Teté, Teté.

"Now we do have to go, Amalia." Santiago stood up, left the bottle on the table. "Thanks for inviting us in."

"Thank you, child," Amalia said. "For having come and for what you brought me."

"Come by the house and see us," Santiago said.

"Of course, child," Amalia said. "And give my best to little Teté."

"Get out of here, get up, what are you waiting for," Santiago said. "And you, fix your shirt and comb your hair a little, you fool."

He had just lighted the lamp, he was smoothing his hair, Popeye tucked his shirt in his pants and looked at him, terrified: beat it, get out of the room. But Amalia kept sitting on the bed and they had to lift up her dead weight, she stumbled with an idiotic expression, supported herself on the night table. Quick, quick, Santiago smoothed the bed cover and Popeye ran to turn off the phonograph, get out of the room, you fool. She was unable to move, she was listening to them with eyes full of surprise and she slipped out of their hands and at that moment the door opened and they let go of her: hi, mama. Popeye saw Se?ora Zoila and tried to smile, in slacks and wearing a garnet turban, good evening, ma'am, and the lady's eyes smiled and looked at Santiago, at Amalia, and her smile diminished and died: hi, papa. Behind Se?ora Zoila he saw the full face, the gray mustache and sideburns, Don Fermín's laughing eyes, hello, Skinny, your mother decided not to, hello, Popeye, I didn't know you were here. Don Fermín entered the room, collarless shirt, summer jacket, loafers, and he shook hands with Popeye, how are you, sir.

"You, why aren't you in bed?" Se?ora Zoila asked. "It's already after twelve."

"We were famished and I woke her up to make us some sandwiches," Santiago said. "Weren't you going to sleep over in Ancón?"

"Your mother had forgotten that she'd invited people to lunch tomorrow," Don Fermín said. "Your mother's outbursts, otherwise …"

Out of the corner of his eye, Popeye saw Amalia go out with the tray in her hands, she was looking at the floor and walking straight, they were in luck.

"Your sister stayed at the Vallarinos'," Don Fermín said. "All in all, my plans for a rest this weekend didn't work out."

"Is it twelve o'clock already, ma'am?" Popeye asked. "I've got to run. We didn't pay any attention to the time, I thought it must have been ten."

"How are things with the senator?" Don Fermín asked. "We haven't seen him at the club in ages."

She went to the street with them and there Santiago patted her on the shoulder and Popeye said good-bye: ciao, Amalia. They went off in the direction of the streetcar line. They went into El Triunfo to buy some cigarettes; it was already boiling over with drinkers and pool players.

"A hundred soles for nothing, a wild bit of showing off," Popeye said. "It turned out that we did the girl a favor, now your old man has got her a better job."

"Even so, we got her in a jam," Santiago said. "I'm not sorry about those hundred soles."

"I don't want to keep harping on it, but you're broke," Popeye said. "What did we do to her? Now that you've given her five pounds, forget about your remorse."

Following the streetcar line, they went down to Ricardo Palma and they walked along smoking under the trees on the boulevard between rows of cars.

"Didn't it make you laugh when she talked about Coca-Cola that way?" Popeye laughed. "Do you think she's that dumb or was she putting on? I don't know how I held back, I was pissing inside wanting to laugh."

"I'm going to ask you something," Santiago says. "Do I have the face of a son of a bitch?"

"And I'm going to tell you something," Popeye said. "Don't you think her going out to buy the Coca-Cola for us was strictly hypocritical? As if she was letting herself go to see if we'd repeat what happened the other night."

"You've got a rotten mind, Freckle Face," Santiago said.

"What a question," Ambrosio says. "Of course not, boy."

"O.K., so the breed girl is a saint and I've got a rotten mind," Popeye said. "Let's go to your house and listen to records, then."

"You did it for me?" Don Fermín asked. "For me, you poor black crazy son of a bitch?"

"I swear you don't, son." Ambrosio laughs. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Teté isn't home," Santiago said. "She went to an early show with some girl friends."

"Listen, don't be a son of a bitch, Skinny," Popeye said. "You're lying, aren't you? You promised, Skinny."

"You mean that sons of bitches don't have the faces of sons of bitches, Ambrosio," Santiago says.

3

THE LIEUTENANT DIDN'T YAWN once during the trip; he was talking about the revolution the whole time, explaining to the sergeant driving the jeep how now that Odría had taken power the Apristas would toe the mark, and smoking cigarettes that smelled like guano. They had left Lima at dawn and had only stopped once, in Surco, to show their pass to a patrol that was manning a roadblock on the highway. They entered Chincha at seven in the morning. There were no signs of the revolution there: the streets were alive with schoolchildren, there wasn't a soldier to be seen on the corners. The Lieutenant leaped to the sidewalk, went into the café-restaurant called Mi Patria, heard on the radio the same communiqué with a military march in the background that he had been hearing for two days. Leaning on the counter, he asked for coffee and milk and a cream cheese sandwich. He asked the man who waited on him, wearing an undershirt and with a sour face, if he knew Cayo Bermúdez, a businessman in town. Was he going, the man rolled his eyes, to arrest him? Was that Bermúdez an Aprista? How could he be, he wasn't involved in politics. That's good, politics was for bums, not hardworking people, the Lieutenant was looking for him on a personal matter. He wouldn't find him here, he never came here. He lived in a little yellow house behind the church. It was the only one that color, the other ones around were white or gray and there was also a brown one. The Lieutenant knocked on the door and waited and heard footsteps and a voice who is it.

"Is Mr. Bermúdez in?" the Lieutenant asked.

The door opened with a creak and a woman came forward: a fat Indian woman with a blackish face that was full of moles, yessir. The people in Chincha said if you could only see her now. Because she wasn't bad-looking as a girl. Night and day, I tell you, what a change, yessir. Her hair was all messy, the woolen shawl that covered her shoulders looked like a burlap bag.

"He's not home." She looked sideways with suspicious greedy little eyes. "What's it about? I'm his wife."

"Will he be back soon?" The Lieutenant examined the woman with surprise, mistrust. "Can I wait for him?"

She drew away from the door. Inside, the Lieutenant felt nauseous in the midst of the heavy furniture, the pots without flowers, the sewing machine and the walls with constellations of shadows or holes or flies. The woman opened a window, a tongue of sun came in. Everything was worn, there were too many things in the room. Boxes stacked up in the corners, piles of newspapers. The woman murmured an excuse and vanished into the dark mouth of a hallway. The Lieutenant heard a canary trilling somewhere. Was she really his wife? Yessir, his wife before God, of course she was, a story that shook up Chincha. How did it begin? A whole string of years ago, when the Bermúdez family left the De la Flor ranch. The family, that is the Vulture, Do?a Catalina the church biddy, and the son, Don Cayo, who was probably still crawling in those days. The Vulture had been foreman on the ranch and when he came to Chincha people said that the De la Flors had fired him for stealing. In Chincha he became a loan shark. Anybody needed money, he went to the Vulture, I need so much, what'll you give me for security, this ring, this watch, and if you didn't pay he kept the item and the Vulture's interest was so high that people owed him so much they might as well have been dead. That's why they called him the Vulture, yessir: he lived off corpses. He was loaded with money in a few years and he put the gold clasp around it when the government of General Benavides began to put Apristas in jail and deport them; Subprefect Nú?ez gave the orders, Captain Rascachucha put the Apristas in the lockup and chased their families away, the Vulture auctioned off their belongings, and they split the pie among the three of them. And with money the Vulture became important, yessir, he was even mayor of Chincha and you'd see him wearing a derby on the Plaza de Armas during parades on national holidays. And he got all puffed up. He saw to it that his son always wore shoes and didn't mix with black people. When they were kids they played soccer, stole fruit in the orchards, Ambrosio visited his house and the Vulture didn't care. When they got money-rich, on the other hand, they kicked him out and they scolded Don Cayo if they caught him with him. His servant? Oh, no sir, his friend, but only when he was this size. The black woman had her stand on the corner where Don Cayo lived then and he and Ambrosio gave her a hard time. Then they were split up by the Vulture, yessir, that's life. Don Cayo was put into the José Pardo School and the black woman, ashamed because of Trifulcio, took Ambrosio and Perpetuo to Mala, and when they came back to Chincha, Don Cayo was always with someone from José Pardo, the Uplander. Ambrosio would meet him on the street and he didn't use the intimate form anymore, only the formal. In the activities at José Pardo Don Cayo recited, read his little speeches, carried the school flag in parades. The child prodigy of Chincha, they said, a future brain, and the Vulture drooled when he talked about his son and said he'd go a long way, they said. And he really did, yessir, right?

"Do you think he'll be very long?" The Lieutenant crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Do you know where he is?"

"And I got married too," Santiago says. "Didn't you get married?"

"Sometimes he comes home very late for lunch," the woman muttered. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"You too, son, and so young?" Ambrosio says.

"I'll wait for him," the Lieutenant said. "I hope he doesn't take too long."

He was already in his last year at school, the Vulture was going to send him to Lima to study to be a shyster and Don Cayo was made to order for that, they said. Ambrosio was living in the group of shacks that used to be outside Chincha then, yessir, on the road to what was Grocio Prado later on. And he'd run into him there once, and right away caught on that he was playing hooky and right away wondered who the female was. Mounting her? No sir, looking at her with the eyes of a lunatic. He was pretending not to notice, somebody watching hogs, somebody waiting. He'd left his books on the ground, he was kneeling, his eyes were turned toward the huts and Ambrosio said which one is it, I wonder which one it is. It was Rosa, yessir, the daughter of Túmula the milk woman. A skinny girl with nothing particular about her, at that time she looked more like a little white girl than an Indian. There are some kids who are born ugly and get better later on, Rosa started off passable and ended up a dog. Passable, not good, not bad, one of those that a white man does a favor for once and if I saw you I've forgotten. Her little teats half formed, a young body and nothing else, but so dirty she couldn't even be fixed up to go to mass. She used to be seen in Chincha driving the donkey with the jugs, yessir, selling it by the gourd from house to house. Túmula's daughter, the Vulture's son, you can imagine the scandal, yessir. The Vulture already had a hardware store and a warehouse and they say he said that when the boy comes back from Lima with his law degree he'll make a pile of money. Do?a Catalina spent all her time in church, a close friend of the priest, raffles for the poor, Catholic Action. And the son prowling around the milk woman's daughter, who would have thought it. But that's the way it was, yessir. He was attracted by the way she walked or something, some people would rather have a mongrel than a thoroughbred, they say. He must have been thinking, I'll work her over, wet her and leave her, and she realized that the white boy was drooling over her and must have thought I'll let him work me over, wet me and I'll grab him. The fact is that Don Cayo went ki-yi, yessir: what can I do for you? The Lieutenant opened his eyes, leaped to his feet.

"I'm sorry, I fell asleep." He ran his hand over his face, coughed. "Mr. Bermúdez?"

Next to the horrible woman was a man with a dry and acidy face, in his forties, in shirtsleeves, a briefcase under his arm. The wide cuffs of his pants covered his shoes. Sailor pants, the Lieutenant managed to think, a clown's pants.

"At your service," the man said, as if bored or displeased. "Have you been waiting for me long?"

"Please pack your bags," the Lieutenant said jovially. "I'm taking you to Lima."

But the man didn't change his expression. His face didn't smile, his eyes weren't surprised or alarmed or happy. They watched him with the same indifferent monotony as before.

"To Lima?" he asked slowly, his eyes dull. "Who wants to see me in Lima?"

"Colonel Espina, no less," the Lieutenant said with a triumphal little voice. "The Minister of Public Order, no less."

The woman opened her mouth, Bermúdez didn't blink. He remained expressionless, then the hint of a smile altered the dreamy annoyance of his face, a second later his eyes became uninterested and bored again. His liver's kicking up, the Lieutenant thought, bitter over life, with the wife he's saddled with it's easy to understand. Bermúdez tossed the briefcase onto the sofa.

"Yes, indeed. Yesterday I heard that Espina was one of the ministers of the Junta." He took out a pack of Incas, offered an unappetizing cigarette to the Lieutenant. "Didn't the Uplander tell you why he wanted to see me?"

"Only that he needs you urgently." The Uplander, the Lieutenant thought. "And for me to bring you back to Lima even if I have to stick a pistol in your chest."

Bermúdez dropped into an easy chair, crossed his legs, blew out a mouthful of smoke that clouded his face and when the smoke disappeared, the Lieutenant saw that he was smiling at him as if he was doing me a favor, he thought, as if he was making fun of me.

"It's hard for me to leave Chincha today," he said with a growing laxness. "There's a business deal I have to close on a ranch near here."

"If a person is summoned by the Minister of Public Order, he has no recourse but to go," the Lieutenant said. "Please be reasonable, Mr. Bermúdez."

"Two new tractors, a good commission," Bermúdez explained to the flies or holes or shadows. "This is no time for outings to Lima."

"Tractors?" The Lieutenant put on an irritated face. "Use your head a little, please, and let's not waste any more time."

Bermúdez took a puff, half closing his cold little eyes, and he exhaled the smoke unhurriedly.

"When you're up to here with bills, you have to think about tractors," he said, as if he couldn't hear or see him. "Tell the Uplander I'll come by in a few days."

The Lieutenant looked at him with consternation, amused, confused: if things were that way he would have to draw his pistol and stick it in his chest, Mr. Bermúdez, if things were that way they were going to laugh at him. But Don Cayo as if nothing happened, yessir, played hooky and went into the settlement and the women pointed at him, Rosa, they whispered to each other and laughed at him, Rosita, look who's coming. Túmula's daughter was very bold, yessir. Just imagine, the Vulture's son had come there to see her, who'd have thought it. She didn't come out to talk to him, she curled up, she ran to where her girl friends were, all laughs, all flirty. It didn't matter to him that the girl gave him the cold shoulder, that seemed to get him all the hotter. She knew how to put on, Túmula's daughter did, yessir, and no need to talk about her mother, anyone would have realized it, but not him. He took it all, he waited, he went back to the settlement, the little half-breed would fall someday, black boy, he was the one that fell, yessir. Can't you see that she gets stuck-up instead of thanking you, Don Cayo? Tell her to go to hell, Don Cayo. But he as if he'd been given a love potion, chasing right after her, and people were beginning to gossip. They're talking all over the place, Don Cayo. And he what the fuck, he did what his belly told him and his belly told him to get the girl, naturally. Fine, who was going to call him down, any white boy can get sweet with a little half-breed, do this little thing, and who cares, yessir, right? But Don Cayo chased after her as if the thing was serious, wasn't that crazy? And crazier still was the fact that Rosa gave herself the luxury of treating him like dirt. She seemed to be giving herself the luxury, yessir.

"We've already gassed up, I told Lima we'll be there around three-thirty," the Lieutenant said. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Bermúdez."

Bermúdez had changed his shirt and was wearing a gray suit. He was carrying a small valise, a crumpled hat, sunglasses.

"Is that all your luggage?" the Lieutenant asked.

"I've got forty bags more," Bermúdez grunted. "Let's go, I want to get back to Chincha today."

The woman watched the sergeant who was checking the oil in the jeep. She had taken off her apron, the tight dress outlined her bulging stomach, her overflowing hips. You'll have to excuse me, the Lieutenant gave her his hand, for stealing your husband, but she didn't laugh. Bermúdez had got into the rear seat of the jeep and she was looking at him as if she hated him, the Lieutenant thought, or wouldn't ever see him again. He got into the jeep, saw Bermúdez vaguely wave good-bye, and they left. The sun was burning, the streets were deserted, a nauseating vapor arose from the pavement, the windows of the houses sparkled.

"Has it been long since you were in Lima?" The Lieutenant was trying to be pleasant.

"I go two or three times a year on business," he said without warmth, without grace, the slack, mechanical, discontented little voice of the world. "I represent a few agricultural concerns here."

"We didn't get to marry, but I had my woman too," Ambrosio says.

"But how come your business isn't going well?" the Lieutenant asked. "Aren't the landowners here pretty rich? There's a lot of cotton, isn't there?"

"You had?" Santiago asks. "Did you have a fight with her?"

"It went well in other days," Bermúdez said; he isn't the most unpleasant man in Peru because Colonel Espina is still around, the Lieutenant thought, but after the Colonel who except this one. "With the controls on exchange, the cotton growers have stopped making what they used to, and you have to sweat blood just to sell them a hoe."

"She died on me there in Pucallpa, child," Ambrosio says. "She left me a little girl."

"Well, that's why we started the revolution," the Lieutenant said good-humoredly. "The chaos is all over now. With the army in charge everybody will toe the mark. You'll see how things are going to get better under Odría."

"Really?" Bermúdez yawned. "People change here, Lieutenant, never things."

"Don't you read the papers? Don't you listen to the radio?" the Lieutenant insisted with a smile. "The cleanup has already started. Apristas, crooks, Communists, all in the lockup. There won't be a single one of the vermin loose on the streets."

"What did you go to Pucallpa for?" Santiago asks.

"Others will appear," Bermúdez said harshly. "In order to clean the vermin up in Peru you'd have to drop a few bombs and wipe us off the map."

"To work, son," Ambrosio says. "I mean, to look for work."

"Are you serious or joking?" the Lieutenant asked.

"Did my old man know you were there?" Santiago asks.

"I don't like to joke," Bermúdez said. "I always speak seriously."

The jeep was going through a valley, the air smelled of shellfish and in the distance bare, sandy hills could be seen. The sergeant was chewing on a cigar as he drove and the Lieutenant had his cap pulled down to his ears: come on, they'd have a couple of beers, black boy. They'd had a friendly conversation, yessir, he needs me, Ambrosio had thought, and, naturally, it had to do with Rosa. He'd got hold of a pickup truck, a farmhouse, and he'd convinced his friend the Uplander. And he wanted Ambrosio to help him too, in case there was trouble. What trouble could there be, tell me? Did the girl have a father and brothers maybe? No, just Túmula, trash. He enchanted to help him, except that. He wasn't afraid of Túmula, Don Cayo, or of the people in the settlement, but what about your papa, Don Cayo? Because if the Vulture found out Don Cayo would only get his whipping, but what about him? He wasn't going to find out, boy, he was going to Lima for three days and when he returned Rosa would be back at the settlement. Ambrosio had swallowed the story, yessir, he was tricked into helping him. Because it was one thing to kidnap a girl for one night, do your thing and turn her loose, and something else, yessir, to marry her, right? That devil of a Don Cayo had made fools out of him and the Uplander, yessir. All of them, except Rosa and except Túmula. In Chincha they said that the one who came off best was the milk woman's daughter, who went from delivering milk on a donkey to being a lady and the Vulture's daughter-in-law. Everybody else lost: Don Cayo, his parents, even Túmula, because she lost her daughter. Or maybe Rosa was a sharp chippy. Who would have said so, yessir, worth so little, and the little toad won the lottery and more. What did Ambrosio have to do, sir? Go to the square at nine o'clock, and he'd gone and waited and they picked him up, they drove around and when the people went to bed, they parked the truck by the house of Don Mauro Cruz, the deaf man. Don Cayo was to meet the girl there at ten o'clock. Of course she came, why shouldn't she come. She appeared, Don Cayo went ahead and they stayed behind in the truck. He must have told her something or she must have guessed something, the fact is that all of a sudden Túmula's daughter started to run and Don Cayo hollered catch her. So Ambrosio ran, caught her and threw her over his shoulder and brought her and sat her in the truck. That's when he caught Rosa's tricks, yessir, that's when you could see her bringing them out. Not a shout, not a moan, just running around, little scratches, little punches. The easiest would have been to start hollering, people would have come out, half the settlement would have been on top of them, yessir, right? Who says she was scared to death, who says she'd lost her voice? She kicked and scratched while he carried her and in the truck she pretended to be crying because her face was covered, but Ambrosio didn't hear her crying. The Uplander pushed the gas to the floor, the truck flew out of the side street. They got to the farm and Don Cayo got out and Rosa, with no need to carry her, she went right into the house, yessir, you see? Ambrosio went to sleep thinking about what Rosa would look like the next day, and whether she'd tell Túmula and Túmula would tell his black mama and his black mama would give it to him. Nobody had any notion of what was going to happen, nosiree. Because Rosa didn't come back the next day, Don Cayo either, or the day after, or the one after that. In the settlement Túmula was all tears, and in Chincha Do?a Catalina was all tears, and Ambrosio didn't know which way to turn. On the third day the Vulture came back and notified the police and Túmula had notified them too. You can imagine the gossip, yessir. If the Uplander and Ambrosio ran into each other on the street they didn't say anything, he must have been jumpy too. They only showed up the following week, yessir. He didn't have to do it, nobody had stuck a pistol in his chest saying the church or the grave. He'd looked up the priest of his own free will. They say they were seen getting off a bus on the Plaza de Armas, that he was holding Rosa by the arm, that they were seen going into the Vulture's house as if they were coming back from a walk. They must have appeared there all of a sudden, together, just imagine, Don Cayo must have taken out the certificate and said we got married, can you imagine the face the Vulture must have put on, yessir, what the devil is this all about?

"Are they hunting down vermin over there, Lieutenant?" Bermúdez pointed to the university campus with an insipid smile. "What's going on at San Marcos?"

Military barriers closed off the four corners of the square and there were patrols of helmeted soldiers, assault guards and mounted police. Down with Dictatorship, said some placards stuck to the walls of San Marcos, Only Aprismo Will Save Peru. The main door of the university was closed and mourning drapes fluttered on the balconies, and on the rooftops small heads watched the movements of the soldiers and police. The walls of the university courtyard breathed with a sound that grew and shrank between bursts of applause.

"A few Apristas have been holed up inside there since October twenty-seventh." The Lieutenant waved to the officer in charge of the roadblock on the Avenida Abancay. "The 'buffalo squad' hoodlums won't learn their lesson."

"Why don't they shoot them?" Bermúdez asked. "Is this how the army has started its cleanup?"

A police lieutenant came over to the jeep, saluted, examined the pass the Lieutenant handed him.

"How are those subversives getting along?" the Lieutenant asked, pointing to San Marcos.

"Over there raising hob," the police lieutenant said. "Sometimes they throw their little stones. Go ahead, Lieutenant."

The policemen moved the sawhorses out of the way and the jeep went through the University Square. On the waving drapes there were white pieces of cardboard, In Mourning for Freedom, and skulls and cross-bones drawn in black paint.

"I'd shoot them, but Colonel Espina wants to starve them out," the Lieutenant said.

"How are things going in the provinces?" Bermúdez asked. "I imagine there's trouble in the North. The Apristas are strong there."

"All peaceful, that business about the APRA controlling Peru is a myth," the Lieutenant said. "You saw how their leaders ran for asylum in foreign embassies. You've never seen a more peaceful revolution, Mr. Bermúdez. And the San Marcos affair could be settled in one minute if the higher-ups wanted to."

There was no military movement on the downtown streets. Only on the Plaza Italia did helmeted soldiers appear again. Bermúdez got out of the jeep, stretched, waited for the Lieutenant, looking at everything with ennui.

"Have you ever been in the Ministry?" the Lieutenant tried to cheer him up. "It's an old building, but the offices are quite elegant. The Colonel's has paintings and everything."

They went in and two minutes hadn't passed when the door opened as if there had been an earthquake inside and Don Cayo and Rosa came tumbling out with the Vulture behind, cursing a stream and charging like a bull, a sight to see, they say, yessir. He wasn't mad at Túmula's daughter, he didn't seem to have hit her, just his son. He knocked him down with a punch, lifted him up with a kick, and just like that all the way to the Plaza de Armas. There they held him back because otherwise he would have killed him. He wouldn't accept his getting married that way, snotnose that he was, and especially to the one he did. He never did accept it, of course, and he never saw Don Cayo again or gave him a penny. Don Cayo had to earn his own keep for himself and for Rosa. The one the Vulture said was going to be a future big brain didn't even finish high school. If instead of a priest they'd only been married by a justice of the peace, the Vulture would have fixed it up overnight, but how can you make a deal with God, sir? Do?a Catalina being the church biddy she was too. They probably had a consultation, the priest must have told them there's nothing you can do, religion is religion and till death do them part. So there was nothing left for the Vulture except despair. They say he gave a beating to the priest who married them, that afterward he was refused absolution and as a penance they made him pay for one of the steeples of the new church in Chincha. So even religion got its slice of meat from the whole business, yessir. The Vulture never saw the couple again. It seems that when he sensed he was dying he asked have I got any grandchildren? Maybe if he'd had any he would have forgiven Don Cayo, but Rosa hadn't only turned into a horror, yessir, to top it off she never grew full. They say that just so his son wouldn't inherit anything, the Vulture began to get rid of what he had in drinking bouts and charity and that if death hadn't caught him all of a sudden he would have given away the house he had behind the church too. He didn't have time, nosiree. Why did he stay with the Indian for so many years? That was what everyone said to the Vulture: the love will wear off and he'll send her back to Túmula and you'll have your son again. But he didn't do it, I wonder why. Not because of religion, I don't think so, Don Cayo never went to church. To make his father mad? Because he hated the Vulture, you say? To cheat him so that he could see all the hopes he'd put in him go up in smoke? Fucking himself up to kill his father with disappointment? You think that's why? Making him suffer no matter what it cost, even becoming trash himself? Well, I don't know, no sir, if you think so it must be because of that. Don't look that way, we were having a good talk. Don't you feel good? You're not talking about the Vulture and Don Cayo but about yourself and young Santiago, yessir, right? All right, I'll keep quiet, yes, I can see that you're not talking to me. I didn't say anything, no sir, don't act like that, no sir.

"What's Pucallpa like?" Santiago asks.

"A small town that's not worth anything," Ambrosio says. "Haven't you ever been there, son?"

"I've spent my whole life dreaming about traveling and I only got fifty miles away, just once," Santiago says. "At least you've traveled a little."

"It brought me bad luck, son," Ambrosio says. "Pucallpa only brought me trouble."

"It means things have gone bad for you," Colonel Espina said. "Worse than for the rest of our class. You haven't got a penny and you're still a country boy."

"I didn't have time to follow in the footsteps of the rest of the class," Bermúdez said calmly, looking at Espina without arrogance, without modesty. "But you, of course, you've done better than all the rest of us put together."

"The best student, the most intelligent, the one who studied the hardest," Espina said. "Bermúdez will be President and Espina his Minister, old Dapple Gray used to say. Remember?"

"Even then you wanted to be a minister, really," Bermúdez said with a sour little smile. "There you are, now you are one. You must be happy, right?"

"I didn't ask for it and I didn't look for it." Colonel Espina opened his arms in resignation. "They laid it on me and I accepted it as a duty."

"In Chincha they said you were an Aprista officer, that you'd gone to a cocktail party given by Haya de la Torre," Bermúdez went on, smiling without conviction. "And now, just think, hunting down Apristas like vermin. That's what the little lieutenant you sent to get me said. And, by the way, it's time you told me why so much honor for me."

The office door opened, a man with a circumspect face came in bowing, with some papers in his hand, could he come in, Mr. Secretary? but then the Colonel Dr. Alcibíades stopped him with a gesture, no one was to disturb them. The man bowed again, very well, Mr. Secretary, and he left.

"Mr. Secretary." Bermúdez cleared his throat, without nostalgia, looking around lethargically. "I can't believe it. Like sitting here. Like the fact that we're already in our forties."

Colonel Espina smiled at him affectionately, he'd lost a lot of hair but the tufts he still had showed no gray and his copper-colored face was still vigorous; he ran his eyes slowly over the tanned and indolent face of Bermúdez, the old-before-its-time, ascetic body sunken in the broad red velvet chair.

"You fucked yourself up with that crazy marriage," he said with a sweetish and paternal voice. "It was the great mistake of your life, Cayo. I warned you, remember."

"Did you send for me to talk about my marriage?" he asked without anger, without drive, the same mediocre little voice as always. "One more word and I'm leaving."

"You're still the same. Still grumpy." Espina laughed. "How's Rosa? I know you haven't had any children."

"If you don't mind, let's get to the point," Bermúdez said; a shadow of fatigue clouded his eyes, his mouth was tight with impatience. Roofs, cornices, aerial trash piles were outlined against fat clouds through the windows behind Espina.

"Even though we haven't seen much of each other, you've always been my best friend." The Colonel was almost sad. "When we were kids I thought a lot of you, Cayo. More than you did of me. I admired you, I was even jealous of you."

Bermúdez was imperturbably scrutinizing the Colonel. The cigarette he had in his hand had burned down, the ash fell on the rug, the curls of smoke broke against his face like waves against brown rocks.

"When I was a minister under Bustamante, the whole class looked me up, all except you," Espina said. "Why? You were in bad shape, we'd been like brothers. I could have helped you."

"Did they come like dogs to lick your hands, to ask you for recommendations, to propose business deals to you?" Bermúdez asked. "Since I didn't come, you must have said that fellow must be rich or maybe he's dead."

"I knew that you were alive but half dead from hunger," Espina said. "Don't interrupt, let me speak."

"It's just that you're still so slow," Bermúdez said. "A person has to use a corkscrew to get the words out of you, just the way you were at José Pardo."

"I want to help you," Espina murmured. "Tell me what I can do for you."

"Just give me transportation back to Chincha," Bermúdez whispered. "The jeep, a bus ticket, anything. Because of this trip to Lima I may have lost out on an interesting piece of business."

"You're happy with your lot, you don't mind growing old as a penniless country boy," Espina said. "You're not ambitious anymore, Cayo."

"But I'm still proud," Bermúdez said dryly. "I don't like to take favors. Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

The Colonel was watching him, as if measuring him or guessing what he was thinking, and the cordial little smile that had been floating on his lips vanished. He clasped his hands with their polished nails and leaned forward.

"Do you want to get down to cases, Cayo?" he asked with sudden energy.

"It's about time." Bermúdez put out his cigarette in the ashtray. "You were getting me tired with that great show of affection."

"Odría needs people he can trust." The Colonel spaced his syllables, as if his safety and confidence were suddenly threatened. "Everybody here is with us and nobody is with us. La Prensa and the Agrarian Society only want us to abolish controls on exchange and to protect free enterprise."

"Since you're going to do what they want, there's no problem," Bermúdez said. "Right?"

"El Comercio calls Odría the Savior of the Nation just because it hates APRA," Colonel Espina said. "They only want us to keep the Apristas in the clink."

"That's an accomplished fact," Bermúdez said. "There's no problem there either, right?"

"And International, Cerro and the other companies only want a strong government that will keep the unions quiet for them," Espina went on without listening to him. "Each one pulling in his own direction, see?"

"The exporters, the anti-Apristas, the gringos and the army too," Bermúdez said. "Money and power. I don't see that Odría has any reason to complain. What more could he ask for?"

"The President knows the mentality of those sons of bitches," Colonel Espina said. "Today they support you, tomorrow they stick a knife in your back."

"The way you people stuck it in Bustamante's back." Bermúdez smiled, but the Colonel didn't laugh. "Well, as long as you keep them happy, they'll support the regime. Then they'll get another general and throw you people out. Hasn't it always been that way in Peru?"

"This time it's not going to be that way," Colonel Espina said. "We're going to keep our backs covered."

"That sounds fine to me," Bermúdez said, stifling a yawn, "but what the hell have I got to do with all this?"

"I talked to the President about you." Colonel Espina studied the effect of his words, but Bermúdez hadn't changed his expression; his elbow on the arm of the chair, his face resting on his open palm, he listened motionless. "We were going over names for Director of Security and yours came to mind and I let it out. Did I do something stupid?"

He was silent, a look of annoyance or fatigue or doubt or regret, he twisted his mouth and narrowed his eyes. He remained for a few seconds with an absent look and then he sought Bermúdez' face: there it was, just as before, absolutely quiet, waiting.

"An obscure position but important for the security of the regime," the Colonel added. "Did I do something stupid? You need someone there who's like your other self, they warned me, your right arm. And your name came to mind and I let it out. Without thinking. You can see, I'm talking frankly to you. Did I do something stupid?"

Bermúdez had taken out another cigarette, lighted it. He took a drag, tightening his mouth a little, biting the lower lip. He looked at the end of it, the smoke, the window, the piles of garbage on the Lima rooftops.

"I know that if you want it, you're my man," Colonel Espina said.

"I can see that you have confidence in your old classmate," Bermúdez finally said, in such a low voice that the Colonel leaned forward. "Having chosen this frustrated and inexperienced hick to be your right arm, it's a great honor, Uplander."

"Cut your sarcasm." Espina rapped on the desk. "Tell me whether you accept or not."

"Something like that can't be decided so fast," Bermúdez said. "Give me a few days to mull it over."

"I won't even give you a half hour, you're going to answer me right now," Espina said. "The President expects me at the Palace at six. If you accept you're coming with me so I can introduce you. If not, you can go back to Chincha."

"The functions of Director of Security I can imagine," Bermúdez said. "On the other hand, I have no idea what it pays."

"A base salary and some living expenses," Colonel Espina said. "Around five or six thousand soles, I would calculate. I know it isn't very much."

"It's enough to live modestly." Bermúdez barely smiled. "Since I'm a modest man, it'll do me."

"Not another word, then," Colonel Espina said. "But you still haven't answered me. Did I do something stupid?"

"Only time will tell, Uplander." Bermúdez gave a half-smile again.

Whether the Uplander ever recognized Ambrosio? When Ambrosio was Don Cayo's chauffeur he got into the car a thousand times, yessir, he'd taken him to his house a thousand times. Maybe he recognized him, but the fact is that he never showed it, no sir. Since he was a minister then, he was probably ashamed that he'd known Ambrosio when he was a nobody, he wouldn't have found it amusing that Ambrosio knew he'd been mixed up in the kidnapping of Túmula's daughter. He'd probably erased him from his head so that black face wouldn't bring back bad memories, no sir. The times they saw each other he treated Ambrosio like a chauffeur seen for the first time. Good morning, good afternoon, and the Uplander just the same. Now he was going to say something, yessir. It's true that Rosa turned into a fat Indian covered with moles, but underneath it all her story made you feel sorry for her, yessir, right? After all, she was his wife, right? And he left her in Chincha and she couldn't enjoy anything when Don Cayo became important. What became of her during all those years? When Don Cayo came to Lima she stayed there in the little yellow house, she's probably still there turning to bone. But he didn't abandon her the way he did Se?ora Hortensia, without a penny. He sent her her pension, many times he told Ambrosio, remind me that I have to send Rosa some money, black man. What did she do all those years? Who can say. Probably the same life she always had, a life without friends or relatives. Because from the day she was married she never saw anyone from the settlement again, not even Túmula. Don Cayo must have forbidden it, he must have. And Túmula went on cursing her daughter because she wouldn't receive her in her house. But that wasn't why, no sir; she didn't get into Chincha society, never, who wanted to mix with the milk woman's daughter, even if she was Don Cayo's wife and wore shoes and washed her face every day. They'd all seen her driving the donkey and pouring out gourds of milk. And besides, knowing that the Vulture didn't recognize her as his daughter-in-law. There was nothing left for her to do but shut herself up in a little room that Don Cayo took behind the San José Hospital and live the life of a nun. She almost never went out, from shame, because they pointed at her in the street, or from fear of the Vulture, maybe. Then it must have become a habit. Ambrosio had seen her sometimes, in the market or taking out a washbasin and scrubbing clothes, kneeling on the sidewalk. So what good was all her spark, yessir, all the tricks to catch the white boy. She might have got a better name and joined a better class, but she was left without any friends and even without a mother. Don Cayo, you say? Yes, he had friends. On Saturdays he could be seen having his little old beers in the Cielito Lindo or tossing coins at the toad in the Jardín el Paraíso, and in the whorehouse and they said he always had two of them in the room. He almost never went out with Rosa, no sir, he even went to the movies by himself. What kind of work did Don Cayo do? At the Cruz warehouse, in a bank, in a notary's office, then he sold tractors to the ranchers. He spent about a year in the little room there, when he was better off he moved to the southern part of town, in those days Ambrosio was already an interprovince driver and didn't get to Chincha very often, and one of those times he got to town they told him that the Vulture had died and that Don Cayo and Rosa had gone to live with the church biddy. Do?a Catalina died during Bustamante's government, yessir. When Don Cayo's luck changed, with Odría, in Chincha they said now Rosa will get a new house and have servants. None of that, no sir. Visitors rained down on Rosa then. In La Voz de Chincha they printed pictures of Don Cayo, calling him a Distinguished Son of Chincha, and who didn't rush to Rosa to ask her for some little job for my husband, a little scholarship for my son, and my brother to be named schoolteacher here, subprefect there. And the families of Apristas and Aprista-lovers to cry in front of her for her to get Don Cayo to let my nephew out or let my uncle come back into the country. That was where Túmula's daughter got her revenge, yessir, that was where the ones who had snubbed her got what was coming to them. They say that she would receive them at the door and give them all the same idiot face. Her little boy was in jail? Oh, that's too bad. A position for her stepson? He should go to Lima and talk to her husband and so long. But Ambrosio only knew all that from hearsay, yessir, can't you see he too was already in Lima then? Who had convinced him to go look up Don Cayo? His black mama, Ambrosio didn't want to, he said they say everyone from Chincha who goes to ask him for something gets turned away. But he didn't turn him away, no sir, he helped him and Ambrosio was grateful to him for it. Yes, he hated the people in Chincha, who knows why, you can see that he didn't do anything for Chincha, he didn't even have a single school built in his town. When time passed and people began to say bad things about Odría and the exiled Apristas came back to Chincha, they say that the subprefect put a policeman at the yellow house to protect Rosa, can't you see how much Don Cayo was hated? Yessir. Pure foolishness, ever since he was in the government they didn't live together and they didn't see each other, everybody knew that if they killed Rosa that wouldn't have hurt Don Cayo, it would have been more like doing him a favor. Because he not only didn't love her, no sir, he even must have hated her, for having got so ugly, don't you think?

"You saw how well he received you," Colonel Espina said. "You've seen what kind of a man the General is."

"I've got to get my head in order," Bermúdez muttered. "It's like a potful of crickets."

"Go get some rest," Espina said. "Tomorrow I'll introduce you to the people in the Ministry and they will bring you up to date on things. But tell me if you're happy at least."

"I don't know if I'm happy," Bermúdez said. "It's more like being drunk."

"All right, I know that's your way of thanking me." Espina laughed.

"I came to Lima with just this satchel," Bermúdez said. "I thought it was a matter of a few hours."

"Do you need some money?" Espina asked. "Yes, sure, I'll lend you some now and tomorrow we'll get them to give you an advance in the payroll department."

"What bad luck happened to you in Pucallpa?" Santiago asks.

"I'll find a small hotel in the neighborhood," Bermúdez said. "I'll come by early tomorrow."

"For me, for me?" Don Fermín asked. "Or did you do it for yourself, in order to have me in your hands, you poor devil?"

"Someone who thought he was my friend sent me there," Ambrosio says. "Get yourself over there, boy. All a story, son, the streets are paved with gold. The biggest roasting of the century. Oh, if I only told you."

Espina took him to the office door and shook his hand. Bermúdez left with the satchel in one hand, his hat in the other. He had a distracted and serious look, as if he were looking inside. He didn't answer the bow or the salute of the officer at the door of the Ministry. Was it quitting time in all the offices? The streets were full of people and noise. He mingled with the crowd, followed the current, he came, went, returned along narrow and jammed sidewalks, dragged along by a kind of whirlwind or spell, stopping at times at a corner or a doorway or a lamppost to light a cigarette. In a café on the Jirón Azángaro he ordered tea with lemon, which he slowly savored, and when he got up he left a tip that was twice the bill. In a bookstore hiding in an alley off the Jirón de la Unión, he thumbed through some novels with flashy covers and cramped and tiny letters, looking without seeing, until The Mysteries of Lesbos caught his eyes for a second. He bought it and left. He wandered awhile longer through the downtown streets, the satchel under his arm, his hat crumpled in his hand, smoking ceaselessly. It was already getting dark and the streets were deserted when he went into the Hotel Maury and asked for a room. They gave him a card and he paused with the pen for a few seconds at where it said profession, he finally wrote civil servant. The room was on the third floor, the window opened onto an inner courtyard. He got into the bathtub and went to bed in his underwear. He thumbed through The Mysteries of Lesbos, letting his eyes run blindly over the tight little black figures. Then he turned out the light. But he couldn't fall asleep until many hours later. Awake, he lay on his back, his body motionless, the cigarette burning between his fingers, breathing with anxiety, his eyes staring at the dark shadows above him.

4

"SO IN PUCALLPA and that Hilario Morales' fault, so you know when and why you fucked yourself up," Santiago says. "I'd give anything to know at just what moment I fucked myself up."

Would she remember, would she bring the book? Summer was ending, it seemed like five o'clock and it wasn't even two yet, and Santiago thinks: she brought the book, she remembered. He felt euphoric going into the dusty entranceway with flagstones and chipped columns, impatient, he should get in, she should get in, optimistic, and you got in, he thinks, and she got in: ah, Zavalita, how happy you felt.

"You've got your health, you're young, you've got a wife," Ambrosio says. "How could you have fucked yourself up, son?"

Alone or in groups, their faces buried in their notes, how many of these would go in? where was Aída? the candidates walked around the courtyard with the steps of a processional, they reviewed their notes sitting on the splintery benches, leaning against the dirty walls they asked each other questions in low voices. Half-breed boys and girls, proper people didn't come here. He thinks: you were right, mama.

"Before I left home, before I got into San Marcos, I was pure," Santiago says.

He recognized a few faces from the written exam, he exchanged smiles and hellos, but Aída didn't appear, and he went to stand by the entrance. He listened to a group reviewing geography, he listened to a boy, motionless, his eyes lowered, reciting the names of the viceroys of Peru as if he were praying.

"The kind of pure tobacco cigars that the moneybags smoke at bullfights?" Ambrosio laughs.

He saw her come in: the same straight, brick-colored dress, the same low-heeled shoes from the written exam. She came along with her look of a studious schoolgirl in uniform through the crowded entranceway, she turned her overgrown child's face from one side to the other, no glow, no grace, no makeup, looking for something, someone with her hard adult eyes. Her lips were tight, her masculine mouth open, and he saw her smile: the hard face grew softer, lighted up. He saw her come toward him: hello, Aída.

"I said to hell with money and I thought I was capable of great things," Santiago says. "Pure in that sense."

"Melchorita the holy woman lived on Grocio Prado, she gave away everything she had and spent her time praying," Ambrosio says. "Did you want to be a saint like her when you were a boy?"

"I brought you Out of the Night," Santiago said. "I hope you like it."

"You've told me so much about it that I'm dying to read it," Aída said. "Here's that Frenchman's novel about the Chinese Revolution."

"Jirón Puno, Calle de Padre Jerónimo?" Ambrosio asks. "Do they give away money in that place to broken-down black men like yours truly?"

"That's where we took the entrance exams the year I entered San Marcos," Santiago says. "I'd been in love with girls from Miraflores, but on Padre Jerónimo I really fell in love for the first time."

"It isn't much like a novel, it reads more like a history book," Aída said.

"Oho," Ambrosio says. "And did she fall in love with you?"

"Even though this one is an autobiography, it reads like a novel," Santiago said. "Wait till you get to the chapter called 'The Night of the Long Knives,' about a revolution in Germany. Fantastic, you'll see."

"About a revolution?" Aída thumbed through the book, her eyes and voice full of mistrust now. "But is this Valtin a Communist or an antiCommunist?"

"I don't know whether she fell in love with me or not, I don't even know whether she knew I was in love with her," Santiago says. "Sometimes I think she was, sometimes I think she wasn't."

"You didn't know, she didn't know, what a mess, do you think that things like that can be ignored, son?" Ambrosio asks. "Who was the girl?"

"I warn you that if he's anti, I'll give it back to you," and Aída's soft, timid voice grew challenging. "Because I'm a Communist."

"You're a Communist?" Santiago looked at her in astonishment. "Are you really a Communist?"

You still weren't, he thinks, you wanted to be a Communist. He felt his heart beating strongly and he was amazed: in San Marcos you didn't study anything, Skinny, they just played politics, it was a nest of Apristas and Communists, all the grumblers in Peru gather together there. He thinks: poor papa. You hadn't even entered San Marcos, Zavalita, and look what you'd found.

"Actually I am and I'm not," Aída confessed. "Because where can you find any Communists around here?"

How could she be a Communist without even knowing whether a Communist Party existed in Peru? Odría had probably put them all in jail, had probably deported or murdered them. But if she passed her orals and got into San Marcos, Aída would find out in the university, she would get in contact with those who were left and study Marxism and join the Party. She looked at me with a challenge, he thinks, come on, argue with me, her voice was quite soft and her eyes insolent, tell me that they're atheists, burning, come on, deny what I say, intelligent, and you, he thinks, listened to her, startled and surprised: all that existed, Zavalita. He thinks: did I fall in love then and there?

"A girl in my class at San Marcos," Santiago says. "She talked politics, she believed in the revolution."

"Oh, Lord, you didn't fall in love with an Aprista, did you, son?" Ambrosio asks.

"The Apristas didn't believe in the revolution anymore," Santiago says. "She was a Communist."

"The devil you say," Ambrosio says. "The hell you say."

New candidates were arriving on Padre Jerónimo, coming in the entranceway, the courtyard, running to the lists tacked up on a bulletin board, eagerly checking their grades. A busy murmur floated about the place.

"You've been looking at me as if I were some kind of ogre," Aída said.

"What a thing to think, I respect all ideas, and besides, you can believe it or not, I've got …" Santiago fell silent, searched for words, stammered, "advanced ideas too."

"Well, I'm happy for you," Aída said. "Are we going to have the orals today? With so much waiting I'm terribly confused, I can't remember anything I've studied."

"We can review a little, if you want," Santiago said. "What are you most scared of?"

"World history," Aída said. "Yes, let's ask each other questions. But while we're walking. I can study better that way than sitting down, what about you?"

They went through the entranceway with wine-colored floor tiles and classrooms along the sides, where did she live? he wondered, there was a small courtyard with fewer people in back. He closed his eyes, he could see the narrow little house, clean, with austere furniture, and he could see the streets around it, and the faces—strong, dignified, serious, sober?—of the men who came along the sidewalks in overalls and gray jackets, and he could hear their conversations—all for one and one for all, spare, clandestine?—and he thought workers, and he thought Communists and he decided I'm not a Bustamantist, I'm not an Aprista, I'm a Communist. But what was the difference? He couldn't ask her, she'll think I'm an idiot, he'd have to worm it out of her. She must have spent the whole summer like that, her fierce little eyes fastened on the questions, pacing back and forth in a tiny little room. There probably wasn't much light, in order to take notes she probably sat at a little table lighted by a lamp with no shade or by candles, she probably moved her lips slowly, closing her eyes, she would get up and, as she walked, repeat names, dates, nocturnal and dedicated, was her father a worker, her mother a maid? He thinks: poor Zavalita. They walked very slowly, the dynasties of the pharaohs, asking each other questions in a low voice, Babylonia and Nineveh, could she have heard Communism talked about in her home? the causes of World War I, what would she think when she found out that his old man was an Odríist? the Battle of the Marne, she probably wouldn't want to meet you anymore, Zavalita: I hate you, papa. We asked each other questions but we didn't ask each other anything, he thinks. He thinks: we were getting to be friends. Could she have studied at a national high school? Yes, in a central school, what about him? at Santa María, ah, a school for rich boys. There were all kinds, it was an awful school, it wasn't his fault if his folks had sent him there, he'd rather have gone to Guadalupe and Aída began to laugh: don't blush, she wasn't prejudiced, what happened at Verdun. He thinks: we expected great things at the university. They were in the Party, they went to the press together, they hid in a union hall together, they put them in jail together and they exiled them together: it was a battle, not a treaty, silly boy, and he of course, how foolish, and now she who was Cromwell. We expected great things of ourselves he thinks.

"When you got into San Marcos and they shaved your head, Missy Teté and young Sparky hollered pumpkin head at you," Ambrosio says. "Your papa was so happy that you'd passed the exams, son."

She talked about books and she wore skirts, she knew about politics and she wasn't a man, the Mascot, the Chick, the Squirrel all faded away, Zavalita, the pretty little idiots from Miraflores melted away, disappeared. Discovering that one of them at least was good for something else, he thinks. Not just to be climbed on top of, not just to make him masturbate thinking about them, not just to fall in love with. He thinks: for something else. She was going into Law and Education too, you were going into Law and Letters.

"Are you supposed to be a vamp, a clown, or what?" Santiago asked. "Where are you going all prettied up and with all that makeup on?"

"What's your major in Letters going to be?" Aída asked. "Philosophy?"

"Wherever I feel like and what business is it of yours?" Teté asked. "Who said anything to you and what right have you got to talk to me?"

"Literature, I think," Santiago said. "But I'm still not sure."

"Everybody who goes into Literature wants to be a poet," Aída said. "You too?"

"Stop your fighting," Se?ora Zoila said. "You're like a cat and a dog, that's enough."

"I had a notebook of poems hidden away," Santiago says. "No one was to see it, no one was to know about it. You see? I was a pure boy."

"Don't blush because I asked you if you wanted to be a poet." Aída laughed. "Don't be so bourgeois."

"They drove you crazy too by calling you Superbrain," Ambrosio says. "All the fights you people had, child."

"You can go change that dress and wash your face," Santiago said. "You're not going out, Teté."

"And what's wrong with Teté's going to the movies?" Se?ora Zoila asked. "Since when have you been so strict with your sister here, you, the liberal, the priest-eater?"

"She's not going to the movies, she's going dancing at the Sunset with that damned Pepe Yá?ez," Santiago said. "I caught her making her plans by phone this morning."

"To the Sunset with Pepe Yá?ez?" Sparky asked. "With that half-breed?"

"It's not that I want to be a poet, just that I like literature," Santiago said.

"Are you out of your mind, Teté?" Don Fermín asked. "Is all this true, Teté?"

"All lies, lies." Teté trembled and singed Santiago with her eyes. "Damn you, you imbecile, I hate you, go drop dead."

"So do I," Aída said. "In Education I'm going to take Literature and Spanish."

"Do you think you can fool your parents like that, you little devil?" Se?ora Zoila said. "And what do you mean by telling your brother to drop dead? Have you gone crazy?"

"You're not old enough for nightclubs, child," Don Fermín said. "You won't be going out tonight, tomorrow, or Sunday."

"I'm going to take Pepe Yá?ez apart," Sparky said. "I'll kill him, papa."

Teté was shouting and weeping now, she'd spilled her cup of tea, why don't you drop dead, and Se?ora Zoila you're acting crazy, crazy, such a great big man and such a great big coward, and Se?ora Zoila you're staining the tablecloth, instead of gossiping like a woman go write your fairy poetry. She got up from the table and left the dining room still shouting your fairy gossip poetry and go drop dead, damn you. They heard her go up the stairs, slam her door. Santiago stirred the spoon in the empty cup as if he had just put some sugar in it.

"Is it true what Teté says?" Don Fermín smiled. "Do you write poetry, Skinny?"

"He keeps it hidden in a little notebook behind the encyclopedia, Teté and I have read it all," Sparky said. "Love poetry, and about the Incas too. Don't be ashamed, Superbrain. Look at his expression, papa."

"You're barely literate, so it must have been hard for you to have read anything," Santiago said.

"You're not the only person in the world who knows how to read," Se?ora Zoila said. "Don't be so stuck-up."

"Go write your fairy poetry, Superbrain," Sparky said.

"What have the pair of you learned, why did we send you to the best school in Lima?" Se?ora Zoila sighed. "You insult each other like truck-drivers right in front of us."

"Why didn't you tell me you were writing poetry?" Don Fermín asked. "You have to show me some, Skinny."

"Sparky and Teté's lies," Santiago babbled. "Don't pay any attention to them, papa."

There was the examining board, there were three of them, a fearful silence had come over the place. Boys and girls watched the three men cross through the entranceway led by a beadle, watched them disappear into a classroom. Let me get in, let her get in. The buzzing started up again, thicker and louder than before. Aída and Santiago went back to the rear courtyard.

"You're going to pass with high marks," Santiago said. "You know all the answers right down to the last comma."

"Don't you believe it, there's a lot I just barely know," Aída said. "You're the one who's going to get in."

"I spent all summer cramming," Santiago said. "If they flunk me, I'll blow my brains out."

"And I'm against suicide," Aída said. "Killing yourself is a sign of cowardice."

"Priests' tales," Santiago said. "It takes a lot of courage to kill yourself."

"I don't care about priests," Aída said, and her little eyes think: come on, come on, I dare you. "I don't believe in God, I'm an atheist."

"I'm an atheist too," Santiago said immediately. "Naturally."

They started walking again, the questions, sometimes they became distracted, they forgot about the questions and they began to chat, to argue: they agreed, disagreed, joked, time was flying and suddenly Zavala, Santiago! Hurry up, Aída smiled at him, and hoped he got an easy question. He passed between two rows of candidates, went into the examination room, and you can't remember anything else, Zavalita, what question you got or the examiners' faces or what you answered: just that you were happy when you came out.

"You remember the girl you liked and the rest is all erased," Ambrosio says. "That's natural, son."

You liked everything about the day, he thinks. The place that was falling apart from old age, the shoe-polish, earthen, or malarial faces of the candidates, the atmosphere that bubbled with apprehension, the things that Aída was saying. How did you feel, Zavalita? He thinks: like on the day I had my first communion.

"You came because it was Santiago making it," Teté pouted. "You didn't come to mine, I don't love you anymore."

"Come here, give me a kiss," Don Fermín said. "I came because Skinny took first place, if you'd have gotten good marks I would have come to your first communion too. I love all three of you the same."

"You say that, but it's not true," Sparky complained. "You didn't come to my first communion either."

"With all this jealousy, Skinny's day will be ruined, stop the nonsense," Don Fermín said. "Come on, get in the car."

"To Herradura beach to have milk shakes and hot dogs, papa," Santiago said.

"To the Ferris wheel they've set up in the Campo de Marte, papa," Sparky said.

"We're going to Herradura," Don Fermín said. "Skinny's the one who made his first communion, we have to give him what he wants."

He ran out of the classroom, but before he got to Aída, did you get your grade right there, were the questions long or short? he had to hold off the candidates' attack, and Aída received him with a smile: from his face you could see he'd passed, wonderful, now he wouldn't have to blow his brains out.

"Before I picked the ball with the question, I thought, I'll sell my soul for an easy one," Santiago said. "So if the devil does exist, I'm going to go to hell. But the end justifies the means."

"Neither the soul nor the devil exists"—I challenge you, I dare you. "And if you think that the end justifies the means, then you're a Nazi."

"She had a negative answer for everything, she had an opinion about everything, she argued as if she wanted to start a fight," Santiago says.

"A pushy girl, the ones you say white to and they say black, black and they say white," Ambrosio says. "Tricks to get a man all heated up, but which have their effect."

"Of course I'll wait for you," Santiago said. "Do you want me to go over some questions with you for a little while?"

Persian history, Charlemagne, the Aztecs, Charlotte Corday, the external factors of the disappearance of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the birth and death of Danton: hoping she would have an easy question, hoping she would pass. They went back to the first courtyard, sat down on a bench. A newsboy came in hawking the evening papers, the boy who was next to them bought El Comercio and a moment later said bastards, that was too much. They turned to look at him and he showed them a headline and the picture of a man with a mustache. Had they put him in jail, exiled him, or killed him, and who was the man? There was Jacobo, Zavalita: blond, thin, his blue eyes furious, his finger pointing to the picture in the newspaper, his drawling voice protesting, Peru was going from bad to worse, a strange Andean trace in that milky face, where you stuck your finger, pus came out, as González Prada had said, seen on occasion and from a distance on the streets of Miraflores.

"Another one of those?" Ambrosio asks. "Lord, San Marcos was a nest of subversives, boy."

Another exact model of one of those, he thinks, in revolt against his skin, against his class, against himself, against Peru. He thinks: is he still pure, is he happy?

"There weren't so many, Ambrosio. It was only by chance that the three of us came together that first day."

"You never brought those friends from San Marcos home," Ambrosio says. "On the other hand, young Popeye and his schoolmates were always having tea at your place."

Were you ashamed, Zavalita? he thinks: that Jacobo, Héctor, Solórzano didn't visit your home and the people you lived with, didn't meet your old lady and listen to your old man, that Aída didn't hear Teté's delightful idiocies? He thinks: or that your old man and old lady shouldn't know who you hung around with, that Sparky and Teté shouldn't see Martínez' toothless half-breed face? That first day you began to kill off the old folks, Popeye, Miraflores, he thinks. You were breaking away, Zavalita, entering another world: was it then, was it then that you shut it off? He thinks: breaking with what, entering what world?

"They heard me talking about Odría and they left." Jacobo pointed to a group of candidates going off and he looked at them with a curiosity that had no irony. "Are you people afraid too?"

"Afraid?" Aída straightened up immediately on the bench. "I say that Odría is a dictator and a murderer and I'll say it here, in the street, anywhere."

Pure, like the girls in Quo Vadis, he thinks, impatient to go down into the catacombs and come out into the arena and throw herself into the lions' claws and fangs. Jacobo was listening to her disconcertedly, she'd forgotten about the exam, a dictator who'd risen to power at bayonet point, she was raising her voice and waving her arms and Jacobo was nodding and looking at her sympathetically and he'd suppressed parties and the freedom of the press and now all worked up and had ordered the army to massacre the people of Arequipa and now bewitched and had jailed, deported and tortured so many people that no one even knew how many, and Santiago was looking at Aída and Jacobo and suddenly, he thinks, you felt tortured, exiled, betrayed, Zavalita, and he interrupted her: Odría was the worst tyrant in the history of Peru.

"Well, I don't know if he's the worst or not," Aída said, pausing for breath. "But he's one of the worst, that's for sure."

"Give him time and you'll see," Santiago insisted, with drive. "He'll be the worst."

"Except for that of the proletariat, all dictatorships are the same," Jacobo said. "Historically."

"Do you know the difference between Aprismo and Communism?" Santiago asks.

"We can't give him time to become the worst," Aída said. "We have to overthrow him before that."

"Well, there are a lot of Apristas and only a few Communists," Ambrosio says. "What other difference is there?"

"I don't think those people there went off because you were going after Odría, but because they're studying," Santiago said. "Everybody has to be a radical at San Marcos."

He looked at you as if he'd spotted a small pair of wings on your back, he thinks, San Marcos wasn't what it used to be anymore, like a good but backward child, Zavalita. You didn't know, you didn't even understand the vocabulary, you had to learn what Aprismo, what Fascism, what Communism were, and why San Marcos wasn't what it used to be: because since Odría's coup the student leaders had been persecuted and the federated centers disbanded and because the classes were full of informers enrolled as students and Santiago frivolously interrupted him: did Jacobo live in Miraflores? He seemed to have seen him around there at some time, and Jacobo blushed and unwillingly said yes and Aída started to laugh: so the two of them were from Miraflores, so the two of them were nice little boys. But Jacobo, he thinks, didn't like kidding. His blue eyes pedagogically fastened on her, his voice patient, Andean, smooth, he explained that it didn't matter where one lived, but what one thought and did, Aída that was right, but she hadn't been serious, she was joking about that nice boys business, and Santiago would read, study, learn Marxism the way he had: oh, Zavalita. The beadle shouted a last name and Jacobo stood up: they were calling him. He went slowly toward the classroom, as confident and calm as he had spoken, intelligent, right? and Santiago looked at Aída, very intelligent, and besides, he knew so much about politics and Santiago decided I'm going to know even more.

"Can it be true that there are plainclothesmen among the students?" Aída asked.

"If we find one in our class we'll beat him up," Santiago said.

"You're already talking like a student, what chance have you got?" Aída said. "Let's review some more."

But they'd barely started the questions and their circular walk again when Jacobo came out of the classroom, slow and thin in his frayed blue suit, and he came over to them, smiling and disappointed, the exams were a farce, Aída had nothing to worry about, the chairman of the board, a chemist, knew less about letters than you or I. You had to answer with assurance, he only flunked those who seemed unsure. He'd made a bad impression on me, he thinks, but when they called Aída and they went with her to the classroom and returned to the bench and talked alone, you liked him, Zavalita. You lost your jealousy, he thinks, I began to admire him. He'd finished high school two years ago, he didn't enter San Marcos the year before because of an attack of typhoid, he gave opinions like a person chopping with an ax. You felt dizzy, imperialism, idealism, like a cannibal seeing skycrapers, materialism, social consciousness, confused, immoral. When he got better he used to come in the afternoon to walk around the Faculty of Letters, he went to read at the National Library, and he knew everything and had answers for everything and talked about everything, he thinks, except about himself. What school had he gone to, was his family Jewish, did he have any brothers and sisters, what street did he live on? He didn't grow impatient with the questions, he was abundant and impersonal with his explanations, Aprismo meant reform and Communism revolution. Did he ever come to esteem you and hate you, he thinks, to envy you the way you did him? He was going to study Law and History and you listened to him dazzled, Zavalita: you studied together, went to the underground press together, you conspired, worked, prepared the revolution together. What did he think of you, he thinks, what could he be thinking of you now? Aída came back to the bench with her eyes sparkling: an A, she was tired of talking to them. They congratulated her, smoked, went out onto the street. The cars were passing along Padre Jerónimo with their headlights on, and a glorious breeze cooled their faces as they went along Azángaro, talkative, excited, toward the Parque Universitario. Aída was thirsty, Jacobo hungry, why didn't they stop and have something? Santiago proposed, they good idea, he it was on him and Aída agh what a bourgeois. We didn't go to that dive on Colmena to have pork rind and biscuits but to tell each other about our plans, he thinks, to become friends arguing until our voices gave out. Never again such exaltation, such generosity. He thinks: such friendship.

"At noon and at night this place is packed," Jacobo said. "The students come here after class."

"I've got to tell you something right off." Santiago clenched his fists under the table and swallowed. "My father's in the government."

There was a silence, the exchange of looks between Jacobo and Aída seemed eternal, Santiago could hear the seconds pass and bit his tongue: I hate you, papa.

"It occurred to me that you might be a relative of that Zavala," Aída said, finally, with an afflicted smile of condolence. "But what difference does that make, your father's one thing and you're another."

"The best revolutionaries come out of the bourgeoisie," Jacobo raised their morale, soberly. "They broke with their class and were converted to the ideology of the working class."

He gave some examples and, emotional, he thinks, thankful, Santiago told them about his fights over religion with the priests at school, the political arguments with his father and his friends in the neighborhood, and Jacobo started to look through the books that were on the table: Man's Fate was interesting but a little romantic and Out of the Night wasn't worth reading, the author was an antiCommunist.

"Only at the end of the book," Santiago protested, "only because the Party refused to help him rescue his wife from the Nazis."

"Worse yet," Jacobo explained. "He was a renegade and a sentimentalist."

"If a person is sentimental, can't she be a revolutionary?" Aída asked, saddened.

Jacobo reflected a few seconds and shrugged his shoulders: maybe it's possible in some cases.

"But renegades are the worst there is, look at APRA," he added. "A person is a revolutionary right down the line or he isn't at all."

"Are you a Communist?" Aída asked, as if she were asking what time is it, and Jacobo lost his calm for an instant: his cheeks flushed, he looked around, he gained time by coughing.

"A sympathizer," he said, cautiously. "The Party is outlawed and it's not easy to get in contact. Besides, in order to be a Communist you've got to do a lot of studying."

"I'm a sympathizer too," Aída said, enchanted. "What luck that we met."

"So am I," Santiago said. "I don't know much about Marxism, but I'd like to know more. But where, how?"

Jacobo looked at them one by one, into their eyes, slowly and deeply, as if calculating their sincerity or discretion, and he took another look around and leaned toward them: there was a secondhand bookstore, here downtown. He'd discovered it the other day, he went in to look around and he was thumbing through some books when he came across some numbers, very old, very interesting, of a magazine that he thinks was called Cultura Soviética. Forbidden books, forbidden magazines and Santiago could see shelves overflowing with pamphlets that weren't sold in bookstores, volumes that the police had taken out of libraries. In the shadow of walls gnawed by dampness, through cobwebs and mildew, they consulted the explosive books, argued and took notes, on nights which were as dark as the mouth of a wolf, in the light of improvised candelabras they made résumés, exchanged ideas, read, taught each other, broke with the bourgeoisie, armed themselves with the ideology of the working class.

"Aren't there any more magazines in that bookstore?" Santiago asked.

"There probably are," Jacobo said. "If you want, we can go together and see. What about tomorrow?"

"We could go to an art gallery and a museum too," Aída said.

"Yes, indeed, I haven't been to any museum in Lima so far," Jacobo said.

"Me either," said Santiago. "Let's take advantage of these days before classes start and visit them all."

"We can go to the museums in the morning and in the afternoon go through secondhand bookstores," Jacobo said. "I know a lot of them and sometimes you find some good things."

"Revolution, books, museums," Santiago says. "Do you see what it is to be pure?"

"I thought that being pure was living without fucking, son," Ambrosio says.

"And the movies too one of these afternoons to see a good picture," Aída said. "And if Santiago the bourgeois wants to treat us, let him treat us."

"I'm never going to treat you again, not even to a glass of water," Santiago said. "Where shall we go tomorrow, and at what time?"

"Well, Skinny," Don Fermín said. "Was the oral very hard, do you think you passed, Skinny?"

"Ten o'clock on the Plaza San Martín," Jacobo said. "At the express bus stop."

"I think so, papa," Santiago said. "Now you can give up your hopes that someday I'll go to the Catholic University."

"I ought to box your ears for being sassy," Don Fermín said. "So you passed, so you're a full-fledged university man. Come here, Skinny, let me give you a hug."

You didn't sleep, he thinks, I'm sure that Aída didn't sleep either, that Jacobo didn't sleep either. All the doors open, he thinks, at what moment and why did they begin to close?

"You've had your own way, you got into San Marcos," Se?ora Zoila said. "You must be happy, I imagine."

"Very happy, mama," Santiago said. "Especially because I won't have to associate with proper people ever again. You can't imagine how happy I am."

"If you want to become a peasant half-breed, why don't you get a job as a servant instead?" Sparky said. "Go around barefoot, don't bathe, breed lice, Superbrain."

"The important thing is that Skinny has gotten into the university," Don Fermín said. "The Catholic University would have been better, but a person who wants to study can study anywhere."

"The Catholic University isn't any better than San Marcos, papa," Santiago said. "It's a priests' school. And I don't want to learn anything from priests. I hate priests."

"And you'll go straight to hell, imbecile," Teté said. "And you let him raise his voice to you like that, papa."

"I'm sorry you've got those prejudices, papa," Santiago said.

"They're not prejudices, I don't care whether your classmates are white, black, or yellow," Don Fermín said. "I want you to study, not waste your time and be left without a career like Sparky."

"Superbrain raises his voice to you and you give it to me," Sparky said. "That's just fine, papa."

"Politics isn't a waste of time," Santiago said. "Or are the military the only ones who have the right to be in politics here?"

"First the priests and now the army, the two same little tunes," Sparky said. "Change the subject, Superbrain, you're like a broken record."

"How prompt you are," Aída said. "You were talking to yourself, that's amusing."

"Nobody can get along with you," Don Fermín said. "Even if we treat you with love, you always give us a kick in the pants."

"The fact is I am a little crazy," Santiago said. "Aren't you afraid to be with me?"

"All right, don't cry, get off your knees, I believe you, you did it for me," Don Fermín said. "Didn't you think that instead of helping me you could have sunk me forever? Why did God give you a head, you poor devil?"

"Don't you believe it, I love lunatics," Aída said. "I was undecided between Law and Psychiatry."

"The fact is that I let you have your own way too much and you take advantage," Don Fermín said. "Go to your room, right now, Skinny."

"When you punish me, you take away my allowance, when it's Santiago, you only send him to bed," Teté said. "What kind of a way is that, papa?"

"The fact is that nobody is happy with what he's got," Ambrosio says. "Not even you, and you've got everything. Look at my situation."

"Take his allowance away too, papa," Sparky said. "Why these preferences?"

"I'm glad you chose Law," Santiago said. "Look, there's Jacobo."

"Don't butt in when I'm talking to Skinny," Don Fermín said. "If you do, you two won't get any allowance."

5

THEY GAVE HER A PAIR of rubber gloves, a smock, they told her she was a bottler. The pills began to fall and they had to put them into the bottles and put in pieces of cotton on top. The ones who put the caps on were called cappers, labelers the ones who put on the labels, and at the end of the table four women gathered the bottles and arranged them in cardboard boxes: they were called packers. The woman next to her was named Gertrudis Lama and she was very quick with her fingers. Amalia began at eight, stopped at twelve, came back at two and quit work at six. Two weeks after she went to work at the laboratory her aunt moved from Surquillo to Limoncillo, and at first Amalia went to have lunch at her house, but so long a bus ride cost a lot and the time was very tight. One day she got back at two-fifteen and the woman in charge are you taking advantage because you were recommended by the owner? Bring your lunch the way we do, Gertrudis Lama advised her, you'll save time and money. From then on she brought a sandwich and a piece of fruit and went to have lunch with Gertrudis by a drainage canal on the Avenida Argentina where vendors came to offer them lemonade and ices and fellows who worked in the area to tease them. I'm making more than before, she thought, I don't work as much and I have a girl friend. She missed her room a little and young Teté, but I've already forgotten about that other devil, she was telling Gertrudis Lama, and Santiago Amalia? and Ambrosio yes do you remember her, son?

She hadn't been at the laboratory a month when she met Trinidad. He made coarse remarks with more humor than the others, Amalia would remember his nonsense when she was alone and burst out laughing. Nice, but a little crazy, don't you think? Gertrudis told her one day, and another day the way you laugh at him, and another time it's easy to see that you're beginning to like the nut. You more likely, Amalia said, and thought am I beginning to like him? and Santiago Amalia your wife, Amalia the one who died in Pucallpa? One night she saw him waiting for her at the trolley stop. As fresh as you like he got on the streetcar, sat down beside her, sang a snatch of "Negra Consentida" and started with his jokes, spoiled Half-breed, she was serious on the outside and dying with laughter inside. He paid her fare and when Amalia got out he bye-bye lovey. He was quite thin, dark, crazy, straight black hair, a good lad. His eyes were shifty and when they got to know each other Amalia told him he had Chinese blood, and he you're a white half-breed, we'll make a good combination, and Ambrosio yes, boy, the very same. Another time he took the downtown bus with her and got on the bus to Limoncillo with her and also paid her fare and she all the money I'm saving. Trinidad wanted to invite her to have something to eat but Amalia no, she couldn't accept. Let's get off, love, you get off, I haven't even been introduced to you. I'll leave if we're introduced, he said and shook her hand, Trinidad López pleased to meet, and she shook his, pleased to meet you Amalia Cerda. On the following day Trinidad sat down beside her at the canal and began to tell Gertrudis what a spoiled little friend you've got, Amalia makes me lose sleep. Gertrudis picked up the thread and they became friends and later Gertrudis to Amalia pay some attention to the nut and you'll forget about Ambrosio, and Amalia I've already forgotten that one, and Gertrudis really? and Santiago were you involved with Amalia ever since she started working at the house? Amalia was shocked by the foolish things Trinidad said, but she liked his mouth and he shouldn't try anything. The first time he tried was on the bus to Limoncillo. It was packed, people were pressed up against each other, and there she noticed that he was beginning to rub. She couldn't retreat, she had to play the innocent. Trinidad looked at her seriously, brought his face close, and suddenly I love you and he kissed her. She felt hot, that someone was laughing. You're abusive, when they got off she was furious, he'd shamed her in front of everybody, taking advantage. She was the woman he was looking for, Trinidad told her, I've got you in my heart. I'm not crazy enough to believe what men say, Amalia said, all you want to do is take advantage. They went toward the house, before getting there come on over to this corner for a while, and there he kissed her again, you're nice, he hugged her and his voice weakened, I love you, feel, feel the way you've got me. She held his hands back, she wouldn't let him open her blouse, lift her skirt: they'd already made love at that time, son, but things got serious later on.

Trinidad worked in a textile factory near the laboratory, and he told Amalia I was born in Pacasmayo and worked in a garage in Trujillo. But that he'd been jailed as an Aprista he only told her later, one day when they were going along the Avenida Arequipa. There was a house with gardens and trees, trenches all around, patrol cars, police, and Trinidad raised his left hand and said into Amalia's ear Víctor Raúl the Aprista people salute you, and she have you gone crazy? That's the Colombian Embassy, Trinidad told her, and that Haya de la Torre had taken asylum inside, and that Odría didn't want to let him leave the country and that's why there were so many cops. He laughed and told her: one night a friend and I went by here making the Aprista toot on the horn, and the patrol cars chased them and they were arrested. Was Trinidad an Aprista? and he to the death, and had he been in jail? and he yes, to show the confidence I have in you. He'd become an Aprista ten years ago, he told her, because in that garage in Trujillo they were all in the party, and he explained to her that Víctor Raúl Haya de la Torre was a wise man and APRA the party of the poor people and peasants of Peru. He'd been put in jail for the first time in Trujillo because the police caught him painting LONG LIVE APRA on the walls of the street. When he got out of jail they wouldn't take him back at the garage and that's why he came to Lima, and here the party found work for me at a factory in Vitarte, he told her, and that during the Bustamante government he'd been a street fighter; he went with his comrades to break up rallies of the oligarchs or the redtails and he also came out beaten up. Not because he was a coward, his physique was of no help, and she of course, you're so thin, and he but a man, the second time he was put in jail the informers had knocked out two teeth and I didn't turn anyone in even because of that. When the October third uprising in Callao came off and Bustamante outlawed APRA, the comrades in Vitarte told him to hide, but he I'm not afraid, he hadn't done anything. He kept on going to work and later, on October twenty-seventh, there was Odría's revolution and they asked him aren't you going to hide now either? and he not now either. The first week in November, coming out of the factory one afternoon, a guy came up to him, are you Trinidad López? your cousin's waiting for you in that car. He started to run because he didn't have any cousins, but they caught him. At the station house they wanted him to tell them the group's plans for terrorism, and he what plans, what group? and to tell them who put out the clandestine paper La Tribuna and where. That was when they knocked out the two teeth, and Amalia which ones? and he what do you mean which ones? and she but you've got all your teeth, and he they're false and you can't tell the difference. He was in jail for eight months, the station house, the penitentiary, Frontón, and when they let him out he'd lost twenty pounds. He was bumming around for three months until he got into the textile place on the Avenida Argentina. Now it was going well for him, he was already specialized. The night they took him in because of that business at the Colombian Embassy he thought I've screwed myself again, but they believed him when he said it was a drunken escapade and they turned him loose the next day. Now he had to watch out for two things, Amalia: politics, because they had him on file, and women, rattlesnakes with a fatal bite, and he had them on file. Really? Amalia asked him, and he but you appeared and I fell again, at home nobody knew that you were making it with Amalia, Santiago says, not even my brother and sister or my folks, and Trinidad trying to kiss her, and she let me go, roving hands, and Ambrosio they didn't know because we kept it quiet, son, and Trinidad I love you, come close, I want to feel you, and Santiago why quiet?

Amalia was so frightened to learn that Trinidad had been in jail and that they might arrest him again that she didn't even tell Gertrudis. But she soon discovered that Trinidad was more interested in sports than in politics, and in sports soccer and in soccer the Municipal team. He would drag her to the stadium very early in order to get a good seat, during the game he would get hoarse from shouting so much, he would make coarse remarks if they scored a goal on Skinny Suárez. Trinidad had played for the Municipal scrubs when he was working in Vitarte, and now he had got together a little team at the textile factory on the Avenida Argentina, and there was a game every Saturday afternoon. You and sports are my vice, he would tell Amalia, and she it must be true, you don't drink much and you don't seem to be a woman-chaser. In addition to soccer he liked boxing, wrestling. He would take her to Luna Park and explain to her that the good-looking fellow getting into the ring with a bullfighter's cape is the Spaniard Vicente García, and that he rooted for El Yanqui not because he was good but because at least he was a Peruvian. Amalia liked Peta, so elegant, he was wrestling and suddenly he told the referee to stop it and he combed his jungle of hair, and she hated the Bull, who won by sticking his fingers in eyes and throwing flying tackles. But hardly any women were to be seen at Luna Park, there were loud drunks and there were worse fights in the seats than in the ring. I went along with you on soccer, but that's enough of sports, she told Trinidad, take me to the movies instead. He whatever you say, love, but he always had his tricks to get back to Luna Park. He showed her the wrestling ad in La Crónica, started talking about locks and pinning, tonight they'll take off the Doctor's mask if the Mongol wins wouldn't that be something? I don't think so, Amalia told him, it'll be the same as it always is. But she was already sweet on him and sometimes all right, Luna Park tonight, and he happy.

One Sunday they were eating a minute steak after the wrestling matches and Amalia saw that Trinidad was looking at her in a strange way: what's wrong? Leave your aunt by herself, she was to come live with him. She pretended to be annoyed, they argued, he swore so much that he finally convinced me, Amalia told Gertrudis Lama afterward. They went to Trinidad's place, in Mirones, and that night they had the big fight. He was very loving at first, kissing and hugging her, calling her love in a dying voice, but at dawn she saw he was pale, bags under his eyes, his mouth trembling: now tell me how many have gone through here before. Amalia only one (fool, you little fool, Gertrudis Lama told her), only the chauffeur at the house where I worked, no one else had touched her, and Ambrosio: so that his mama and papa wouldn't catch them, son, do you think they would have liked it? Trinidad began to insult her and to insult himself for having respected her, and with a slap he knocked her to the floor. Someone knocked and opened the door, Amalia saw an old man who was saying Trinidad what's going on, and Trinidad insulted him too and she got dressed and ran out. That morning at the laboratory the pills fell out of her fingers and she could barely talk because of the sorrow she felt. Men have their pride, Gertrudis told her, who told you to tell him, you should have denied it, silly, denied it. But he'll forgive you, she consoled her, he'll come looking for you, and she I hate him, I wouldn't make up with him even if I were dead, and Ambrosio but later they had a fight, son, Amalia went her way and even had her love affairs there, and Santiago of course with an Aprista, and Ambrosio only much later and just by chance they'd run into each other again. That afternoon, when she went back to Limoncillo, her aunt called her bad and inconsiderate, she didn't believe she'd slept over at a girl friend's, you'll be a fallen woman and the next time you don't come home to sleep I'll throw you out. She spent a few days without any appetite and was depressed, nights awake when it never dawned, and one night when she left the laboratory she saw Trinidad at the streetcar stop. He got on with her, and Amalia didn't look at him but she felt hot listening to him speak. Stupid, she thought, you love him. He asked her to forgive him and she I'll never forgive you, especially since she had pleased him by going to his place, and he let's forget the past, love, don't be proud. In Limoncillo he tried to hug her and she pushed him away, threatening him with the police. They talked, they struggled, Amalia gave in and on the usual corner he, sighing, I got drunk every day since that night, Amalia, love had been stronger than pride, Amalia. She sneaked her things out of her aunt's, they got to Mirones at nightfall, holding hands. In the alley Amalia saw the old man who had come into the room and Trinidad introduced him to Amalia: my girl friend. Don Atanasio. That same night he wanted Amalia to quit work: was he a cripple, couldn't he earn enough for the two of them? She would cook for him, wash his clothes, and later on take care of the children. Congratulations, Engineer Carrillo said to Amalia, I'll tell Don Fermín that you're going to get married. Gertrudis embraced her with wet eyes, I'm sorry to see you go but I'm happy for you. And how did you know that the fellow Amalia was living with was an Aprista, son? He'll take good care of you, Gertrudis predicted, he won't cheat on you. Because Amalia had come to the house twice to ask the old man to get the Aprista out of jail, Ambrosio.

Trinidad was jolly, loving, Amalia thought what Gertrudis told me is coming true. With just what he earned the two of them couldn't go to the stadium so Trinidad went by himself, but on Sunday nights they went to the movies together. Amalia became friends with Se?ora Rosario, a washerwoman with a lot of children who lived on the alley and was very nice. She helped her wrap packages and sometimes Don Atanasio came to talk to them, he sold lottery tickets, was a drinker and knew all about the life and miracles of the section. Trinidad would get back to Mirones around seven o'clock, she would have dinner ready, one day I think I'm pregnant, love. You threw the noose around my neck and now you're pulling it tight, Trinidad said, I hope it's a boy, they'll think he's your brother, he'll have such a young little mother. Those months, Amalia would think later, were the best of my life. She would always remember the movies they saw and the walks they took downtown and along the beach, the times they ate fried pork rinds beside the Rímac, and the Amancaes Festival they went to with Se?ora Rosario. Soon there would be a raise, Trinidad said, it'll be good for us, and Ambrosio that textile worker died too: died, oh yes? Yes, half crazy, Amalia thought from some beatings he'd been given during the Odría days. But there was no raise, they said there was a recession, Trinidad got home in a bad mood because those bastards were talking about a strike now. Those union bastards, he cursed, those scabs who get paid by the government. They got elected with the help of informers and now they're talking strike. Nothing would happen to them, but he was on file and they'd say the Aprista is the agitator. And indeed there was a strike and the next day Don Atanasio came running into the house: a patrol car stopped at the door and they took Trinidad away. Amalia went to the police station with Se?ora Rosario. Ask here, ask there, they didn't know any Trinidad López. She borrowed bus fare from Se?ora Rosario and went to Miraflores. When she got to the house she didn't dare ring, he'll probably answer the door. She was walking back and forth in front of the door and suddenly she saw him. A face of surprise, of happiness, and when he saw her pregnant of fury. Aha, aha, he pointed at her belly, aha, aha. I haven't come to see you, Amalia began to cry, let me in. Is it true that you hooked up with somebody at the textile factory, Ambrosio said, that the child you're expecting is his? She went into the house and left him talking alone. She waited in the garden, looking at the row of geraniums, the tiled fountain, her room in back, she felt sad, her knees were shaking. With her eyes foggy she saw someone come out, how are you young Santiago, hello Amalia. He was taller, more of a man, still so thin. I came to visit you people here, but, child, what happened to your head? He took off his beret, he had short fuzz and was very ugly. They'd shaved his head, that's how they baptize people who have just got into the university, except that in his case it was taking a long time to grow back. And then Amalia began to weep, that Don Fermín who was so good should help me again, her husband, who hadn't done anything, had been put in jail for no reason, God will repay him, child. Don Fermín came out in his dressing gown, calm down, girl, what's the matter. Young Santiago told him and she didn't do anything, Don Fermín, he wasn't an Aprista, he likes soccer, until Don Fermín laughed: wait, wait, let's see. He went to make a phone call, it took a while, Amalia felt all worked up at being back in the house, at having seen Ambrosio, at what was happening to Trinidad. It's all set, Don Fermín said, tell him not to get mixed up in any more trouble. She tried to kiss his hand and Don Fermín said easy, girl, everything can be fixed up except death. Amalia spent the afternoon with Se?ora Zoila and young Teté. How beautiful she was, such big eyes, and the Se?ora made her stay for lunch and when she left, for you to buy something for your child, she gave her forty soles.

The next day Trinidad appeared in Mirones. Furious, those scabs had thrown the ball to him, cursing as Amalia had never heard him before, they'd accused him of a thousand things, because of those mother buckets they'd beaten him up again. Fists, rubber hoses so he'd tell them he didn't know what or who. He was more angry with the union scabs than with the informers: when APRA comes to power those bastards will see, the ones who sold out to Odría will see. You're not on the roster anymore they told him at the textile mill, they fired you for leaving your work. If I complain to the union I already know where they'll send me, Trinidad said, and if I go to the Ministry I know where they'll send me. You're wasting your time cursing the scabs, Amalia said, it would be better if you looked for a job. When he began to make the rounds of factories, the recession was still on they said, and they were living off loans, and suddenly Amalia realized that Trinidad was telling more lies than ever: and what did Amalia die of, Ambrosio? He would leave at eight o'clock in the morning and come back a half hour later and fall onto the bed, he'd walked all over Lima looking for work, he was dead. And Amalia: but you just left and here you are back again. And Ambrosio: from an operation, son, And he: they had him on file, the scabs had passed on the information, they looked at him as if he had the plague, he'd never find work. And Amalia: forget about scabs and go look for work, they were going to starve to death. I can't, he said, I'm sick, and she what are you sick with? Trinidad stuck his finger down his throat until he gagged and vomited: how could he look for work if he was sick? Amalia went back to Miraflores, wept to Se?ora Zoila, the mistress spoke to Don Fermín and the master to young Sparky tell Carrillo to take her back. When she told him that they had taken her back at the lab, Trinidad began to look at the ceiling. You're proud, what's wrong with my working until you get well, aren't you sick? How much had they paid you to humiliate me now that I'm down? Trinidad asked.

Gertrudis Lama was happy to see her back at the laboratory, and the woman in charge you've got it pretty good, you can put a job on and take it off like a skirt. During the first few days she dropped the pills and the bottles rolled away on her, but within a week she had her skills back. You have to take him to the doctor, Se?ora Rosario told her, can't you see that all he does is rave all day long? Not true, he only goes off at mealtime or when the subject of work comes up, afterward he's just the way he used to be. When he finished eating he would stick his finger down his throat until he vomited, and then I'm sick, love. But if Amalia paid no attention to him and cleaned up the vomit as if nothing had happened, in a little while he would forget about his illness and how were things at the lab and he even teased and petted her. It'll pass, Amalia thought, prayed, wept secretly, it's going to be the way it was before. But it didn't pass and instead he took to going out the door into the alley and shouting scab at passers-by. He tried to tackle them, put wrestling locks on them, and he's so thin that they bring him back to me all bloody, Amalia told Gertrudis. One night he vomited without sticking his finger down his throat. He turned pale and the next day Amalia took him to the Workers' Hospital. Neuralgia, the doctor told her, he should take a couple of spoonfuls every time he has a headache and from then on Trinidad spent the day saying my head is splitting. He took the medicine and nausea. Playing at getting sick so much has made you sick, Amalia scolded him. He became haughty, grouchy, mocked everything and they could barely hold a conversation anymore. When he saw her return from work, what, you haven't left me yet? and what about the little girl? Santiago asks. He ended up lying on the bed, if I move I don't feel well, or chatting with Don Atanasio, and he hadn't asked about his child again. If Amalia said to him I'm getting fatter or it's moving now, he looked at her as if he didn't know what she was talking about. He scarcely ate, because of the vomiting. Amalia would steal paper bags from the laboratory and ask him vomit in here, not on the floor, and he, on the contrary, would open his mouth over the table or the bed, and with a sticky voice, if it disgusts you so much go ahead and leave: she'd stayed in Pucallpa, son. But afterward he repented, I'm sorry, love, I've got a bad case, bear with me a little while because I'm going to die. They went to the movies on occasion. Amalia tried to get him into good spirits by getting him to go to the stadium, but he clutched his head: no, he was sick. He got as thin as a stray dog, his pants with the fly he didn't close drooped down his legs, he no longer asked Amalia cut my hair the way he used to, and why had he left her in Pucallpa? aren't you disappointed in a man who gives up without a fight after the first fall and acts crazy and lets his wife support him? Gertrudis asked her. Just the opposite, when she saw him turned into a rag she loved him all the more. She thought about him all the time, she felt that the world was coming to an end when she heard him spout nonsense, when he stripped her, pulling off her clothes in the darkness, she felt dizzy. A lady who had become friendly with Amalia volunteered to bring her up, son. Trinidad's headaches disappeared and came back, came and went again, and she never knew whether they were real or inventions or exaggerations. And besides, Ambrosio had got into some trouble and had to beat it out of Pucallpa. Only the vomiting never went away. It's your fault, Amalia said to him, and he the scabs' fault, love, he wasn't going to lie to her.

One day Amalia found Se?ora Rosario at the entrance to the alley, her hands on her hips, her eyes like hot coals: he'd shut himself up with Celeste, he'd tried to take advantage of her, he only opened the door when I threatened to call a patrol car. Amalia found Trinidad feeling sorry for himself, Se?ora Rosario had a dirty mind, calling the police when she knew they had his name on file, perverse, what did he care about dumpy Celeste, he'd only wanted to play a trick on her. Shameless, ingrate, Amalia insulted him, kept man, crazy, and finally she threw a shoe at him. He let her shout and wave her hands without protesting. That night he threw himself to the floor clutching his head and Amalia and Don Atanasio dragged him to the street and got him into a taxi. At the emergency ward they gave him an injection. They slowly returned to Mirones, Trinidad in the middle, stopping to rest at every block. They put him to bed and before he fell asleep Trinidad made her cry: leave me, she shouldn't waste her life on him, he was finished, find someone who suits you better. The little girl's name was Amalita Hortensia and she must be five or six by now, son.

One day when she got back from the laboratory, she found Trinidad jumping up and down: our troubles are over, he'd found a job. He hugged her, pinched her, he looked happy. But what about your sickness, Amalia said astounded, and he it's gone, I'm cured. He had met his comrade Pedro Flores on the street, he told her, an Aprista with whom he'd been in jail on Frontón, and when Trinidad told him what was going on Pedro come with me, and he took him to Callao, introduced him to some comrades, and that very afternoon he had a job in a furniture store. You see, Amalia, that's what comrades were like, he felt like an Aprista right down to his bones, long live Víctor Raúl. He wouldn't make very much, but what difference did that make since it was good for his morale. Trinidad left very early but he got back before Amalia did. His mood was better, my head doesn't ache as much, his comrades had taken him to a doctor who didn't charge anything and gave him some injections and you see, Amalia, he told her, the party takes care of me, it's my family. Pedro Flores never came to Mirones, but Trinidad went out many nights to meet him and Amalia was jealous, do you think I could cheat on you after you've helped me so much? Trinidad laughed, I swear that I'm going to underground meetings with my comrades. Don't get mixed up in politics, Amalia told him, the next time they'll kill you. He stopped talking about the scabs, but the vomiting continued. On many afternoons she found him lying on the bed, his eyes sunken and with no desire to eat. One night when he'd gone out to a meeting, Don Atanasio came and told Amalia come and took her to the corner. There was Trinidad, all alone, sitting on the curb, smoking. Amalia watched him and when Trinidad came back to the alley how did it go? and he fine, he argued a lot. She thought: another woman. But why was he so loving, then? After the first week of work he waited for Amalia before opening his pay envelope, let's buy something for Se?ora Rosario so she'll get over her annoyance, they picked out some perfume for her, and then what should I buy you, love? It would be better to pay the rent, Amalia told him, but he wanted to spend that money on her, love. Amalita for her mother, and Hortensia for a lady where Amalia had worked, son, one she liked a lot and who died too: of course after what you did you have to leave here, you poor devil, Don Fermín said. You were my salvation, Trinidad told her, tell me what you want. And then Amalia let's go to the movies. They saw a picture with Libertad Lamarque, sad, a story like theirs. Amalia came out sighing and Trinidad you're very sentimental, love, you're a good woman. They were joking and once more he remembered the child and touched her belly, nice and fat. Se?ora Rosario started to weep over the perfume and told Trinidad you didn't know what you were doing, hug me. The next Sunday Trinidad let's go see your aunt, she'd make up with Amalia when she found out about the child. They went to Limoncillo and Trinidad went in first and then the aunt came out with open arms to call Amalia. They stayed to eat with her and Amalia thought the bad's all gone, everything's patched up. She felt very heavy now, Gertrudis Lama and other friends at the laboratory were sewing clothes for the baby.

The day that Trinidad disappeared, Amalia had gone to the doctor's with Gertrudis. She got back to Mirones late and Trinidad wasn't there, dawn came and he hadn't come, and around ten in the morning a taxi stopped in the alley and a fellow got out asking for Amalia: I want to talk to you alone, it was Pedro Flores. He had her get into the taxi and she what's happened to my husband, and he he's in jail. It's your fault, Amalia shouted, and he looked at her as if she were mad, you fixed things for him to get into politics, and Pedro Flores me, in politics? He hadn't got mixed up and he never would get mixed up in politics because he hated politics, ma'am, and instead that big nut of a Trinidad could have got him involved in a big mess last night. And he told her: they were coming back from a little party in Barranco and when they went by the Colombian Embassy Trinidad stop for a minute, I've got to get out, Pedro Flores thought he was going to urinate, but he got out of the taxi and started shouting scabs, long live APRA, Víctor Raúl, and when he started up in fright he saw that the cops were all over Trinidad. It's your fault, Amalia was weeping, APRA is to blame, they're going to beat him up. What was the matter with her, what are you talking about: Pedro Flores wasn't an Aprista and Trinidad had never been an Aprista either, I know only too well because we're cousins, they'd been raised together in Victoria, we were born in the same house, ma'am. That's a lie, he was born in Pacasmayo, Amalia whimpered, and Pedro Flores who made you believe that story. And he swore to her: he was born in Lima and he's never left it and he was never mixed up in politics, except that once they arrested him by mistake or for some reason during Odría's revolution, and when he got out of jail he got the crazy idea of passing himself off as a northerner and an Aprista. She should go to the police station, tell them that he was drunk and half out of his mind, they'll turn him loose. He left her in the alley and Se?ora Rosario went with her to Miraflores to weep to Don Fermín. He wasn't at the station house, Don Fermín said after telephoning, she should come back tomorrow, he'd find out. But the following morning a boy came into the alley: Trinidad López was in San Juan de Dios, ma'am. At the hospital they sent Amalia and Se?ora Rosario from one ward to another, until an old nun with the stubble of a man's beard ah yes, and began to counsel Amalia. She had to resign herself. God has taken your husband away, and while Amalia was weeping to Se?ora Rosario they told her that they'd found him early that morning by the hospital door, that he'd died of a stroke.

She almost didn't mourn for Trinidad because on the day after the burial her aunt and Se?ora Rosario had to take her to the Maternity Hospital, the pains quite close together now, and early that morning Trinidad's son was born dead. She was in the Maternity Hospital for five days, sharing a bed with a Negro woman who had given birth to twins and who tried to talk to her all the time. She answered her yes, fine, no. Se?ora Rosario and her aunt came to see her every day and brought her something to eat. She didn't feel pain or grief, only fatigue, she ate listlessly, it was an effort for her to talk. On the fourth day Gertrudis came, why didn't you let us know, Engineer Carrillo might think she'd quit work, it's good you've got pull with Don Fermín. Let the engineer think whatever he wanted to, Amalia thought. When she left the Maternity Hospital she went to the cemetery to bring some gladioli to Trinidad. The holy picture that Se?ora Rosario had put there was still by the grave and the letters that his cousin Pedro Flores had scratched on the plaster with a stick. She felt weak, empty, listless, if ever she got any money she would buy a stone and I'll have them carve Trinidad López in gold letters. She began to talk to him slowly, why did you go now that everything was all set, to scold him, why did you make me believe so many lies, to tell him things, they took me to the Maternity Hospital, his son had died, maybe you've met him up there. She went back to Mirones remembering the blue coat that Trinidad said is my mark of elegance and how badly she sewed the buttons for him as they fell off again. The small room was padlocked, the landlord had come with a dealer and sold everything he found, leave her something to remember her husband by Se?ora Rosario had begged, but they refused and Amalia what do I care. Her aunt had taken in boarders in the little house in Limoncillo and didn't have any room, but Se?ora Rosario made space for her in one of her two rooms, and Santiago what trouble did you get mixed up in, why did you have to hightail it out of Pucallpa? A week later Gertrudis Lama appeared in Mirones, why hadn't she come back to the lab, how long do you think they'll wait for you? But Amalia wouldn't ever go back to the lab. And what was she going to do, then? Nothing, stay here until I'm kicked out, and Se?ora Rosario silly, I'm never going to kick you out. And why didn't she want to go back to the lab? She didn't know, but she wasn't going back, and she said it with such anger that Gertrudis Lama didn't ask anymore. A terrible mix-up, he had to hide because of something to do with the truck, son, he didn't even want to remember. Se?ora Rosario made her eat, counseled her, tried to make her forget. Amalia slept between the girls Celeste and Jesús, and the youngest of Se?ora Rosario's daughters complained that she talked about Trinidad and her child in the darkness. She helped Se?ora Rosario wash the clothes in a trough, hang them on the line, heat up the charcoal irons. She did it almost without paying attention, her mind blank, her hands weak. Night came, dawn came, evening came, Gertrudis came to visit her, her aunt came, she listened to them and said yes to everything and thanked them for the gifts they brought. Are you still thinking about Trinidad? Se?ora Rosario asked her every day, and she yes, about her little son, too. You're like Trinidad, Se?ora Rosario told her, you lower your head, you don't fight, she should forget about her troubles, you're young, she could remake her life. Amalia never left Mirones, she was nothing but an old rag, she rarely washed or combed her hair, once when she looked at herself in a mirror she thought if Trinidad saw you he wouldn't love you anymore. At night when Don Atanasio came home, she would shut herself up in his room to talk to him. He lived in a room with such a low ceiling that Amalia couldn't stand, and on the floor were a mattress with the stuffing coming out and a thousand odds and ends. While they were chatting, Don Atanasio would take out his bottle and have a drink. Did he think that the informers had beaten Trinidad, Don Atanasio, that when they saw he was dying they dropped him by the door of San Juan de Dios? Sometimes Don Atanasio yes, that was probably what happened, and others no, they probably let him go and he didn't feel well and went to the hospital on his own, and other times what does it matter to you now, he's dead, think about yourself, forget about him.