“Do you think you’re going to do the same thing to me again?” Amalia was heard to say, trembling. “You’re wrong.”
He didn’t give her time to draw back, he’d already grabbed her by the wrist and was looking into her eyes, blinking. He didn’t try to embrace her, he didn’t even get close. He held her for a moment, put on a strange expression, and let her go.
“In spite of the textile worker, in spite of the fact I haven’t seen you for years, as far as I’m concerned you’ve never stopped being my woman,” Ambrosio said huskily and Amalia felt her heart stop. She thought he was going to cry, I’m going to cry. “For your information, I still love you the way I used to.”
He stood looking at her again and she drew back and closed the door. She saw him hesitate for a moment; then he straightened his cap and left. She went back into the living room and caught sight of him turning the corner. Sitting beside the radio, she rubbed her wrist, amazed that she didn’t feel angry. Could it be true, did he still love her? No, it was a lie. Could he have fallen in love with her all over again maybe, that day they ran into each other on the street? There wasn’t a sound outside, the curtains were drawn, a green sunbeam was coming in from the garden. But his voice seemed sincere, she thought, tuning in to one station after another. No soap operas, everything was horse races and soccer.
*
“Go get some lunch,” he said to Ambrosio when the car stopped in the Plaza San Martín. “Be back in an hour and a half.”
He went into the bar of the Hotel Bolívar and sat near the door. He ordered a gin and two packs of Incas. At the next table three men were talking and in a mutilated way he managed to hear the jokes they were telling. He’d smoked one cigarette and his glass was half empty when he saw him through the window crossing Colmena.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Don Fermín said. “I was in a game and Landa, you know the senator, when he gets his hands on the dice he never lets go of them. Landa’s quite happy, the strike at Olave’s been settled.”
“Did you come from the Club Nacional?” he asked. “Your oligarch friends aren’t plotting any conspiracy, are they?”
“Not yet.” Don Fermín smiled and, pointing to the glass, told the waiter the same. “What’s that cough, have you got a cold?”
“Cigarettes,” he said, clearing his throat again. “How are things going with you? Is that bad boy of yours still giving you headaches?”
“Sparky?” Don Fermín picked up a handful of peanuts. “No, he’s straightened out and is behaving himself at the office. The one who has me worried now is the second one.”
“Does he like to go on sprees too?” he asked.
“He wants to go to that can of worms called San Marcos instead of the Catholic University.” Don Fermín savored his drink, made a gesture of annoyance. “He’s taken to saying bad things about priests, military men, everything, just to get his mother and me angry.”
“All boys have got a bit of the rebel in them,” he said. “I think I even did.”
“I can’t understand it, Don Cayo,” Don Fermín said, serious now. “He used to be so proper, he always got the best grades, he was even religious. And now he doesn’t believe in anything, follows his whims. All I need is for him to turn out a Communist, an anarchist, something like that.”
“Then he’d start giving me headaches.” He smiled. “But look, if I had a son I think I’d rather send him to San Marcos. There’s a lot undesirable about it, but it’s more of a university, don’t you think?”
“It isn’t just because they play politics at San Marcos,” Don Fermín said with a distracted air. “It’s lost standing too, it isn’t what it used to be. Now it’s a nest of half-breeds. What kind of connections can Skinny make there?”
He looked at him without saying anything and watched him blink and lower his eyes, confused.
“Not that I’ve got anything against people of mixed blood.” You caught it, you son of a bitch. “Quite the contrary, I’ve always been very democratic. But what I want is for Santiago to have the future he deserves. And in this country it’s all a question of connections, you know that.”
They finished their drinks, ordered a second round. Only Don Fermín was pecking at the peanuts, olives, potato chips. He was drinking and smoking.
“I see there’s a new bid, another stretch of the Pan-American Highway,” he said. “Is your company going to take part in it too?”
“We’ve got all we can handle for now with the Pacasmayo road,” Don Fermín said. “Sometimes you can bite off more than you can chew. The lab takes a lot of my time, especially now that we’ve begun to replace the old equipment. I want Sparky to learn and relieve me of some of the work before I expand the construction company.”
They talked vaguely about the flu epidemic, the stones the Apristas had thrown at the Peruvian Embassy in Buenos Aires, the threat of a textile strike, would long or short skirts be the style, until the glasses were empty.
*
“Inocencia remembered that it was your favorite dish and she’s made you a shrimp stew.” Uncle Clodomiro winked at him. “The poor old woman doesn’t cook as well as she used to. I planned to take you out to dinner, but I let her have her way so as not to hurt her feelings.”
Uncle Clodomiro poured him a glass of vermouth. His small apartment in Santa Beatriz, so neat, so clean, old Inocencia so good, Zavalita. She’d raised the two of them, she used the familiar form with them, once she’d pulled your old man’s ear in front of you: it’s been too long since you came to see your brother, Fermín. Uncle Clodomiro took a sip and wiped his lips. So neat, always with a vest, his collar and cuffs heavily starched, his lively little eyes, his small, elusive figure, his nervous hands. He thinks: did he know, can he know? Months, years you hadn’t gone to see him, Zavalita. You had to go, I have to go.
“Do you remember how many years older Uncle Clodomiro was than papa, Ambrosio?” Santiago asks.
“You don’t ask old people their age.” Uncle Clodomiro laughed. “Five years, Skinny. Fermín’s fifty-two, so, if you figure it out, I’ll be turning sixty pretty soon.”
“And yet he looks older,” Santiago said. “You’ve kept yourself young, uncle.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to call me young.” Uncle Clodomiro smiled. “Maybe because I never got married. Did you finally go see your parents?”
“Not yet, uncle,” Santiago said. “But I will, I promise you I will.”
“It’s been a long time, Skinny, too long,” Uncle Clodomiro admonished him with his fresh, clean eyes. “How many months has it been? Four, five?”
“They’ll raise an awful fuss over me, mama will start shouting for me to come back.” He thinks: six already. “I’m not going to go back, uncle, they have to understand that.”
“Months without seeing your parents, your brother and sister, living in the same city.” Uncle Clodomiro shook his head in disbelief. “If you were my son, I would have gone looking for you, I would have whacked you a couple of times and brought you home the next day.”
But he hadn’t gone looking for you, Zavalita, or whacked you, or made you come back. Why, papa?
“I don’t want to give you advice, you’re a grown man now, but you haven’t been behaving right, Skinny. Wanting to. live by yourself is crazy enough, but after all. Refusing to see your parents, that’s wrong, Skinny. You’ve got Zoila all beside herself. And every time that Fermín comes to ask me how is he, what’s he doing, he looks more depressed to me.”
“If he came to look for me it wouldn’t get him anywhere,” Santiago said. “He can take me home by force a hundred times and I’ll run away again a hundred times.”
“He doesn’t understand, I don’t understand,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “Did you get annoyed because he got you out of Police Headquarters? Did you want him to leave you locked up with the other madmen? Hasn’t he always given you what you wanted? Hasn’t he spoiled you more than he has Teté, more than Sparky? Be frank with me, Skinny. What
have you got against Fermín?”
“It’s hard to explain, uncle. Right now it’s better for me not to go to the house. After a little time passes I’ll go, I promise.”
“Stop your nonsense and go on over,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “Neither Zoila nor Fermín is against your staying on at La Crónica. The only thing that worries them is that you’re going to drop your studies because you’re working. They don’t want you to spend the rest of your life as just another wage earner like me.”
He smiled without bitterness and filled the glasses again. The stew was just about ready, Inocencia’s worn-out voice, and Uncle Clodomiro shook his head compassionately, the poor old woman can barely see anymore, Skinny.
*
How fresh, how shameless, Gertrudis Lama said, looking you up again after what he did to you? horrible. And Amalia horrible. But that’s the way he was, ever since the first he’d been like that. And Gertrudis: what do you mean, what had he been like? He took his time, he made things into a mystery. He looked for excuses to get into the pantry, the rooms, the courtyard when Amalia was there. At first he wouldn’t say anything to her with his mouth, but he spoke with his eyes, and she was frightened that Señora Zoila or the children would catch on and notice the looks. It was a long time before he got up the courage to say things to her, and Gertrudis what things? you’re nice and young, you’ve got a springtime face, and she frightened because that had been her first job. But in spite of that, she soon calmed down. He may have been fresh, but he was smart, or a coward, rather: he was more afraid of the folks than I was, Gertrudis. He wouldn’t even let himself be caught by the other servants, he’d be teasing her and the cook or the other maid would appear and he’d take off. But when they were alone he’d go from mouth to hand flirting, and Gertrudis laughing what about you? Amalia would slap him, once a good one. I can take everything from you, you hit me and it tastes like a kiss, those lies he tells, Gertrudis. He contrived to get the same day off as she, found out where she lived, and one day Amalia saw him going back and forth in front of her aunt’s house in Surquillo, and you inside spying on him happily Gertrudis laughed. No, annoyed. He made a good impression on the cook and the other girl, they would say so tall, so strong, when he’s dressed in blue they get the shivers and dirty things like that. But not her, Gertrudis, for Amalia he was just like anybody else. If it wasn’t because of his looks then how did he get you, Gertrudis said. Probably because of the presents he used to hide in her bed. The first time he came and put a little package in her apron she gave it back without opening it, but afterwards—stupid, wasn’t it, Gertrudis?—she accepted them, and at night she would think I wonder what he’s left for me today. He would put them under the blanket, God knows when he got in there, a bracelet, handkerchiefs, so that you were already his girl friend, Gertrudis said. Not yet. One day when her aunt wasn’t home in Surquillo and he appeared, she—stupid, wasn’t I?—went out. They chatted in the street, had some ices together, and the next week, on her day off, they went to the movies. Was it there? Gertrudis asked. Yes, she’d let him hug her, kiss her. From then on he probably thought he had the right or something, they’d be alone and he’d try to take advantage, Amalia had to run away. He slept beside the garage, his room was bigger than the maids’, its own bathroom and everything, and one night and Gertrudis what, what. The folks had gone out, Missy Teté and young Santiago were probably already asleep, young Sparky had gone back to the Naval School in his uniform—what, what—and she, what a fool I was, had listened to him, the fool had gone to his room. Naturally, he took advantage, and Gertrudis so that there, dying with laughter. He made her cry, Gertrudis, feel all kinds of fear, all kinds of pain. But that very night Amalia had begun to be disappointed, that very night he humiliated her, and Gertrudis hahaha, hahaha, and Amalia don’t be silly, not because of that, don’t be dirty, you make me feel ashamed. What were you disappointed in, then? Gertrudis asked. They had the light out, lying on the bed, he consoling her, telling her those lies, he’d never thought he’d find me a virgin, kissing her, and then they heard talking by the door, they’d come home. There Gertrudis, because of that Gertrudis. How was it possible that she had got in that position, how? What, when. His hands were wet with sweat, hide, hide, and he pushed her, get under the bed, don’t move, almost crying he was so afraid, a big man like him, Gertrudis, shut up and suddenly he covered her mouth furiously, as if I was going to shout or something, Gertrudis. Only when they heard them crossing the garden and going into the house did he let her go, only then did he fake it, for you, so they wouldn’t catch you, bawl you out, fire you. And that they had to be very careful, Señora Zoila was so strict. How strange she’d felt the next day, Gertrudis, with an urge to laugh, feeling sorry, happy, and so ashamed when she went to wash the bloodstains off the sheets in secret, oh I don’t know why I’m telling you these things, Gertrudis. And Gertrudis: because you’ve already forgotten about Trinidad, girl, because now you’re dying for that Ambrosio again, Amalia.
*
“I was with the gringos this morning,” Don Fermín finally said. “They’re worse than Saint Thomas. They’ve been given every security but they insist on talking to you, Don Cayo.”
“It is a question of several millions, after all,” he said benevolently. “Their impatience makes sense.”
“I’ll never understand gringos, don’t they seem like little children to you?” Don Fermín said with the same casual, almost indifferent tone. “Half-savages besides. They put their feet on the desk, take off their jackets wherever they are. And the ones I’m talking about aren’t nobodies, important people, I imagine. Sometimes I feel like giving them one of Carreño’s books on etiquette.”
He was looking out the window at Colmena where the streetcars were coming and going, listening to the endless jokes of the men at the next table.
“The whole thing’s all set,” he said suddenly. “Last night I had dinner with the Minister of Development. The winning bid should appear in the Official Journal on Monday or Tuesday. Tell your friends they’ve won the contract, they can sleep in peace.”
“My partners, not my friends,” Don Fermín protested, smiling. “Could you be the friend of gringos? We don’t have much in common with those boors, Don Cayo.”
He didn’t say anything. Smoking, he waited for Don Fermín to reach his hand out to the little dish of peanuts, lift his glass of gin to his mouth, drink, wipe his lips with his napkin and look into his eyes.
“Is it true that you don’t want those shares?” He watched him avert his eyes, suddenly interested in the empty chair opposite him. “They insist I convince you, Don Cayo. And really, I can’t see why you won’t accept them.”
“Because I don’t know anything about business,” he said. “I’ve already told you that during my twenty years in business I never made a good deal.”
“Shares made out to the bearer, the safest, most discreet thing in the world.” Don Fermín was smiling at him in a friendly way. “Which can be sold at twice their value in a short time, if you don’t want to keep them. I hope you don’t think it improper for you to accept those shares.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve known what was proper or improper.” He smiled. “Only whether it suits me or not.”
“Shares that won’t cost the state a cent, just those gringo boors.” Don Fermín smiled. “You’re doing them a favor, and it’s logical for them to reimburse you. Those shares mean a lot more than a hundred thousand soles in cash, Don Cayo.”
“I’m a modest man, the hundred thousand soles is plenty for me.” He smiled again, an attack of coughing made him stop speaking for a moment. “Let them give them to the Minister of Development, he’s a businessman. I only take what I can handle and count. My father was a moneylender, Don Fermín, and he used to say that. I’ve inherited it from him.”
“Well, to each his own,” Don Fermín said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll take care of the deposit, the check will be ready today.”
The
y were silent for a moment until the waiter came over to pick up the glasses and brought the menu. Don Fermín ordered a consommé and corvina, and he a steak with salad. While the waiter was setting the table, he was listening, sparingly, to Don Fermín, who was talking about a way to lose weight and still eat that had appeared in that month’s Selecciones del Reader’s Digest.
*
“They never invited you to the house,” Santiago said. “They’ve always treated you as if they were better than you.”
“Well, thanks to your running away we see each other more now.” Uncle Clodomiro smiled. “Even if it’s only for their own interest, they do come to see me all the time to get news of you. Not just Fermín, Zoilita too. It was about time that absurd distance between us came to an end.”
“Where did that distance come from, uncle?” Santiago asked. “We almost never saw you.”
“Zoilita’s foolishness,” as if he were saying charms, he thinks, Zoilita’s charming manias. “Her delusions of grandeur, Skinny. I know she’s a great woman, every inch a lady, naturally. But she was always stand-offish with our family because we were paupers and didn’t have any family tree. She infected Fermín with it.”
“And you can forgive them for that,” Santiago said. “Papa spends his life insulting you and you let him.”
“Your father has a horror of mediocrity.” Uncle Clodomiro laughed. “He probably thinks that if we saw a lot of each other he’d become infected by me. He’s always been ambitious, ever since he was a boy. He always wanted to be somebody. Well, he got to be and you can’t reproach anyone for that. You should be proud instead. Because Fermín got what he has with hard work. Zoilita’s family may have helped him afterward, but when they were married he already had a fine position. While your uncle was rotting away buried alive in provincial branches of the Banco de Crédito.”