“Enough, enough,” Don Fermín said. “Stop crying. Wasn’t that how it was, isn’t that what you were thinking, didn’t you do it because of that?”
“We won’t stand for it,” said the man who gave the orders. “Let’s go inside.”
“After all, he has a right to have some fun,” Colonel Espina said. “I hope the General doesn’t look too badly on this business of taking a mistress so openly like that.”
Trifulcio grabbed the little man by the lapels and gently pulled him away from the door. He saw him turn yellow, felt him trembling. He went into the shack behind Téllez, Urondo and the man who gave the orders. Inside a young man in overalls stood up and shouted, you can’t come in here, police, police! Téllez gave him a shove and the young man fell to the ground shouting police, police! Trifulcio picked him up and sat him in a chair: calm down, take it easy, man. Téllez and Urondo picked up the ballot boxes and went outside. The little man looked terrified at Trifulcio: it was a crime, they’d go to jail, and his voice gave way.
“Shut up, you were paid by Mendizábal,” Téllez said.
“Shut up, unless you want us to do it for you,” Urondo said.
“We’re not going to stand for any fraud,” the man who gave the orders said to the policemen. “We’re taking the ballot boxes to the District Board of Elections.”
“But I don’t think he will, because nothing Cayo does ever seems bad to him,” Colonel Espina said. “He says that the greatest service I did for the country was digging Cayo up out of the provinces and bringing him to work with me. He’s got the General in his pocket, Don Fermín.”
“Come on, all right,” Don Fermín said. “Don’t cry anymore, you poor devil.”
In the van Trifulcio sat up front. Out of the window he saw the little man and the boy in overalls arguing with the police at the door of the shack. The people were looking at them, some pointing at the van, others laughing.
“All right, you weren’t trying to blackmail me, you were trying to help me,” Don Fermín said. “You’ll do what I tell you, all right, you’ll obey me. But that’s enough, don’t cry anymore.”
“All that waiting just for this?” Trifulcio said. “There were only two guys there for Mr. Mendizábal. The others were just looking on, that’s all.”
“I don’t despise you, I don’t hate you,” Don Fermín said. “It’s all right, you respect me, you did it for me. So I wouldn’t suffer, all right. You’re not a poor devil, all right.”
“Mendizábal was so sure of himself,” Urondo said. “Since this is his territory, he thought he’d run away with the election. But he got stuck.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Don Fermín repeated.
10
T
HE POLICE HAD PULLED THE SIGNS
off the walls of San Marcos, had erased the letters that said up the strike and down with Odría. No students were to be seen on the campus. Policemen were clustered
together
across from the founders’ chapel, two patrol cars parked on the corner of Azángaro, a troop of assault guards in the neighboring vacant lots. Santiago went along Colmena, the Plaza San Martín. On the Jirón de la Unión at every sixty feet a policeman appeared, impassive among the pedestrians, a submachine gun under his arm, a gas mask slung over his shoulder, a cluster of tear-gas grenades on his belt. The people coming out of office buildings, the idlers and the Don Juans looked at them with apathy or with curiosity but without fear. On the Plaza de Armas there were also patrol cars and in front of the Palace gates helmeted soldiers were seen along with the sentries in black-and-red uniforms. But on the other side of the bridge, in Rímac, there weren’t even any traffic police. Boys with the faces of hoodlums, hoodlums with tubercular faces, were smoking under the musty lampposts on Francisco Pizarro, and Santiago went along between bars that spat out the
staggering
drunks and beggars, the ragged children and stray dogs of other times. The Hotel Mogollón was narrow and long like the unpaved alley where it was located. There was nobody in the booth that served as a desk, the narrow lobby and the stairway were dark. On the second floor, four golden lines marked the door of the room, which was too small for its frame. He gave three light taps as a password and pushed it open: Washington’s face, a cot with a blanket, a bare pillow, two chairs, a small chamber pot.
“Downtown is crawling with police,” Santiago said. “They expect another lightning demonstration tonight.”
“A piece of bad news, they picked up Half-breed Martínez as he was coming out of Engineering,” Washington said; he was emaciated and baggy-eyed, so serious that he looked like a different person. “His family went to Police Headquarters but they couldn’t see him.”
Cobwebs hung from the beams of the ceiling, the only bulb was high up and the light was dirty.
“Now the Apristas can’t say they’re the only ones who get it,”
Santiago
said; he smiled, confused.
“We have to change our location,” Washington said. “Even tonight’s meeting is dangerous.”
“Do you think he’ll talk if they work him over?” They had him tied up and a short, stocky figure wound up and struck, the half-breed’s face contracted in a grimace, his mouth howled.
“You never can tell.” Washington shrugged his shoulders and lowered his eyes for an instant. “Besides, I don’t trust this guy in the hotel. This afternoon he asked to see my papers again. Llaque’s coming and I haven’t been able to tell him about Martínez.”
“The best thing would be to get together on a quick plan and get out of here.” Santiago took out a cigarette and lighted it; he took several puffs and then removed the pack again and held it out to Washington. “Is the Federation still going to meet tonight?”
“What’s left of the Federation. Twelve delegates are out of action,” Washington said. “In principle, yes, at the Medical School.”
“They’ll pounce on us there in any case,” Santiago said.
“Maybe not. The government must know that the strike will probably be over tonight and will let us meet,” Washington said. “The
independents
have been scared and want to retreat. The Apristas seem to want to too.”
“What are we going to do?” Santiago asked.
“That’s what we’ve got to decide now,” Washington said. “Look, news from Cuzco and Arequipa. Things there are even worse than here.”
Santiago went over to the cot, picked up two letters. The first was from Cuzco, the thick, erect hand of a woman, the signature was a scrawl with rhombuses. The cell had made contact with the Apristas to discuss the sympathy strike, but the police were ahead of them, comrades, they occupied the university and the Federation had been dissolved; at least twenty comrades arrested. The student masses were rather apathetic, but the morale of the comrades who escaped the repression was still high in spite of the setbacks. Fraternally. The letter from Arequipa was
typewritten
, with a ribbon that was neither black nor blue, but violet, and it wasn’t signed or addressed to anyone. We had the campaign going well in the various faculties and the situation seemed favorable in support of the strike at San Marcos when the police came into the university, eight of our people were among those arrested, comrades: hoping to be able to send you better news soon and wishing you every success.
“In Trujillo the motion was defeated,” Washington said. “Our people were only able to get them to approve a message of moral support. Which means nothing.”
“No university is backing San Marcos, no union is backing the
streetcar
workers,” Santiago said. “So there’s nothing to do but call off the strike.”
“In any case, quite a lot has been accomplished,” Washington said. “And with the prisoners now, there’s a good banner to start out under again any time we want.”
There were three taps on the door, come in said Washington, and Héctor came in, perspiring, dressed in gray.
“I thought I was going to be late and I’m one of the first to get here.” He sat on a chair, mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He took a deep breath and exhaled it as if it were smoke. “It was impossible to get hold of any streetcar worker. The police have occupied union headquarters. We went there with two Apristas. They’ve lost touch with the strike committee too.”
“They grabbed the half-breed as he was coming out of Engineering School,” Washington said.
Héctor stood looking at him, his handkerchief at his mouth.
“As long as they don’t give him a beating and disfigure his …” His voice and forced smile dimmed and went out; he took another deep breath, put his handkerchief away. He was quite serious now. “We shouldn’t have met here tonight, then.”
“Llaque’s coming, there wasn’t any way to warn him,” Washington said. “Besides, the Federation is meeting in an hour and a half and we’ve just got time to put our plans together.”
“What plans?” Héctor said. “The independents and the Apristas want to call off the strike and that’s the most logical thing to do. Everything’s falling apart, we have to save what’s left of the student organizations.”
Three taps, greetings comrades, the red tie and the bird voice. Llaque looked around with surprise.
“Didn’t you say eight o’clock? What happened to the others?”
“Martínez was taken this morning,” Washington said. “Do you think we ought to call off the meeting and get out of here?”
The small face didn’t tighten, his eyes didn’t show alarm. He must have been used to news like that, he thinks, living in hiding and in fear. He looked at his watch, he was silent for a moment, thinking.
“If they arrested him this morning, there’s no danger,” he said at last with an embarrassed half-smile. “They won’t question him until tonight or maybe at dawn. We’ve got more than enough time, comrades.”
“But it would be better if you left,” Héctor said. “You’re the one who’s taking the greatest risk here.”
“Keep it down, I could hear you from the stairs,” Solórzano said from the doorway. “So they caught the half-breed. Our first casualty, damn it.”
“Did you forget about the three knocks?” Washington asked.
“The door was open,” Solórzano said. “And you were all hollering.”
“It’s going on eight-thirty,” Llaque said. “What about the other
comrades
?”
“Jacobo had to go see the textile workers, Aída was going to the Catholic University with a delegate from the School of Education,” Washington said. “They won’t be long, let’s get started.”
Héctor and Washington sat on the cot, Santiago and Llaque in the chairs, Solórzano on the floor. We’re waiting, Comrade Julián, Santiago heard and gave a start. You were always forgetting your pseudonym, Zavalita, forgetting you were recording secretary and were to give the minutes of the last meeting. He did it rapidly, without standing up, in a low voice.
“Let’s go on to the reports,” Washington said. “Please make them short and to the point.”
“We’d better find out first what happened to them,” Santiago said. “I’m going to make a phone call.”
“There isn’t any phone in the hotel,” Washington said. “You’ll have to find a drugstore and the coming and going wouldn’t be wise. They’re only a half hour late, they’ll be along presently.”
The reports, he thinks, the long monologues where it was hard to distinguish object from subject, facts from interpretations, and
interpretations
from clichés. But that night they had all been quick, terse and concrete. Solórzano: the Association of Agricultural Students had
rejected
the motion as being too political, why should San Marcos get involved in a streetcar workers’ strike? Washington: the leaders at the Normal School said there’s nothing to be done, if we put it to a vote, ninety percent will be against the strike, we can only give them our moral support. Héctor: contacts with the Strike Committee of the streetcar workers have been broken off since the police took over the union
headquarters
.
“Agriculture out of it, Engineering out of it, the Normal School out of it, and we don’t know about the Catholic University,” Washington said. “The universities of Cuzco and Arequipa occupied, and Trujillo backing out. That’s the situation in brief. There’s almost certain to be a proposal to lift the strike at the Federation tonight. We’ve got one hour in which to decide our position.”
It seemed that there wasn’t going to be any discussion, he thinks, that they all agreed. Héctor: the movement had helped to politicize the
student
body, now it would be best to withdraw before the Federation disappeared. Solórzano: lifting the strike, yes, but only in order to start immediately to prepare a new movement, one more powerful and better coordinated. Santiago: yes, and to initiate at once a campaign to free the arrested students. Washington: with the experience we’ve gained and the lessons of these days of struggle, the University Section of Cahuide had had its baptism of fire, he too was in favor of lifting the strike so they could regroup their forces.
“I’d like to say something, comrades,” Llaque said, his voice timid but not at all hesitant. “When the section agreed to support the streetcar workers’ strike, we knew all that.”
What did we know? That the unions were yellow dogs, because the real labor leaders were dead or in jail or in exile, that with the strike would come repression and there would be arrests and that the other
universities
would turn their backs on San Marcos. What didn’t we know, what wasn’t foreseen, comrades, what was it? His little hand was going up and down beside your face, Zavalita, his soft little voice was insisting,
repeating
, convincing. That the strike would be this successful and make the government take its mask off and show all its brutality in the clear light of day. That things were going badly? With three universities occupied, with at least fifty students and labor leaders arrested, things were going badly? With the lightning demonstrations on the Jirón de la Unión and the bourgeois press obliged to report the repression, badly? For the first time a movement of that breadth against Odría, comrades, a crack for the first time after so many years of monolithic dictatorship. Badly, badly? Wasn’t it absurd to retreat at that moment? Wasn’t it more correct to try to extend and radicalize the movement? Judging the
situation
not from a reformist but from a revolutionary point of view,
comrades
. He was silent and they looked at him and at each other,
uncomfortable
.