“Which one of you is Santiago Zavala?” a new face said from the door. Santiago stood up. “All right, you can sit down.”
The face sank into the shadows, the little noise again.
“It means your name’s on file,” Héctor whispered.
“It means they’re going to let you out first,” Solórzano whispered. “Get over to the Federation. They have to raise hell. For the sake of Llaque and Washington, they’re the ones who’ll be the most fucked up.”
“Are you crazy?” Santiago asked. “Why should they let me go first?”
“Because of your family,” Solórzano said with a little laugh. “They have to protest, raise hell.”
“My family won’t lift a finger,” Santiago said. “More likely, when they find out I’m mixed up in this …”
“You’re not mixed up in anything,” Héctor said. “Don’t forget that.”
“Maybe with this roundup now the other universities will do
something
,” Solórzano said.
They’d sat down on the bench, were talking, looking at the wall opposite or the ceiling. Héctor stood up, began to walk back and forth, he said that his legs had gone to sleep. Solórzano turned up his coat collar and put his hands in his pockets: chilly, isn’t it?
“Do you think they brought Aída here too?” Santiago asked.
“They probably took her to Chorrillos, to the women’s jail,”
Solórzano
said. “Brand new, with individual cells.”
“It was foolish wasting time on that lovers’ quarrel,” Héctor said. “It’s enough to make you laugh.”
“Enough to make you cry,” said Solórzano. “Enough to send them off to make soap operas, get a job in Mexican movies. I’ll lock you up, I’ll kill myself, they should kick you out of the section, no, they shouldn’t. Enough to pull down their pants and give those bourgeois brats a good spanking, God damn it.”
“I thought they were getting along fine with each other,” Héctor said. “Did you know that they were having fights?”
“I didn’t know anything,” Santiago said. “I haven’t seen much of them lately.”
“My old lady has a tantrum and the strike and the Party can go to hell, I’m going to commit suicide,” Solórzano said. “Why don’t they make soap operas? Shit.”
“Comrades have their little affairs of the heart too.” Héctor smiled.
“They probably made Martínez talk,” Santiago said. “They probably beat him and …”
“Try to hide the fact that you’re afraid,” Solórzano said. “It’s worse if you can’t.”
“You’re probably the one who’s afraid,” Santiago said.
“Of course I am,” Solórzano said. “But I don’t show it by turning pale.”
“Because if you did, it couldn’t be noticed,” Santiago said.
“The advantages of being a half-breed.” Solórzano laughed. “Don’t get hot under the collar, man.”
Héctor sat down; he had one cigarette and they smoked it among the three of them, one puff apiece.
“How did they know my name?” Santiago asked. “Why did that guy come by?”
“Since you come from a good family, they’re going to fix some kidneys in wine for you so that you’ll feel at home,” Solórzano said, yawning. “Well, I’m getting tired.”
He squatted down against the wall and closed his eyes. His husky body, his ash-colored skin, his broad nose, he thinks, his straight hair, and it was the first time he’d been arrested.
“Will they put us in with the common criminals?” Santiago asked.
“I hope not,” Héctor said. “I don’t feel like being raped by hoodlums. Look how the comrade’s sleeping. He’s got the right idea, let’s get comfortable and see if we can get a little rest.”
They leaned their heads against the wall, closed their eyes. A moment later Santiago heard steps and looked at the door; Héctor had also sat up. The little noise, the face from the last time.
“Come with me, Zavala. Yes, just you.”
The short man led him out and as he left the room he saw Solórzano’s eyes, which were opening, reddened. A corridor full of doors, steps, a hallway with tiles that went up and down, a guard with a rifle in front of a window. The fellow was walking beside him with his hands in his pockets; metal signs that he was unable to read. In here, he heard, and he was alone. A large room, almost in darkness: a desk with a small lamp without a shade, bare walls, a photograph of Odría wrapped in the presidential sash like a baby in a diaper. He drew back, looked at his watch, twelve-thirty, he went forward and, his legs weak, an urge to urinate. A moment later the door opened, Santiago Zavala? a faceless voice asked. Yes: here’s the one, sir. Steps, voices, the profile of Don Fermín crossing the cone of light from the lamp, his arms opening up, his face against my face, he thinks.
“Are you all right, Skinny? Have they done anything to you, Skinny?”
“Nothing, papa. I don’t know why they brought me here, I haven’t done anything, papa.”
Don Fermín looked into his eyes, embraced him again, let him go once more, half smiled and turned toward the desk where the other person had already sat down.
“There you are, Don Fermín.” You could only see his face, Carlitos, a listless, servile voice. “There’s your son and heir, safe and sound.”
“This young man never gets tired of giving me headaches.” The poor man was trying to be natural and he was theatrical, even comical,
Carlitos
. “I envy you, not having any children, Don Cayo.”
“When a person starts getting old,” yes, Carlitos, Cayo Bermúdez in person, “he’d like to have someone to represent him in the world when he’s no longer here.”
Don Fermín let out an uncomfortable laugh, sat down on a corner of the desk, and Cayo Bermúdez stood up: that’s who it was, there he was. A dry, parchmentlike, insipid face. Didn’t Don Fermín want to sit down? No, Don Cayo, he was fine.
“Look at the mess you’ve got yourself in, young fellow.” In a friendly way, Carlitos, as if he was sorry. “Wasting your time on politics instead of using it to study.”
“I’m not in politics,” Santiago said. “I was with some friends, we weren’t doing anything.”
But Bermúdez had leaned over to offer a cigarette to Don Fermín, who immediately, with an artificial smile, took an Inca, the one who could smoke only Chesterfields and hated dark tobacco, Carlitos, and put it in his mouth. He puffed on it avidly and coughed, happy to be doing something that covered up his confusion, Carlitos, the terrible
inconvenience
. Bermúdez was looking at the swirls of smoke, bored, and suddenly his eyes found Santiago:
“It’s all right for a young man to be a rebel, impulsive.” As if he was mouthing nonsense at a social gathering, Carlitos, as if he gave a damn about what he was saying. “But conspiring with Communists is a
different
matter. Don’t you know that Communism is outlawed? Imagine what would happen if the Internal Security Law was applied to you.”
“The Internal Security Law doesn’t apply to snotnoses who don’t know what they’re doing, Don Cayo.” With restrained fury, Carlitos, without raising his voice, holding back his urge to call him a swine, a servant.
“Please, Don Fermín.” As if scandalized, Carlitos, as if his jokes weren’t understood. “Not to snotnoses and least of all the son of a friend of the government like yourself.”
“Santiago’s a difficult boy, I know that full well.” Smiling and turning serious, Carlitos, changing his tone with every word. “But don’t
exaggerate
, Don Cayo. My son doesn’t conspire, least of all with Communists.”
“Let him tell us about it himself, Don Fermín.” Friendly, obsequious, Carlitos. “What he was doing in that little hotel in Rímac, what the section is, what Cahuide is. Let him explain all those little names.”
He blew out a puff of smoke, mournfully contemplated the swirls.
“In this country Communists don’t even exist, Don Cayo.” Finding it hard to speak with his coughing and his anger, Carlitos, stepping on his cigarette with rage.
“There aren’t many, but they’re a nuisance.” As if I’d left, Carlitos, or hadn’t even been there. “They put out a little mimeographed
newspaper
,
Cahuide.
Terrible things about the United States, the President, me. I have a complete collection and I’ll show it to you sometime.”
“I don’t have anything to do with that,” Santiago said. “I don’t know a single Communist at San Marcos.”
“We let them play at revolution, at whatever they want, just so long as they don’t go too far.” As if everything he was saying bored him, Carlitos. “But a political strike, supporting the streetcar workers,
whatever
San Marcos has to do with streetcar workers, that’s too much.”
“The strike isn’t political,” Santiago said. “The Federation called it. All the students …”
“This young man is a delegate from his class, a delegate to the
Federation
, a delegate on the Strike Committee.” Not listening to me or looking at me, Carlitos, smiling at my old man as if he was telling him a joke. “And a member of Cahuide, that’s the name of the Communist
organization
, for two years. Two of those arrested with him have thick files, they’re known terrorists. There wasn’t anything else we could do, Don Fermín.”
“My son can’t be kept under arrest, he’s no criminal.” Unable to hold back any longer, Carlitos, pounding on the desk, raising his voice. “I’m a friend of the government, and not just since yesterday, since the very beginning, and they owe me a lot of favors. I’m going to talk to the President right now.”
“Don Fermín, please.” As if wounded, Carlitos, as if betrayed by his best friend. “I called you so we could settle this thing between ourselves, I know better than anyone that you’re a good friend of the government. I wanted to let you know what this young man was up to, that’s all. Of course he’s not under arrest. You can take him home right now, Don Fermín.”
“Thank you very much, Don Cayo.” Confused again, Carlitos, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, trying to smile. “Don’t worry about Santiago, I’ll take charge of setting him on the right path. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave. You can imagine the state his mother is in.”
“Of course, go and reassure the lady.” Distressed, Carlitos, trying to vindicate himself, ingratiate himself. “Oh, and naturally, the young man’s name won’t appear anywhere. There’s no file on him. I assure you that there won’t be any trace of this incident.”
“Yes, that would have hurt the boy later on.” Smiling, nodding, Carlitos, trying to show him that he’d already made up with him. “Thank you, Don Cayo.”
They left. Don Fermín went ahead and the small, narrow figure of Bermúdez, his striped gray suit, his short, quick little steps. He didn’t return the guards’ salutes, the greetings of the plainclothesmen. The courtyard, the front of the Headquarters building, the gates, fresh air, the avenue. The car was at the bottom of the steps. Ambrosio took off his cap, opened the door, smiled at Santiago, good evening, young sir. Bermúdez nodded and disappeared into the main door. Don Fermín got into the car: home, quickly, Ambrosio. They left and the car headed toward Wilson, turned toward Arequipa, picking up speed at each
corner
, and all that air coming in the window, Zavalita, so he could breathe, so he didn’t have to think.
“That son of a bitch is going to pay for this.” The annoyance on his face, he thinks, the fatigue in his eyes that were looking straight ahead. “That shitty half-breed isn’t going to humiliate me like this. I’ll teach him his place.”
“The first time I ever heard him curse, Carlitos,” Santiago said. “
Insult
somebody like that.”
“He’s going to pay for it.” His brow eaten with wrinkles, he thinks, a cold rage. “I’m going to teach him how to treat his betters.”
“I’m sorry I put you through such a bad time, papa, I swear that …” And his face spinning around quickly, he thinks, and the slap that shut your mouth, Zavalita.
“The first and only time he ever hit me,” Santiago says. “Do you remember, Ambrosio?”
“You’re going to answer to me too, snotnose.” His voice changed into a grunt, he thinks. “Don’t you know that if you want to plot you’ve got to be on the ball? That only an imbecile would plot on the telephone from his house? That the police might be listening in? The telephone was tapped, you dummy.”
“They’d recorded at least ten conversations of mine with the people from Cahuide, Carlitos,” Santiago said. “Bermúdez had had him listen to them. He felt humiliated, that’s what pained him most.”
When they got to the Colegio Raimondi there was a detour; Ambrosio turned toward Arenales, and they didn’t speak until the corner of Javier Prado.
“Besides, it wasn’t because of you.” His voice depressed, worried, he thinks, hoarse. “He was keeping track of me. He took advantage of this occasion to let me know without saying it to my face.”
“I don’t think I ever felt as bitter, until that time in the whorehouse,” Santiago said. “Because they’d been arrested on my account, because of the business between Jacobo and Aída, because I’d been released and not them, because the old man was in such a state.”
Avenida Arequipa again, almost deserted, headlights and quick palm trees, gardens and darkened houses.
“So you’re a Communist, just as I predicted, you didn’t go to San Marcos to study but to play politics.” His bitter little tone, he thinks, harsh, mocking. “Letting yourself be taken in by drifters and
malcontents
.”
“I passed my exams, papa. I’ve always gotten good marks, papa.”
“What the hell do I care if you’re a Communist, an Aprista, an anarchist, or an existentialist?” Furious again, he thinks, slapping his knee, not looking at me. “If you’re a bomb-thrower or a murderer? But only after you’ve reached the age of twenty-one. Until then you’re going to study and only study. Obey, only obey.”
He thinks: there. Didn’t it occur to you that you were going to make your mother a nervous wreck? He thinks no. That you were going to get your father in a mess? No, Zavalita, it didn’t occur to you. The Avenida Angamos, Diagonal, Quebrada, Ambrosio hunched over the wheel: you didn’t think, it didn’t occur to you. Because you were quite comfortable, everything taken care of, right? Daddy fed you, daddy gave you clothes to wear and paid for your schooling and gave you money, and you playing at Communism, and you plotting against people who were giving your daddy work, not that, God damn it. Not the slap, papa, he thinks, that’s what hurt me. The Avenida 28 de Julio, its trees, the Avenida Larco, the little worm, the snake, the knives.