*
The stairway from the living room to the second floor had a red carpet held down by gold staples and on the wall there were little Indians playing the
quena,
driving herds of llamas. The bathroom gleamed with tiles, the washbasin and the tub were pink, in the mirror Amalia could see her whole body. But the prettiest of all was the mistress’s bedroom, during the first days she would use any excuse to go up there and she never got tired of looking at it. The rug was sea blue, the same as the drapes by the balcony, but what attracted her most was the bed, so broad, so low, with its crocodile legs and its black spread with that yellow animal that breathed fire. And why so many mirrors? It had been hard for her to get used to that multiplication of Amalias, to see herself repeated like that, cast like that from the mirror on the dressing table to the one on the screen and from the one on the closet (so many dresses, blouses, slacks, turbans, shoes) to that useless mirror hanging from the ceiling, where the dragon appeared as if in a cage. There was only one picture and her face burned the first time she saw it. Señora Zoila would never have hung a naked woman clutching her breasts with such
brazenness
in her bedroom, showing everything with such impudence. But here everything was daring, beginning with the wild spending. Why did they buy so much at the food stores? Because the lady gives a lot of parties, Carlota told her, the master’s friends were important people, they had to be well taken care of. The mistress was like a multimillionaire, she didn’t worry about money. Amalia had been ashamed when she saw the bills Símula brought. She was robbing her blind in the daily budget and she as if nothing was wrong, you spent all that? all right, and she would take the change without bothering to count it.
*
While the car was going along the central highway, he was reading papers, underlining sentences, making notes in the margin. The sun disappeared when they got to Vitarte, the gray atmosphere grew cooler as they approached Lima. It was eight-thirty-five when the car stopped at the Plaza Italia and Ambrosio got out and ran to open the door for him: Ludovico should be at the Club Cajamarca at four-thirty,
Ambrosio
. He went into the Ministry, the desks were empty, there wasn’t anyone where the secretaries worked either. But Dr. Alcibíades was already at his desk, going over the newspapers with a red pencil in his hand. He stood up, good morning, Don Cayo, and the latter handed him a handful of papers: these telegrams right away, doctor. He pointed to the secretaries’ desks, didn’t those ladies know they were supposed to be there at eight-thirty, and Dr. Alcibíades looked at the clock on the wall: it was just eight-thirty, Don Cayo. He was already going off. He went into his office, took off his jacket, loosened his tie. The correspondence was on the blotter: police reports on the left, telegrams and communiqués in the center, letters and applications on the right. He moved the
wastebasket
over with his foot, began with the reports. He read, took notes, separated, tore up. He was finishing looking through the correspondence when the telephone rang: General Espina, Don Cayo, are you in? Yes, yes, he was in, doctor, put him on.
*
The man with white hair gave him a friendly smile and offered him a chair: so, young Zavala, of course Clodomiro had spoken to him. In his eyes there was the gleam of an accomplice, in his hands something cheery and unctuous, his desk was immaculately clean. Yes, Clodomiro and he had been great friends ever since their schooldays; on the other hand his dad, Fermín, right? he’d never known him, he was quite a bit younger than us, and he smiled again: so, you had problems at home? Yes, Clodomiro had told him. Well, that’s part of the times, young people want to be independent.
“That’s why I have to get a job,” Santiago said. “My Uncle Clodomiro thought that maybe you …”
“You’re in luck.” Mr. Vallejo nodded. “It so happens we’ve been looking for some extra help in the local news section.”
“I haven’t got much experience, but I’ll do everything possible to learn fast,” Santiago said. “I thought that if I got a job on
La
Crónica,
maybe I could still go to Law School.”
“Since I’ve been here I haven’t seen many newspapermen who’ve gone on with their studies,” Mr. Vallejo said. “I have to warn you about something, in case you didn’t know. Journalism is the
worst-paying
profession there is. The one that leads to the most bitterness too.”
“I always had a liking for it, sir,” Santiago said. “I always thought that it was the one that had the closest contact with life.”
“Fine, fine.” Mr. Vallejo ran his hand over his snowy head, nodded with benevolent eyes. “I know you haven’t worked on a newspaper before, we’ll see how it turns out. Now I’d like to get an idea of your qualifications.” He became very serious, put on a somewhat affected voice: “A fire at the Casa Wiese. Two dead, five million soles in damages, the firemen worked all night to put the fire out. The police are
investigating
to find out whether it was an accident or a criminal act. Just a couple of typewritten pages. There are plenty of machines in the editorial room, take any one of them.”
Santiago nodded. He stood up, went into the editorial room and when he sat down at the first desk his hands began to sweat. It was good there wasn’t anybody there. The Remington in front of him looked like a small coffin, Carlitos. That’s exactly what it was, Zavalita.
*
Next to the mistress’s bedroom was the study: three small easy chairs, a lamp, a bookcase. That’s where the master would shut himself up on his visits to the little house in San Miguel, and if he was with somebody, there wasn’t to be any noise, even Señora Hortensia would go down to the living room, turn off the radio and if there was a telephone call, she wouldn’t talk. What a bad temper the master must have had if they put on such an act, Amalia was surprised the first time. Why did the mistress have three servants if the master only came from time to time? Black Símula was fat, gray-haired, quiet, and she made a bad impression on her. On the other hand, she made friends right away with her daughter Carlota, tall and skinny, without breasts, kinky hair, very pleasant. She doesn’t have three because she needs them, Carlota told her, but so she can have something to spend the money the master gives her on. Was he very rich? Carlota widened her big eyes: very rich, he was in the government, he was a minister. That’s why when Don Cayo came to spend the night, two policemen would appear on the corner, and the chauffeur and the other man in the car would spend the whole night waiting for him by the door. How could such a young and pretty woman go with a man who only reached to her ear when she wore high heels? He was old enough to be her father and he was ugly and he didn’t even dress well. Do you think the mistress is in love with him, Carlota? How could she be in love with him, she’s more likely in love with his money. He must have had a lot in order to set her up in a house like that and to have bought her all those clothes and jewels and shoes. How come, being so pretty, she hadn’t been able to get him to marry her? But Señora Hortensia didn’t seem to care very much about marriage, she was happy the way she was. She never seemed anxious to have the master come. Of course, when he did appear, she killed herself looking after him, and when the master called to say I’m coming to have dinner with a few friends, she spent the whole day giving instructions to Símula, watching to see that Amalia and Carlota left the house spotless. But the master would leave and she wouldn’t mention him again, she never called him on the phone and she seemed so happy, so unworried, so involved with her girl friends that Amalia thought she doesn’t even think about him. The master wasn’t at all like Don Fermín who you could see just by looking at him had breeding and money. Don Cayo was very small, his face was leathery, his hair yellowish like shredded tobacco, sunken eyes that looked coldly and from a distance, wrinkles on his neck, an almost lipless mouth and teeth stained from smoking, because he always had a cigarette in his hand. He was so skinny that the front part of his suit almost touched the back. When Símula couldn’t hear them, she and Carlota had a great time making fun of him: imagine him naked, what a little skeleton, such little arms, legs. He rarely ever changed suits, his neckties were poorly tied, and his nails were dirty. He never said hello or good-bye, when they greeted him he replied with a grunt and didn’t look. He always seemed busy, worried, in a hurry, he lighted his
cigarettes
with the butt of the one he was going to put out and when he spoke on the telephone he only said yes, no, tomorrow, all right, and when the mistress joked with him, he barely wrinkled his cheeks and that was his laugh. Could he be married, what kind of life did he live outside? Amalia imagined him living with an old, very religious woman who was always dressed in mourning.
*
“Hello, hello?” General Espina’s voice repeated. “Hello, Alcibíades?”
“Yes?” he said softly. “Uplander?”
“Cayo? Well, at last.” Espina’s voice was harshly jovial. “I’ve been calling you since the day before yesterday and there wasn’t any way to reach you. Not at the Ministry, not at home. I hope you’re not trying to avoid me, Cayo.”
“You’ve been trying to call me?” He had a pencil in his right hand, sketching a circle. “The first I heard of it, Uplander.”
“Ten times, Cayo. What do I mean, ten times? fifteen at least.”
“I’ll check on it and find out why they didn’t give me the message.” A second circle, parallel to the other one. “Tell me what it is, Uplander, I’m at your service.”
A pause, an uncomfortable cough, Espina’s spaced breathing:
“What’s the meaning of that plainclothesman in front of my house, Cayo?” He was covering up his bad mood by speaking slowly, but it made it worse. “Is it for protection or to keep an eye on me or just what the hell is it?”
“As an ex-minister you rate at least a doorman paid by the
government
, Uplander.” He finished the third circle, paused, changed his tone. “I don’t know anything about it, friend. They’ve probably forgotten that you don’t need protection anymore. If that fellow bothers you, I’ll see that he’s removed.”
“He doesn’t bother me, he surprises me,” Espina said dryly. “Tell me straight, Cayo. Does that fellow there mean that the government doesn’t trust me anymore?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Uplander. If the government doesn’t trust you, who could they trust, then?”
“That’s just it, that’s just it.” Espina’s voice was slow, stumbled, was slow again. “Why shouldn’t I be surprised, Cayo. You probably think I’m too old not to recognize a plainclothesman when I see one.”
“Don’t get all upset over foolishness.” The fifth circle: smaller than the others, with a small dent in it. “Do you think we’d put a
plainclothesman
on you? It must be some Don Juan making time with your maid.”
“Well, he’d better disappear from here, because I’m in a bad mood, you know well enough.” Angry now, breathing heavily. “I might get worked up and put a bullet in him. I wanted to warn you just in case.”
“Don’t waste bullets on a buzzard.” He fixed the circle, made it bigger, rounded it, now it was the same size as the others. “I’m going to check on it today. Lozano was probably trying to butter me up by putting an agent on you to look after your house. I’ll have him removed, Uplander.”
“All right, I wasn’t serious about shooting him.” Calmer now, trying to joke. “But you can understand how this thing has made me mad, Cayo.”
“You’re a mistrustful and ungrateful Uplander,” he said. “What more could you ask but someone to guard your house with so many sneak thieves on the loose. All right, forget about the whole thing. How’s your family? Why don’t we have lunch one of these days?”
“Whenever you say, I’ve got all the time in the world now.” A little short, hesitant, as if ashamed of the peevishness he found in his own voice. “You’re the one who probably doesn’t have much time, right? Since I left the Ministry you haven’t called me even once. And it’s going on three months.”
“You’re right, Uplander, but you know what it’s like here.” Eight circles: five in one row, three underneath; he started the ninth one, carefully. “I’ve been about to call you several times. Next week, come what may. Take care, Uplander.”
He hung up before Espina finished saying good-bye, looked at the nine circles for a moment, tore up the sheet of paper and threw the pieces into the wastebasket.
*
“It took me an hour to do it,” Santiago said. “I rewrote the two pages four or five times, I corrected the punctuation by hand in front of Vallejo.”
Mr. Vallejo was reading attentively, the pencil poised over the sheet of paper, he was nodding, he marked a small cross, he moved his lips a little, another cross, fine fine, simple and correct language, he calmed him with a merciful look, that means a lot already. Just that …
“If you hadn’t passed the test you would have gone back to the fold and now you’d be a model Mirafloran.” Carlitos laughed. “Your name would be in the society columns like your brother’s.”
“I was a little nervous, sir,” Santiago said. “Shall I do it over again?”
“Becerrita put me through the test,” Carlitos said. “There was an opening on the police beat. I’ll never forget.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not too bad.” Mr. Vallejo shook his white head, looked at him with his friendly pale eyes. “Just that you’ll have to go on learning the trade if you’re going to work with us.”
“A nut goes into a whorehouse on Huatica in a drunken rage and knifes four girls, the madam and two fairies,” Becerrita grunted. “One of the chippies dies. Two pages in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Vallejo,” Santiago said. “You don’t know how grateful I am.”
“I had the feeling he was pissing on me,” Carlitos said. “Oh,
Becerrita
.”
“It’s simply a question of placing the facts according to their
importance
and also to economize your words.” Mr. Vallejo had numbered a few sentences and given the pages back to him. “You have to start with the dead people, young man.”