“We all said bad things about Becerrita, we all hated him,” Santiago said. “And now all we do is talk about him, we all love him and we’d like to bring him back to life. It’s absurd.”
“What’s most eye-catching, what attracts people’s attention,” Mr. Vallejo added. “That makes the reader become concerned about the news. Maybe because we all have to die someday.”
“He was the most authentic thing in Lima journalism,” Carlitos said. “Human filth elevated to its maximum power, a perfect model. Who wouldn’t remember him with affection, Zavalita?”
“And I put the deaths at the end, that was stupid of me,” Santiago said.
“Do you know what those three lines are?” Mr. Vallejo looked at him roguishly. “What the Americans, the sharpest newspapermen in the world, you should know, call the lead.”
“He gave you the full lesson,” Carlitos said. “On the other hand, Becerrita barked at me you write with your feet, you’re being kept on only because I’m tired of giving tests.”
“All the important facts summed up in the first three lines, in the lead,” Mr. Vallejo said affectionately. “Or: two dead and five million soles damage is the cost so far of the fire that destroyed a large part of the Casa Wiese, one of the main buildings of downtown Lima, last night; firemen had the flames under control after eight hours of dangerous work. Do you see?”
“Try writing poetry after you’ve set those formulas in your head,” Carlitos said. “A person has to be crazy to work on a newspaper if he has any liking for literature, Zavalita.”
“Then you can color up the story,” Mr. Vallejo said. “The origins of the fire, the anguish of the workers, the statements of witnesses, et cetera.”
“I never had any more after my sister made a fool of me,” Santiago said. “I was happy to join
La
Crónica,
Carlitos.”
*
How different, on the other hand, Señora Hortensia. He so ugly and she so pretty, he so serious and she so merry. She wasn’t haughty like Señora Zoila, who seemed to be speaking from a throne, even when she raised her voice she didn’t make her feel like an inferior. She spoke to her without any pose, as if she were speaking to Miss Queta. And she really did such wild things. Such a lack of shame in certain things. My only vices are drinking and pills, but Amalia thought your only vice is
cleanliness
. If she saw a little dust on the rug, Amalia, the dust mop! an ashtray with butts, as if she’d seen a rat, Carlota, this filth! She bathed when she got up and when she went to bed, and, worst of all, she also wanted them to spend their lives in water. The day after Amalia came to the little house in San Miguel, when she was bringing up her breakfast in bed, the mistress looked her up and down: did you bathe yet? No, ma’am, Amalia said with surprise, and then she showed the signs of disgust of a little girl, run and get in the shower, she had to bathe every day here. And half an hour later, when Amalia, her teeth chattering, was under the spray of water, the bathroom door opened and the mistress appeared in her robe, a cake of soap in her hand. Amalia felt her body burning, turned off the faucet, didn’t dare reach for her clothes, stayed with her head down, frowning. Are you embarrassed by me? the mistress laughed. No, she stammered, and the mistress laughed again: you were taking a shower without any soap, just as I imagined; here, soap yourself up. And while Amalia was doing that—the soap slipped out of her hands three times, she rubbed so hard that her skin burned—the mistress remained there, tapping her toe, enjoying her embarrassment, now your little ears, now your little feet, giving her commands in a merry way, looking at her as bold as life. All right, that’s how she had to bathe and scrub herself every day and she opened the door to leave, but she took the time to give Amalia such a look: you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, even though you’re skinny, you’re not too bad. She left and outside another loud laugh.
Would Señora Zoila have done something like that? She felt nauseous, her face on fire. Button your uniform up all the way, don’t wear such short skirts. Later, while they were cleaning the living room, Amalia told Carlota about it and she rolled her eyes: that’s the way the mistress was, she wasn’t embarrassed by anything, she came in to see her showering too, to see if she was using plenty of soap. But not just that, she made her put powder under her armpits too, so she wouldn’t sweat. Every morning, half asleep, stretching, the mistress’s good morning was did you take a bath? did you use the deodorant? And just as she was intimate about things like that, she didn’t care if they saw her either. One morning Amalia saw her bed empty and heard water running in the bathroom: should she leave her breakfast on the night table, ma’am? No, bring it in to me here. She went in and the mistress was in the tub, her head resting on a pillow, her eyes closed. The room was full of steam,
everything
was warm and Amalia stopped in the doorway, looking with curiosity, with uncertainty at the white body under the water. The mistress opened her eyes: I’m really hungry, bring it here. Slowly she sat up in the tub and reached out her hands for the tray. In the foggy atmosphere, Amalia saw her breasts appear, covered with small drops of water, the dark nipples. She didn’t know where to look or what to do, and the mistress (with cheery eyes she began to drink her juice, butter her toast) suddenly saw her standing petrified by the tub. What was she doing there with her mouth open? and with a mocking voice don’t you like what you see? Ma’am, I, Amalia murmured, drawing back, and the mistress a loud laugh: go ahead, you can pick up the tray later. Would Señora Zoila have allowed her to come in while she was bathing? How different she was, how shameless, how pleasant. The first Sunday in the little house in San Miguel, in order to make a good impression she asked her, can I go to mass for a while? The mistress gave one of her laughs: go ahead, but watch out that the priest doesn’t rape you, little church mouse. She never goes to mass, Carlota told her afterward, we don’t go anymore either. That was why there wasn’t a single Sacred Heart of Jesus in the little house in San Miguel, a single Saint Rose of Lima. She too stopped going to mass after a little while.
*
There was a knock on the door, he said come in and Dr. Alcibíades came in.
“I haven’t got much time, doctor,” he said, pointing to the pile of newspaper clippings Alcibíades was carrying. “Anything important?”
“The news from Buenos Aires, Don Cayo. It appeared in all of them.”
He reached out his hand, thumbed through the clippings. Alcibíades had marked the headlines with red ink—“Anti-Peruvian incident in Buenos Aires,”
La
Prensa
said; “Apristas stone Peruvian Embassy in Argentina,” said
La
Crónica;
“Peruvian flag torn and insulted by
Apristas
,”
El
Comercio
said, and he’d marked the end of the story with arrows.
“They all published the cable from Ansa,” he yawned.
“United Press, Associated Press and the other agencies took the news out of their dispatches as we asked them to,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “Now they’re going to protest because Ansa got a scoop. Ansa wasn’t given any instructions, because as you …”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Get me, what’s the name of that fellow at Ansa? Tallio, isn’t it? Have him come over immediately.”
“Yes, Don Cayo,” Dr. Alcibíades said. “Mr. Lozano’s waiting outside now.”
“Have him come in and don’t let anyone interrupt us,” he said. “When the Minister gets in, tell him I’ll be in his office at three o’clock. I’ll sign the correspondence later. That’s all, doctor.”
Alcibíades left and he opened the first drawer of the desk. He took out a small bottle and looked at it for a moment with displeasure. He took out a pill, wet it with his saliva and swallowed it.
*
“How long have you been a newspaperman, sir?” Santiago asked.
“About thirty years, just imagine.” Mr. Vallejo’s eyes wandered off in the depths of time, a slight tremor shook his hand. “I began by carrying stories from the editorial room to the presses. Well, I’ve got no
complaints
. It’s an ungrateful profession, but it also gives a little
satisfaction
.”
“The greatest satisfaction they gave him was by making him resign,” Carlitos said. “I was always surprised that a guy like Vallejo was a newspaperman. He was so gentle, so innocent, so proper. It wasn’t possible, he had to end up in a bad way.”
“You’ll start officially on the first.” Mr. Vallejo looked at the Esso calendar on the wall. “Next Tuesday, that is. If you want to get into the swing of things, you can take a look into the editorial room at night before then.”
“You mean that to be a newspaperman the first condition is not to know what the lead is?” Santiago asked.
“No, to be a swine, or at least to know how to act like one.” Carlitos nodded jovially. “I don’t have to make an effort anymore. You still do a little bit, Zavalita.”
“Five hundred soles a month isn’t very much,” Mr. Vallejo said. “While you’re catching on. You’ll get more later on.”
When he left
La
Crónica
he passed a man at the entrance who had a millimetric little mustache and an iridescent tie, Hernández the
headline
writer, he thinks, but on the Plaza San Martín he’d already forgotten about the interview with Vallejo: could he have been looking for him, left a note, be waiting for him? No, when he went into the boardinghouse, Señora Lucía only said good evening to him. He went down the dark hallway to call his Uncle Clodomiro.
“It worked out fine, uncle, I start on the first. Mr. Vallejo was very nice.”
“Well, I’m glad, Skinny,” Uncle Clodomiro said. “I can see that you’re happy.”
“Very happy, uncle. Now I can pay back what you loaned me.”
“There’s no hurry.” Uncle Clodomiro paused. “You ought to call your parents, don’t you think? They won’t ask you to come back home if you don’t want to, I already told you that. But you can’t leave them the way they are, with no news.”
“I’ll call them soon, uncle. I’d rather wait a few more days. You’ve already told them I’m fine, that there’s no need to worry.”
“You always talk about your father and never about your mother,” Carlitos said. “Didn’t she go into a fit over your running away?”
“She probably cried her eyes out, I suppose, but she didn’t come looking for me either,” Santiago said. “She wasn’t going to lose the excuse to see herself as a martyr.”
“You mean you still hate her,” Carlitos said. “I thought you were all over that.”
“I thought so too,” Santiago said. “But you can see, all of a sudden I come out with something and it turns out that I’m not.”
2
W
HAT A DIFFERENT LIFE
Señora Hortensia led. Such disorder, such habits. She would get up very late. Amalia would bring up her breakfast at ten o’clock, along with all the newspapers and magazines she could find at the stand on the corner, but after having her juice, her coffee and her toast, the mistress would stay in bed, reading or relaxing, and she never came downstairs before twelve. After Símula went over the
accounts
with her, the mistress would fix her little drink, her peanuts or potato chips, put on some records, and start her telephone calls. For no reason, just because, just like the ones between Missy Teté and her girl friends: did you see that the Chilean girl is going to work at the Embassy Club, Quetita? in
Última
Hora
they said that Lula was twenty pounds overweight, Quetita, they accused China of fooling around with a bongo player, Quetita. She called Miss Queta most of all, told her dirty jokes, would jabber about everybody, Miss Queta probably told her stories and jabbered too. And what a mouth. During the first days at the little house in San Miguel she thought she was dreaming, was Polla really going to marry that faggot, Quetita? that dummy of a Paqueta was going bald, Quetita: the foulest words and laughing as if they were nothing.
Sometimes
the cursing would reach the kitchen and Símula would close the door. At first it shocked Amalia, later on she would die laughing and run to the pantry, what she was gossiping about to Miss Queta or Miss Carmincha or Miss Lucy or Señora Ivonne. When she sat down to lunch the mistress had already had two or three drinks and was flushed, her eyes glowing with deviltry, almost always in a good mood: are you still a virgin, black girl? and Carlota stupefied, her big mouth open, not knowing what to answer; do you have a lover, Amalia? what a thing to think, ma’am, and the mistress laughing: if you don’t have one, you probably have two, Amalia.
*
What was it that rubbed him the wrong way about him? His greasy face, his little pig eyes, his fawning eyes? Was it his smell of a plainclothesman, an informer, a brothel, armpits, gonorrhea? No, it wasn’t that. What was it, then? Lozano had sat down in one of the leather chairs and was meticulously putting papers and notebooks in order on the small desk. He picked up a pencil, his cigarettes, and sat down in another chair.
“How’s Ludovico getting along?” Lozano smiled, leaning over. “Are you satisfied with him, Don Cayo?”
“I haven’t got much time, Lozano.” It was his voice. “Be as brief as possible, please.”
“Of course, Don Cayo.” The voice of an old whore, or a retired cuckold. “Where do you want to start, Don Cayo?”
“Construction workers.” He lighted a cigarette, watched the chubby hands riffling eagerly through the papers. “The election results.”
“Espinoza’s ticket elected by a wide margin, no incidents,” Lozano said with an enormous smile. “Senator Parra was present at the
installation
of the new union. They gave him a big hand, Don Cayo.”
“How many votes did the redtails’ ticket get?”
“Twenty-four as against a little over two hundred.” Lozano’s hand made a gesture of disdain, his mouth tightened with disgust. “Agh, nothing.”
“I hope you didn’t lock up all of Espinoza’s opponents.”