“We don’t give any instructions,” he said, interested in the patterns the smoke was making, the white dots on Tallio’s necktie. “We only suggest in a friendly way, and very rarely, that news items displeasing to the country not be published.”
“Yes, of course, of course I know that, Mr. Bermúdez.” Now I’ve got him just right for you, Robertito. “I’ve always followed Dr. Alcibíades’ suggestions to the letter. But this time there wasn’t any indication, no suggestion. I beg of you …”
“The government hasn’t wanted to set up an official censorship system so as not to hurt the agencies, for just that reason,” he said.
“If you don’t call Dr. Alcibíades this will never be cleared up, Mr. Bermúdez.” Your jar of vaseline and forward, Robertito. “Have him explain to you, have him explain to me. Please, sir. I don’t understand any of this, Mr. Bermúdez.”
*
“Let me order,” Carlitos said, and to the waiter: “Two German beers, the kind that comes in cans.”
He had leaned against the wall that was papered with covers from
The
New
Yorker.
The reflector was lighting up his curly hair, his wide eyes, his face darkened by a two-day beard, his reddish nose, of a rummy, he thinks, a person with a cold.
“Is that beer expensive?” Santiago asked. “I’m a little tight on cash.”
“I’m treating, I just got an advance out of those bastards,” Carlitos said. “By coming here tonight with me, your reputation as a proper little boy is dead, Zavalita.”
The covers were brilliant, humorous, multicolored. Most of the tables were empty, but on the other side of the grill work that divided the two parts of the place there were murmurs; at the bar a man in shirtsleeves was drinking a beer. Someone hidden in the darkness was playing the piano.
“I’ve left whole pay checks behind me here,” Carlitos said. “I feel at home in this den.”
“It’s my first time at the Negro-Negro,” Santiago said. “A lot of artists and writers come here, don’t they?”
“Shipwrecked artists and writers,” Carlitos said. “When I was a young squirt I used to come in here like a religious old biddy into church. From that corner I used to spy, listen in, when I recognized a writer my heart would swell up. I wanted to be close to the geniuses, I wanted to be infected by them.”
“I knew you were a writer too,” Santiago said. “That you’ve published poetry.”
“I was going to be a writer, I was going to publish poetry,” Carlitos said. “Then I joined
La
Crónica
and switched vocations.”
“Do you like journalism better than literature?” Santiago asked.
“I like drinking best.” Carlitos laughed. “Journalism isn’t a vocation, it’s a frustration, you’ll find out soon enough.”
He shrugged, sketches and caricatures and titles in English where his head had been, and there was the grimace that twisted his face, Zavalita, his clenched fists. He touched his arm: didn’t he feel well? Carlitos straightened up, leaned his head against the wall.
“Probably my ulcer again.” Now he had a crow-man on one shoulder and a skyscraper on the other. “Probably the lack of alcohol. Because even though I may seem drunk, I haven’t had anything all day.”
The only one you have left and in the hospital with the d.t.’s, Zavalita. You’d go see him tomorrow without fail, Carlitos, you’d take him a book.
“I’d come in here and feel I was in Paris,” Carlitos said. “I thought, I’ll get to Paris someday, and boom, a genius, as if by magic. But I never got there, Zavalita, and here I am with stomach cramps of a pregnant woman. What were you going to be when you were cast away on
La
Crónica?
”
“A lawyer,” Santiago said. “No, a revolutionary, I mean a
Communist
.”
“Communist and journalist rhyme at least, but poet and journalist, on the other hand,” Carlitos said, and, starting to laugh: “A Communist? They fired me from a job for being a Communist. If it hadn’t been for that I wouldn’t have got on the paper and I’d probably be writing poetry.”
“Do you know what the d.t.’s are?” Santiago asks. “When you don’t want to know something, nobody will ever get ahead of you, Ambrosio.”
“What in hell would I be doing being a Communist,” Carlitos said. “That’s the funniest part of it, the truth is I never did find out why they fired me. But they screwed me, and here I am, a drunk with ulcers. Cheers, proper little boy, cheers, Zavalita.”
*
Miss Queta was the mistress’s best friend, the one who came the most to the little house in San Miguel, the one who never missed parties. Tall, long-legged, red hair, dyed, Carlota used to say, cinnamon-colored skin, a body that attracted more attention than Señora Hortensia’s, her clothes too, and her way of talking and her antics when she was drinking. She was the liveliest one at the parties, a daredevil for dancing, she really did put herself at the service of the guests, she never stopped provoking them. She would sneak up behind them, muss their hair, pull their ears, sit them down on her knees, a bold one. But she was the one who livened up the night with her madness. The first time she saw Amalia she stood looking at her with a very strange smile, and she examined her and looked at her and was thinking and Amalia what’s the matter with her, what’s wrong with me. So you’re the famous Amalia, I’ve finally met you. Famous for what, ma’am? The one who steals hearts, who destroys men, Miss Queta was laughing, Amalia the passion flower. Crazy but so nice. When she wasn’t playing tricks on the phone with the mistress, she was telling jokes. She would come in with a perverse joy in her eyes, I’ve got a thousand new stories, kid, and from the kitchen Amalia would hear her carrying on, gossiping, making fun of everybody. She also played tricks on Carlota and Amalia which left them mute and with their faces burning. But she was very good, whenever she sent them to the
Chinaman’s
to buy something she would give them one or two soles. On one day off she had Amalia get into her little white car and she drove her to the streetcar stop.
*
“Alcibíades telephoned your office in person asking that that piece of news not be sent to the newspapers.” He sighed, barely smiling. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if I hadn’t already looked into it, Mr. Tallio.”
“But it can’t be.” His ruddy face devastated by his upset, his tongue suddenly thick. “My office, Mr. Bermúdez? But my secretary gives me all the … Dr. Alcibíades in person? I don’t understand how …”
“They didn’t give you the message?” he helped him, without sarcasm. “Well, I imagine something like that. Alcibíades spoke to one of the editors, I think.”
“One of the editors?” Not a trace of the smiling aplomb, the
exuberance
of before. “But it can’t be, Mr. Bermúdez. I’m all mixed up, I’m terribly sorry. Do you know which editor, sir? I’ve only got two, and well, all I can say is that I can assure you it won’t happen again.”
“I was surprised because we’ve always had good relations with Ansa,” he said. “National Radio and the Information Service buy your complete bulletins. That costs the government money, as you well know.”
“Of course, Mr. Bermúdez.” So get mad now and sing your aria, opera singer. “Can I use your phone? I’m going to find out right now who got Dr. Alcibíades’ message. This is going to be cleared up right now, Mr. Bermúdez.”
“Sit down, don’t worry about it.” He smiled at him and offered him a cigarette, lighted it for him. “We have enemies everywhere, there must be someone who doesn’t like us in your office. You can investigate later, Mr. Tallio.”
“But those two editors are a couple of boys who …” Grieved, with a tragicomic expression. “Well, I’m going to clear this up today. I’m going to ask that in the future Dr. Alcibíades always communicate with me personally.”
“Yes, that would be the best thing,” he said; he reflected, observing as if by chance the clippings that were dancing in Tallio’s hands. “The sad part is that it’s created a bit of a problem for me. The President, the Minister are going to ask me why we buy bulletins from an agency that gives us headaches. And since I’m the one responsible for the contract with Ansa, you can imagine.”
“That’s precisely why I’m bothered, Mr. Bermúdez.” And that’s so true, you probably wish you were miles away from here. “The person who spoke to the doctor will be fired today, sir.”
“Because things like this are bad for the government,” he said, as if thinking aloud and with melancholy. “Enemies take advantage when a piece of news like that appears in the press that way. They already give us enough problems. It isn’t right for friends to give us problems too, don’t you think?”
“It won’t happen again, Mr. Bermúdez.” He had taken out a pale blue handkerchief, was drying his hands furiously. “Of that you can be sure. You can be sure of that, Mr. Bermúdez.”
*
“I admire the dregs of humanity.” Carlitos doubled over again as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “The police beat has corrupted me, as you can see.”
“Don’t have any more to drink,” Santiago said. “We’d better go.”
But Carlitos had sat up straight again and was smiling.
“With the second beer the jabs disappear and I feel great, you still don’t know me. This is the first time we’ve had a drink together, isn’t it?” Yes, Carlitos, he thinks, it was the first time. “You’re so serious, Zavalita, you finish work and you take off. You never come to have a drink with us castaways. Are you afraid we’ll corrupt you?”
“I can just get by on my salary,” Santiago said. “If I went to brothels with you people, I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent.”
“Do you live by yourself?” Carlitos asked. “I thought you were a good family boy. Haven’t you got any relatives? And how old are you? You’re just a kid, aren’t you?”
“A lot of questions all at the same time,” Santiago said. “I have a family, yes, but I live alone. Listen, how can you people get drunk and go to whorehouses with the money you make? I can’t understand it.”
“A professional secret,” Carlitos said. “The art of living in debt, dodging creditors. And why don’t you go to whorehouses, have you got a woman?”
“Are you going to ask me if I jerk off too?” Santiago said.
“If you haven’t got one and you don’t go to whorehouses, I imagine you must jerk off,” Carlitos said. “Unless you’re a fag.”
He doubled over again and when he straightened up his face was all twisted. He leaned his curly head against the magazine covers, kept his eyes closed for a moment, then dug into his pockets, took out something that he put to his nose and breathed in deeply. He stayed with his head back like that, his mouth half open, with an expression of peaceful drunkenness. He opened his eyes, looked mockingly at Santiago.
“To put the daggers in my belly to sleep. Don’t look surprised, I’m not proselytizing.”
“Are you trying to surprise me?” Santiago asked. “You’re wasting your time. A drunk, an addict, I knew it all the time, everybody on the paper told me. I don’t pass judgment on people over things like that.”
Carlitos smiled affectionately at him and offered him a cigarette.
“I had a bad impression of you because I’d heard you’d been hired on somebody’s recommendation and because you didn’t hang around with us. But I was wrong. I like you, Zavalita.”
He was speaking slowly and on his face there was a growing ease and his gestures were becoming more and more ceremonious and slow.
“I sniffed coke once, but it made me sick.” It was a lie, Carlitos. “I vomited and my stomach got all upset.”
“You still haven’t turned bitter and you’ve already been on
La
Crónica
for three months, right?” Carlitos was saying with absorption, as if he were praying.
“Three months and a half,” Santiago said. “I just finished the trial period. They gave me a contract on Monday.”
“I feel sorry for you,” Carlitos said. “Now you’ve got your whole life ahead of you as a newspaperman. Listen, come closer so nobody can hear. I’m going to tell you a big secret. Poetry is the greatest thing there is, Zavalita.”
*
That time Miss Queta arrived at the little house in San Miguel at noon. She blew in like a storm, as she passed she pinched Amalia’s cheek when she opened the door for her and Amalia thought high as a kite. Señora Hortensia appeared at the top of the stairs and Miss Queta threw her a kiss: I’ve come to rest awhile, girl, old Ivonne’s been looking for me and I’m dead from lack of sleep. How popular you’ve become, the mistress laughed, come on up, girl. They went into the bedroom and a while later a shout from the mistress, bring us some cold beer. Amalia went up with the tray and from the door she saw Miss Queta collapsed on the bed with just her slip on. Her dress and shoes and stockings were on the floor, and she was singing, laughing and talking to herself. It was as if the mistress had been infected by Miss Queta, because even though she hadn’t had anything to drink in the morning, she too was laughing, singing and joking with Miss Queta from the stool by the dressing table. Miss Queta pounded the pillow, did gymnastics, her red hair covering her face, in the mirrors her long legs looked like those of an enormous centipede. She saw the tray and sat down, oh, she was so thirsty, she drank half her glass in one swallow, oh, how delicious. And suddenly she grabbed Amalia by the wrist, come here come here, looking at her with such deviltry, don’t leave me. Amalia looked at the mistress, but she was looking at Miss Queta roguishly, as if thinking what are you going to do, and then she laughed too. Listen, you find good ones, girl, and Miss Queta pretended to threaten the mistress, you’ve been cheating on me with this one, haven’t you? and the mistress let out one of her laughs: yes, I’ve been cheating on you with her. But you don’t know who this little innocent has been cheating on you with, Miss Queta was laughing. Amalia’s ears began to buzz, Miss Queta shook her arm and began to sing, an eye for an eye, girl, a tooth for a tooth, and she looked at Amalia and as a joke or seriously? tell me Amalia, in the morning after the master leaves do you come to console this girl? Amalia didn’t know whether to be
annoyed
or to laugh. Sometimes yes, then she stammered and she must have said something funny. Oh, you devil, Miss Queta exploded, looking at the mistress and the mistress, dying with laughter, I’ll loan her to you, but take good care of her for me, and Miss Queta gave Amalia a push and made her sit on the bed. It was good that the mistress got up, ran over and, laughing, struggled with Miss Queta until she let her go: go on, get out of here, Amalia, this nut is going to corrupt you. Amalia left the room, pursued by the laughter of both of them, and went down the stairs laughing, but her legs were trembling and when she went into the kitchen she was serious and furious. Símula was scrubbing the
washbasin
, humming: what’s the matter. And Amalia: nothing, they’re drunk and they were trying to embarrass me.