“He wants to move out, Quetita,” her voice syrupy and comical, her pouting theatrical. “He doesn’t love me anymore.”
“What do you care.” Queta leaned over onto the chair, opened her arms, embraced Hortensia. “Let him go, girl, I’ll console you.”
He heard Hortensia’s challenging laugh, saw her cling tightly to Queta and thought: always the same thing. Laughing, playing, giving in to the game, the two of them were embracing, soldered together on the couch so that their bodies overflowed, and he saw their lips pecking at each other, separating and coming together in the midst of laughter, their feet intertwined. He watched them from the bottom step, smoking, a
benevolent
half-smile on his lips, feeling a sudden indecision in his eyes, a burst of rage in his chest. Suddenly, with a gesture of defeat, he dropped into the chair and let go of the briefcase, which slid to the floor.
“That business about eight hours of sleep, the Development
Commission
is a lie,” he thought, barely aware that he was also saying it. “He’s probably gambling at the club right now. He wanted to stay but his vice was stronger.”
They were tickling each other, with exaggerated little shouts,
whispering
secrets, and their quivering, hand-play and impudence was bringing them to the edge of the sofa. They never did fall off: they would advance and retreat, pushing each other, holding each other, laughing all the while. He didn’t take his eyes off them, his face frowning, his eyes half closed but alert. His mouth felt very dry.
“The only vice I don’t understand,” he thought aloud. “The only one that’s stupid in a man with Landa’s money. Gambling, to get more, to lose what he has? Nobody’s ever satisfied, there’s always too much or too little of everything.”
“Look at him, he’s talking to himself.” Hortensia lifted her face from Queta’s throat and pointed at him. “He’s gone crazy. He’s decided not to leave, look at him.”
“Get me a drink,” he said, resigned. “You two are going to be the ruination of me.”
Smiling, muttering something, Hortensia went to the bar, stumbling, and he sought Queta’s eyes and indicated the pantry: close that door, the maids were probably awake. Hortensia brought him his glass of whiskey and sat on his lap. While he drank, holding the liquid in his mouth, savoring it with his eyes closed, he felt her bare arm around his neck, her hand as it mussed his hair, and heard her incoherent, tender voice: little Cayo Shithead, little Cayo Shithead. The fire in his throat was bearable, even pleasant. He sighed, pushed Hortensia away, got up and went up the stairs without looking at them. A ghost that suddenly took on substance and jumped on a person from behind and knocked him down: that’s what probably had happened to Landa, to all of them. He went into the bedroom and didn’t turn on the light. He felt his way over to the chair by the dressing table, heard his own grumpy little laugh. He took off his tie, jacket, and sat down. Mrs. Heredia was downstairs, she was on her way up. Rigid, motionless, he waited for her to come up.
*
“Are you worried about the time?” Santiago asks. “Don’t worry about it. A friend gave me an infallible prescription against anguish,
Ambrosio
.”
“We’d better stay here,” Sparky said. “It’s a drunken brawl out there. If we get out somebody will say something to Teté and there’ll be a scuffle.”
“Bring the car over closer, then,” Teté said. “I want to watch them dance.”
Sparky brought the car over to the curb and from inside they could see the shoulders and faces of the couples who were dancing in El Nacional; they could hear the drums, the maracas, the trumpet and the M.C. announcing the best tropical orchestra in Lima. When the music stopped, they heard the sea behind them, and if they turned around, over the wall of the Malecón they could make out the white foam, the
breaking
of the waves. There were several cars parked in front of the
restaurants
and bars on Herradura beach. The night was cool and starry.
“I just love our getting together in secret,” Teté said, laughing. “I feel that we’re doing something forbidden. Don’t you people?”
“Sometimes the old man takes a spin by here at night,” Sparky said. “It would be funny if he caught the three of us here.”
“He’d kill us if he knew we were seeing you,” Teté said.
“He’d burst out crying with emotion on seeing the prodigal son,” Sparky said.
“You people don’t believe me, but I’m going to show up in person at the house any time now,” Santiago said. “Without letting them know. Next week probably.”
“I’m going to believe you, naturally, you’ve been telling us the same story for months.” And Teté’s face lighted up. “I’ve got it, it just
occurred
to me. Let’s go home right now, you can make up with mama and papa tonight.”
“Not now, another time,” Santiago said. “Besides, I don’t want to go with you, I want to go alone, so there’ll be less melodrama.”
“You’re never coming home and I’ll tell you why,” Sparky said. “You’re waiting for the old man to go to your boardinghouse to ask you to forgive him for something or other and to beg you to come back.”
“You didn’t even come when that damned Bermúdez was after him, you didn’t even call him on his birthday,” Teté said. “You’re awful, Superbrain.”
“You’re crazy if you think the old man is going to cry over you,” Sparky said. “You ran away out of sheer craziness and the folks have got every right to be resentful. The one who has to ask to be forgiven is you, dummy.”
“Are we always going to keep on talking about the same thing?” Santiago asked. “Please change the subject. When are you going to marry Popeye, Teté?”
“What’s wrong with you, you idiot,” Teté said. “I’m not even going with him. He’s just a friend.”
“Milk of magnesia and a screw every week, Zavalita,” Carlitos said. “With your stomach clean and your deal up to date, there’s no anguish that can stand up to it. An infallible prescription, Zavalita.”
*
In the house Carlota came to meet her, astounded: the master wasn’t a minister anymore, the radio was saying, they’d replaced him with a military man. Oh yes? Amalia pretended, putting the loaves in the
bread-box
, what about the mistress? She was very mad, Símula had just brought the papers up to her and she cursed so you could hear it down here. Amalia brought her the pot of coffee, the orange juice and the toast, and from the stairs she heard the tick-tock of Clock Radio. The mistress was half dressed, the newspapers strewn all over the unmade bed, instead of answering her good morning she said only black coffee, in a rage. She handed her the cup, the mistress took a sip and put the cup back on the tray. Amalia followed her from the closet to the bathroom to the dressing table, so that she could drink her coffee while she dressed, saw her hand all trembling, the line of her eyebrows twisted, and she was trembling too, listening to her: those ingrates, if it hadn’t been for the master they would have got Odría and those thieves into a trap a long time ago. Now she wanted to see what those bastards would do without him, the lipstick fell out of her hands, she spilled her coffee twice, they wouldn’t last a month without him. She left the room without finishing putting on her makeup, called a taxi, and while she was waiting she bit her lip and all of a sudden a curse. As soon as she left, Símula turned on the radio, they listened to it all day. They were talking about the military cabinet, giving the
biographies
of the new ministers, but they didn’t mention the master’s name on any station. At nightfall National Radio said that the Arequipa strike was over, tomorrow the schools, the university and the shops would open and Amalia remembered Ambrosio’s friend: he’d gone there, maybe he’d been killed. Símula and Carlota were talking about the news and she was listening to them, her mind
wandering
sometimes, thinking about Ambrosio: he was afraid because of, he came because of, he. Maybe now that he’s not in the
government
anymore he’ll come to live here, Carlota was saying, and Símula that would be awful for us, and Amalia thought: if he was, would there be anything bad about Ambrosio’s renting the little room for the two of them? Yes, it would be taking advantage of misfortune. The mistress came home late with Miss Queta and Miss Lucy. They sat in the living room and while Símula was preparing dinner, Amalia listened to the ladies consoling the mistress: they’d dismissed him to get the strike over with, but he’d still run things from his home, he was the strong man, Odría owed everything to him. But he hasn’t even called me, the mistress was saying, walking back and forth, and they he was probably tied up with meetings,
discussions
, he’d call soon, he’d probably come by that very night. They drank their little whiskeys and when they sat down at the table they were laughing and telling jokes. Miss Lucy left around midnight.
*
Hortensia got there first, noiselessly: he saw her silhouette on the threshold, hesitant, like a flame, and he saw her feel around in the dark and light the floor lamp. The black coverlet rose up in the mirror opposite, the curly tail of the dragon gave life to the mirror on the dressing table and he heard Hortensia start to say something and her voice got tangled up. Better, better. She was coming toward him trying to keep her balance and with her face wild with an idiotic expression that was erased when she entered the shadows of the corner where he was. He cut her off with a voice that sounded difficult and anxious: what about the madwoman, had the madwoman gone yet? Instead of continuing toward him,
Hortensia’s
silhouette changed course and zigzagged toward the bed, where she collapsed softly. There the light half exposed her, he saw her hand, which rose up and pointed to the door, and he looked: Queta had also sneaked in. Her long, full figure, her reddish hair, her aggressive stance. And he heard Hortensia: he didn’t want anything to do with her, he was calling you, Quetita, he was throwing her away and only asks about you. If only they couldn’t speak, he thought, and he gripped the shears decisively, a single, silent cut, snip, and he saw the two tongues fall to the floor. They were by his feet, two flat, red little animals that were staining the rug in their death throes. In his dark refuge he laughed and Queta, who stayed in the dark as if waiting for a command, laughed too: she didn’t want to have anything to do with little Cayo Shithead, girl, didn’t he want to leave, wasn’t he going to take off? Let him go, then, they didn’t need him and he with infinite anguish thought: she’s not drunk, not her. She was talking like a third-rate actress who’s also starting to lose her memory and is reciting slowly, afraid of forgetting her lines. Come in, Mrs. Heredia, he murmured, feeling an invincible deception, an anger that affected his voice. He saw her move, advance, pretending insecurity, and he heard Hortensia did you hear him, do you know that woman, Quetita? Queta had sat down beside Hortensia, neither of them was looking toward his corner and he sighed. They didn’t need him, girl, let him go to that woman: why did he pretend, why did he talk, snip. He didn’t move his face, only his eyes turned from the bed to the mirror on the closet to the one on the wall to the bed and his body felt hard and all his nerves were alert as if the pillows in the easy chair might suddenly sprout nails. They had already begun to undress each other and caress each other at the same time, but their movements were too vehement to be sincere, their embraces too quick or slow or tight, and the fury with which their mouths attacked was too sudden and I’ll kill them if, he would kill them if. But they didn’t laugh: they’d lain down, entwined, still half undressed, silent at last, kissing each other, their bodies rubbing with a hesitant slowness. He felt his fury diminishing, his hands wet with sweat, the bitter presence of the saliva in his mouth. Now they were quiet, caught in the mirror of the dressing table, a hand on the catch of the bra, fingers stretching out under a slip, a knee nestled between two thighs. He was waiting, tense, his elbows fastened to the arms of the chair. They weren’t laughing, yes, they’d forgotten about him, they weren’t looking into his corner and he swallowed his saliva. They seemed to be waking up, suddenly there seemed to be more of them, and his eyes went rapidly from one mirror to another and to the bed so as not to lose any of the diligent, loose, skillful little figures that were undoing a shoulder strap, rolling down a stocking, slipping off a pair of panties, and helping each other and pulled and didn’t speak. The items were dropping onto the rug and a wave of impatience and heat reached his corner. They were naked now and he saw Queta kneeling down, letting herself fall softly over Hortensia until she covered her almost completely with her large, dark body, but leaping from the ceiling to the bedspread to the closet he could still make her out, fragmented under the solid shadow lying over her: a piece of white buttock, a white breast, a very white foot, heels, and her black hair in the midst of Queta’s rumpled reddish hair as the latter began to rock. He heard them breathe, pant, and he caught the soft creaking of the springs, saw Hortensia’s legs break free from Queta’s and rise up and alight on top of them, he saw the growing glow of skins and now he could also smell. Only waists and buttocks were moving, in a deep and circular movement, while the upper part of their bodies remained glued together and motionless. He had his nostrils wide open and even then he lacked air; he closed and opened his eyes, breathed hard through his mouth and he seemed to smell flowing blood, pus, decomposing meat, and he heard a noise and looked. Queta was now on her back and Hortensia could be seen, tiny and white, curled up, her head leaning over with lips half open and moist between the dark virile legs that were opening up. He saw her mouth disappear, her closed eyes barely showing over the underbrush of black fuzz and his hands
unbuttoned
his shirt, pulled off his undershirt, dropped his pants, and pulled furiously on the belt. He went toward the bed with the belt in the air, not thinking, not seeing, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the
background
, but he was only able to strike one blow: heads that rose up, hands that took hold of the belt, pulled and dragged him down. He heard a curse, heard his own laughter. He tried to separate the two bodies that were rebelling against him and he felt himself pushed, squashed, sweaty, in a blind and suffocating whirlwind, and he could hear the beating of his heart. An instant later he felt the pinprick in his temples and a kind of blow in the emptiness. He was motionless for a moment, breathing deeply, and then he separated himself from them, leaning his body away, with a distaste that he could feel growing cancerously. He remained lying down, his eyes closed, wrapped in a confused drowsiness, feeling darkly that they were rocking and panting again. He finally got up, nauseous, and, without looking behind, went into the bathroom: more sleep.