It was summer, Ambrosio had to take the Zavalas to Ancón and Amalia only saw him on an occasional Sunday. Mightn’t that business about Ancón have been a lie, an excuse to get away from her slowly? Because he was acting strange again. Amalia would go to meet him on the Avenida Arenales with a thousand things to tell him, and he’d throw cold water on it. So the mistress wanted to go to Mexico, eh, go back to that pimp? good, so the new place was fit for a midget? well. You’re not listening to me, yes, I am, what are you thinking about, nothing. I don’t care, Amalia thought, I don’t love him anymore. Her aunt had told her when your mistress leaves you come here, Señora Rosario had told her if you’re out on the street you’ve got a home here and Gertrudis the same. If you’re sorry about what you offered me, it’s best you forget about it and put a different face on, she told him one day, I haven’t asked you for anything. And he, surprised, what did I offer you? Living
together
, she said. And he: oh, that, don’t worry, Amalia. How could she have got friendly, got together with him again? One time she counted all the words Ambrosio said that Sunday and they didn’t reach a hundred. Was he waiting for her to have the child to leave her? No, Amalia would leave him first. She’d look for work in another house, never see him again, how sweet her revenge would be when he came crying and asking for forgiveness: out, I don’t need you, beat it.
She kept on getting fatter and the mistress talked about her trip all the time, but when was she going to take it? She didn’t know exactly when, but soon, Amalia. One night she heard her shouting in an argument with Miss Queta. She ached so much that she didn’t get up to spy: I’ve suffered too much, everybody had kicked her, I’ve got no reason to think about anybody. You’re going to get yourself messed up, Miss Queta told her, you’re only going to get the real kick now, you nut. One morning, on the way back from the market, she saw a car at the door: it was
Ambrosio
. She went over thinking what’s he come to tell me, but he greeted her by putting a finger to his lips: shh, don’t go in, go away. Don Fermín was upstairs with the mistress. She went to sit in the little square on the corner: he’d never change, he’d be a coward all his life. She hated him, he disgusted her, Trinidad was a thousand times better. When she saw the car leave, she went into the house and the mistress was like a wild animal. She was cursing, smoking, pushing the chairs around, and when she saw Amalia, what are you standing there for looking at me like an idiot, get in the kitchen. She went to shut herself up in her room, resentful. You’ve never insulted me, she thought. She fell asleep. When she went out into the living room, the mistress wasn’t there. She returned at nightfall, sorry that she had shouted at her. She was a bundle of nerves, Amalia, some son of a bitch had sent her into a rage. Just go to bed, don’t worry about supper.
That week she felt worse. The mistress spent the day out or in her room talking to herself, in a terrible mood. Thursday morning she was leaning over to pick up a towel when she felt as if her bones were breaking and she fell to the floor. She tried to get up and she couldn’t. She dragged herself over to the phone: it’s time, it’s time, Miss Queta, and the mistress wasn’t there, the pains, the wet legs, I’m dying. A thousand years later the mistress and Miss Queta came into the apartment and she saw them as if in a dream. They almost carried her down the stairs, put her in the little car and took her to the Maternity Hospital: don’t be frightened, he wasn’t going to be born yet, they’d come to see her, they’d be back, keep calm, Amalia. The pains were coming closer together, there was a smell of turpentine that made her nauseous. She tried to pray and she couldn’t, she was going to die. They’d put her on a cart and an old woman with a hairy neck was undressing her and scolding her. She thought about Trinidad while she felt as if her muscles were tearing and a knife was sinking into her between her waist and her shoulders.
When she woke up her body felt like an open wound, as if coals were smoking in her stomach. She didn’t have the strength to shout, she thought I’m dead. Warm balls closed off her throat and she couldn’t vomit. Little by little she began to make out the ward full of beds, the faces of the women, the high, dirty ceiling. You’ve been out for three days, her neighbor on the right said, and the one on the left: they fed you with tubes. It was a miracle you were saved, a nurse said, and your little girl too. The doctor who came to see her: be careful not to have any more children, I can only work a miracle with a patient once. Then a very nice nun brought her a bundle that was moving: tiny, hairy, she had her eyes closed. She no longer felt thirsty, any pain, and she sat up in bed to let it nurse. She felt a tickling on her nipple and began to laugh like a crazy woman. Haven’t you got any family? the one on the left asked her, and the one on the right: you’re lucky they saved you, the ones without any family are sent off to the common boneyard. Hadn’t anyone come to see her? No. A very white lady with dark hair and big eyes hadn’t come? No. A young lady, tall, good figure, with red hair either? No, nobody. But why, how. Hadn’t they called to ask about her either? Is that the way they had acted, had they dumped her there without coming back, without asking? But she didn’t get angry or feel sorry. The tickling was going all up and down her body and the little bundle kept on eagerly, she wanted more. Hadn’t those women come? and she was dying with laughter: what are you sucking so hard for since no more’s coming out, silly.
On the sixth day the doctor said you’re in good shape, I’m going to discharge you. Take care of yourself, the operation has left you very weak, rest at least for a month. And no more children, you know that already. She got up and had a dizzy spell. She’d grown thin, yellow, with sunken eyes. She said good-bye to her neighbors and to the nun, step by step slowly to the street, and at the door a policeman called a taxi for her. Her aunt’s mouth trembled when she saw her appear in Chacra Colorada with the baby girl in her arms. They embraced, wept together. Had the mistress acted so bad as not to call up and ask or go see you? Yes, that’s how it was, and she, so stupid, had always helped her and hadn’t wanted to walk out on her. And the fellow didn’t appear either? He either, auntie. When you’re feeling better, we’ll go to the police, her aunt said, they’ll make him recognize the child and give you money. The house had three bedrooms, her aunt slept in one and her boarders in the others, there were four of them. An old couple who spent the day listening to the radio and cooking on a portable stove that filled the house with smoke; he’d been a postal employee and had just retired. The others were two men from Ayacucho, one an ice cream man in D’Onofrio and the other a tailor. They didn’t eat at the boardinghouse, they spent their time singing songs in Quechua at night. The aunt put a cot in her room and Amalia slept with her. She almost didn’t get out of bed for a week, nauseous every time she stood up. She wasn’t bored. She played with Amalita, looked at her, whispered in her ear: they would go collect her pay from that ungrateful woman and tell her I’m not working for you anymore, if that other lowlife put in his appearance one day, so long, we don’t need you. I can probably get you a job in a store some friends of mine have in Breña, her aunt said.
After a week she got her strength back and her aunt loaned her the bus fare: get the very last cent out of her, Amalia. She’ll see me and be sorry, she thought, she’ll ask me to stay. Don’t be so dumb the next time. She got to General Garzón with the child in her arms and at the door of the building she ran into Rita, the lame maid from the first floor. She smiled at her and thought what’s wrong with me, what’s wrong with this one: hello, Rita. She looked at her with her mouth open, as if ready to run away. Have I changed so much that you don’t recognize me? Amalia laughed, I’m the one from the second floor, it was Amalia. Did they let you go? Rita asked, had they caught you? The police, caught me? If they see me with you, won’t they take me in? Rita said, frightened, wouldn’t they grab her too? Because that’s all she needed, they’d already hollered at her, asked her about her life and other miracles, and the same thing with the one across the way, and the one on the third floor, and the one on the fourth floor, in a nasty way, where is she, where did she go, where was she hiding, why did that Amalia disappear. In a nasty way, cursing, threatening, confess or we’ll take you in. As if we knew something, Rita said. She took a step toward Amalia and lowered her voice: where did they find you, what did they tell you, had Amalia confessed to them who killed her? But Amalia had leaned against the wall and was babbling take her, take her. Rita took Amalita, what’s wrong, what did you have, what did they do to you. She brought her into the kitchen on the first floor. Good that the folks aren’t home, sit down, have a glass of water. Killed? Amalia repeated, and Rita with Amalita in her arms, don’t shout like that, don’t shake like that, Señora Hortensia killed? Rita went to look out the window, she’d locked the door, finally she gave back the child, be quiet, the whole neighborhood will hear you. But where have you been, how come you didn’t know, it was in all the papers, all those pictures of your mistress, didn’t they talk about it at the Maternity Hospital, hadn’t she been listening to the radio? And Amalia feeling as if her teeth were chattering, a touch of fever, Rita, some tea, anything, Rita made her a cup of coffee. What more can you ask but that you got away, she said, the police, reporters, they came and knocked on the door and asked questions, they went away and others came, they all wanted to know where you were, she must know something because she left, she must have done something because she went into hiding, it’s good they didn’t find you, Amalia. She was drinking the coffee in small sips, she said yes, thanks a lot Rita and was rocking Amalita who was crying. She’d leave, she’d hide, yes, she’d never come back, and Rita: if they catch you they’ll treat you worse than they did us, God knows what they’d do to her. Amalia got up, thanks again, and left. She thought she was going to faint, but when she got to the corner the nausea had passed, and she was walking fast, holding Amalita tight against her breast so that her crying wouldn’t be heard. A taxi and it didn’t stop, another, and she kept on trotting, they were police, that one was, that one was going to grab her when he passed, and finally one stopped. Her aunt grumbled when she asked for money for the cab fare. You could have come back by bus, she wasn’t a millionaire. She went to shut herself up in the bedroom. She was so cold that she covered herself with her aunt’s blankets and only at dusk did she stop pretending to sleep and answer questions: no, the mistress wasn’t there, auntie, she’d gone on a trip. Yes, of course she’d go back to collect; of course she wouldn’t let herself be robbed, auntie. And she thought: I’ve got to telephone. She opened her aunt’s purse, took out a sol and went to the store on the corner. She hadn’t forgotten the number, she remembered it very well. But the voice of a girl she didn’t know answered: no, no Miss Queta lived there. She called again and a man: she wasn’t there, they didn’t know her, they’d just moved in, maybe she was the former tenant. She leaned against a tree to get her breath back. She felt so frightened, she thought the world had gone mad. That’s why she hadn’t come to the Maternity Hospital, that’s the murder they were talking about on the radio and she was the one they were looking for. They’d arrest her, ask her questions, beat her, kill her the way they did Trinidad.
She spent a few days without leaving the house, helping her aunt clean. She didn’t open her mouth, she thought they killed her, she was dead. Her heart stopped whenever someone was at the door. On the third day she went with her aunt to the parish to christen Amalita and when the priest asked what name she answered: Amalia Hortensia. Her nights were a blank, hugging Amalita, feeling empty, guilty, forgive me for having said bad things about you, how could she have known, ma’am, thinking I wonder what became of Miss Queta. But on the fourth day she recovered: you’re making too much of it, why so afraid, stupid girl. She’d go to the police, she’d been in the Maternity Hospital, check on it, they’d see that it was true and they’d leave her alone. No: they’d insult her, they wouldn’t believe her. At sundown her aunt sent her out to buy sugar and when she was turning the corner a figure left the lamppost and stepped in front of her, Amalia gave a cry: I’ve been waiting for you for hours, Ambrosio said. She let herself fall against him, unable to speak. That was how she was, swallowing tears and mucus, her face on his chest, and Ambrosio was consoling her. People were looking, don’t cry, he’d been looking for her for three weeks, what about his little son? Little daughter, she sobbed, yes, she was born healthy. Ambrosio took out his handkerchief, cleaned her face, made her sneeze, took her to a café. They sat down at a back table. He put his arm around her, let her cry as he patted her back. It’s all right, it was all right, Amalia, that’s enough. Was she crying about Señora Hortensia? Yes, and about the way she felt, so all alone, so frightened. The police are looking for me, as if she knew anything, Ambrosio. And because she thought he’d abandoned her. And how could he have gone to see her at the Maternity Hospital, silly, did he know maybe, was he going to guess maybe? He’d gone to wait for her on Arenales and you didn’t come, when the news about the mistress came out in the papers I was looking for you like crazy, Amalia. He’d gone to the house where your aunt used to live, in Surquillo, and from there they sent me to Balconcillo, and from there to Chacra Colorada, but they only knew the street, not the number. He’d come, asked
everywhere
, every day, thinking she’s going to come out, I’m going to find her. It’s good I finally did, Amalia. What about the police? Amalia asked. You’re not going, he said. He’d asked Ludovico and he thought they’d keep you locked up at least a month, asking questions, checking things out. It’s best if they didn’t see her face, better if she left Lima for a while until we forget about her. And how would she leave, Amalia was
pouting
, where was she going to go. And he: with me, together. She looked into his eyes: yes, Amalia. He had evidently already made up his mind. He was looking at her very seriously, do you think I’m going to let them arrest you even for one day? his voice was very serious, they’d leave tomorrow. What about your job? That was the least of their worries, he’d work on his own, they’d go away. She kept looking at him, trying to believe, but she couldn’t. Living together? Tomorrow? In the jungle, Ambrosio said, and put his face close: for a while, they’d come back when they’ve forgotten about you. She felt everything tumbling down again: had Ludovico told him? But why were they looking for her, what had she done, what did she know? Ambrosio hugged her: nothing was going to happen, they’d leave tomorrow on the train, then they’d take a bus. Nobody would find her in the jungle. He huddled up against her, was he doing all that because he loved her, Ambrosio? Of course, silly, why do you think I don’t? There was a relative of Ludovico’s in the jungle, he’d go to work for him, he’d help them out. She was struck dumb with fright and surprise. Don’t say anything to your aunt, she wouldn’t say anything, nobody should know, nobody would know. It might be dangerous, she, yes, of course, yes. Did she know where the
Desamparados
station was? Yes, she did. He went with her to the corner, gave her money for the taxi, leave under any pretext, and she would come very quietly. All night long, her eyes open, she listened to her aunt’s breathing and the tired snoring that came from the old couple’s room. I’m going back to the mistress’s to collect, she told her aunt the next day. She took a taxi and when she got to Desamparados, Ambrosio scarcely looked at Amalita Hortensia. Was that her? Yes. He had her go into the station, sit and wait on a bench among mountain people with bundles. He’d brought two large suitcases and I not even a handkerchief, Amalia thought. She didn’t feel happy about leaving, living with him; she felt strange.