“I hadn’t seen him for over two years,” Santiago says. “Since I got married. What made me most sad wasn’t that he’d died. We all have to die someday, right, Ambrosio? It was that he’d died thinking that I’d broken with him.”
The burial was the next day, at three in the afternoon. All morning telegrams, notes, mass cards, offerings and wreaths had been arriving, and in the newspapers the item was edged in black. A lot of people had come, yes, Ambrosio, even an aide to the President, and as they entered the cemetery, the coffin had been accompanied for a moment by a Pradist cabinet member, an Odríist senator, a leader of APR A and a Belaúndist. Uncle Clodomiro, Sparky and you had stood at the cemetery gates receiving condolences for more than an hour, Zavalita. The next day Ana and Santiago spent the whole day at the house. Mama stayed in her room, surrounded by relatives, and when she saw them come in, she had embraced and kissed Ana and Ana had embraced and kissed her, and they both had wept. He thinks: that’s the way the world was made, Zavalita. He thinks: is that how it was made? Uncle Clodomiro came by at dusk and was sitting in the living room with Popeye and Santiago: his mind seemed to be elsewhere, he was lost in his own thoughts, and when they asked him something, he would reply with almost inaudible
monosyllables
. On the following day, Aunt Eliana had taken mama to her house in Chosica so that she could avoid the parade of visitors.
“Since he died I haven’t had another fight with the family,” Santiago says. “I don’t see them very often, but even so, even from a distance, we get along.”
*
“No,” Ambrosio repeated. “I haven’t come to fight.”
“That’s good, because if you have, I’ll call Robertito, he’s the one here who knows how to fight,” Queta said. “Tell me right out what the fuck has brought you here, or beat it.”
They weren’t naked, they weren’t lying on the bed, the light in the room wasn’t out. From down below the same mixed sound of music and voices at the bar and laughter from the little parlor could still be heard. Ambrosio had sat down on the bed and Queta saw him enveloped in the cone of light, quiet and strong in his blue suit and his pointed black shoes and the white collar of his starched shirt. She saw his desperate
immobility
, the crazed rage embedded in his eyes.
“You know very well, because of her.” Ambrosio was looking straight at her without blinking. “You could have done something and you didn’t. You’re her friend.”
“Look, I’ve got enough to worry about,” Queta said. “I don’t want to talk about that, I come here to make some money. Go on, beat it, and most of all, don’t come back. Not here and not to my apartment.”
“You should have done something,” Ambrosio’s stubborn voice
repeated
, stiff and clear. “For your own good.”
“For my own good?” Queta said. She was leaning against the door, her body slightly arched, her hands on her hips.
“For her good, I mean,” Ambrosio murmured. “Didn’t you tell me that she was your friend, that even though she was crazy you liked her?”
Queta took a few steps, sat down on the only chair in the room, facing him. She crossed her legs, looked at him calmly, and he resisted her look without lowering his eyes, for the first time.
“Gold Ball sent you,” Queta said slowly. “Why didn’t he send you to the madwoman? I haven’t got anything to do with this. Tell Gold Ball not to get me mixed up in his problems. The madwoman is the
madwoman
and I’m me.”
“Nobody sent me, he doesn’t even know that I know you,” Ambrosio said very slowly, looking at her. “I came so we could talk. Like friends.”
“Like friends?” Queta said. “What makes you think you’re my friend?”
“Talk to her, make her be reasonable,” Ambrosio murmured. “Make her see that she hasn’t behaved well. Tell her he hasn’t got any money, that his business is in bad shape. Advise her to forget about him
completely
.”
“Is Gold Ball going to have her arrested again?” Queta asked. “What else is that bastard going to do to her?”
“He didn’t put her in, he went to get her out of jail,” Ambrosio said without raising his voice, without moving. “He helped her, he paid her hospital bills, he gave her money. Without any obligation, just out of pity. He’s not going to give her any more. Tell her that she hasn’t behaved well, not to threaten him anymore.”
“Go on, beat it,” Queta said. “Let Gold Ball and the madwoman settle their affairs by themselves. It’s no business of mine. Yours either, don’t you get involved.”
“Give her some advice,” Ambrosio’s terse, sharp voice repeated. “If she keeps on threatening him, it’s going to turn out bad for her.”
Queta laughed and heard her own forced and nervous giggle. He was looking at her with calm determination, with that steady, frantic boiling in his eyes. They were silent, looking at each other, their faces a couple of feet apart.
“Are you sure he didn’t send you?” Queta finally asked. “Is Gold Ball scared of the poor madwoman? He’s seen her, he knows what a state she’s in. You know how she is too. You’ve got your spy there too, haven’t you?”
“That too,” Ambrosio said in a hoarse voice. Queta watched him put his knees together and hunch over, watched him dig his fingers into his legs. His voice had cracked. “I hadn’t done anything to her, it wasn’t my business. And Amalia’s been helping her, she’s stood by her in everything that’s happened. She had no reason to tell him that.”
“What’s happened?” Queta asked. She leaned toward him a little. “Did she tell Gold Ball about you and Amalia?”
“That she’s my woman, that we’ve been seeing each other every
Sunday
for years, that I got her pregnant.” Ambrosio’s voice was torn and Queta thought he’s going to cry. But he didn’t: only his voice was weeping, his eyes were dry and opaque, very wide. “She’s not behaved well at all.”
“Well,” Queta said, sitting up. “So that’s why you’re here, that’s why you’re so furious. Now I know why you’ve come.”
“But why?” Ambrosio’s voice was still in torture. “Thinking she could convince him that way? Thinking she could get more money out of him that way? Why did she do a bad thing like that?”
“Because the poor madwoman is really crazy,” Queta whispered. “Didn’t you know that? Because she wants to get out of here, because she has to get away. It wasn’t because she’s bad. She herself doesn’t even know what she’s doing.”
“Thinking that if I tell him he’s going to get the worst of it,” Ambrosio said. He nodded, closed his eyes for an instant. He opened them. “It’s going to hurt him, it’s going to ruin him. Thinking that.”
“Because that son of a bitch of a Lucas, the one she fell in love with, the one who’s in Mexico,” Queta said. “You don’t know about it. He writes her telling her to come, to bring some money, we’ll get married. She believes him, she’s crazy. She doesn’t know what to do anymore, it wasn’t because she’s bad.”
“Yes,” Ambrosio said. He raised his hands an inch and sank them fiercely into his legs again, his pants wrinkled. “She’s hurt him, she’s made him suffer.”
“Gold Ball has got to understand her,” Queta said. “Everybody’s acted like such a bastard with her. Cayo Shithead, Lucas, everybody she ever had to her house, all the ones she took care of and …”
“Him, him?” Ambrosio roared, and Queta fell silent. She kept her legs ready to leap up and run, but he didn’t move. “He acted bad? Would you please tell me what fault it was of his? Does he owe her anything? Was he obliged to help her? Hasn’t he been giving her a lot of money? And to the only person who was ever good to her she does something bad like this. But not anymore, it’s all over. I want you to tell her.”
“I already have,” Queta murmured. “Don’t you get involved, you’ll be the one who comes out the loser. When I found out that Amalia had told her that she was expecting, I warned her. Be careful not to tell the girl that Ambrosio … be careful about telling Gold Ball that Amalia … Don’t start anything, don’t get mixed up in it. It just happened, she didn’t do it to be mean, she wants to bring some money to that Lucas guy. She’s crazy.”
“And he never did anything to her, just because he was good and helped her,” Ambrosio murmured. “It wouldn’t have mattered so much to me for her to have told Amalia about me. But not to do that to him. That was evil, nothing but evil.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered for her to tell your woman,” Queta said, looking at him. “Gold Ball is all that matters, you’re only worried about the fairy. You’re worse than he is. Get out of here, right now.”
“She sent a letter to his wife,” Ambrosio moaned, and Queta saw him lower his head, ashamed. “To his wife. Your husband is that way, your husband and his chauffeur, ask him what he feels when the nigger … and two pages like that. To his wife. Tell me, why did she do a thing like that?”
“Because she’s crazy,” Queta said. “Because she wants to go to
Mexico
and doesn’t know what to do so she can get there.”
“She phoned him at home,” Ambrosio roared and lifted his head and looked at Queta, and she saw the madness floating in his eyes, the silent bubbling. “Your relatives, your friends, your children are going to get the same letter. The same letter as your wife. Your employees. The only person who has acted good, the only one who helped her without having any reason to.”
“Because she’s desperate,” Queta repeated, raising her voice. “She wants that airline ticket so she can leave. Let him give it to her, let …”
“He gave it to her yesterday,” Ambrosio grunted. “You’ll be a
laughingstock
, I’ll ruin you, I’ll screw you. He took it to her himself. It isn’t just the fare. That crazy woman wants a hundred thousand soles too. See? You talk to her. She shouldn’t bother him anymore. Tell her it’s the last time.”
“I’m not going to say another word to her,” Queta murmured. “I don’t care, I don’t want to hear anything more. She and Gold Ball can kill each other if they want to. I don’t want to get mixed up in any trouble. Are you carrying on like this because Gold Ball has fired you? Are you making these threats so that the fairy will forgive you for the Amalia business?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand,” Ambrosio said. “I didn’t come here to fight, but for us to have a talk. He didn’t fire me, he didn’t send me here.”
“You should have told me that at the start,” Don Fermín said. “I have a woman, we’re going to have a child, I want to marry her. You should have told me everything, Ambrosio.”
“So much the better for you, then,” Queta said. “Haven’t you been seeing her secretly for so long because you were afraid of Gold Ball? Well, there it is. He knows now and he hasn’t fired you. The madwoman didn’t do it out of evil. Don’t you get mixed up in this anymore and let them settle it by themselves.”
“He didn’t fire me, he didn’t get mad, he didn’t bawl me out,”
Ambrosio
said hoarsely. “He was sorry for me, he forgave me. Can’t you see that she mustn’t do anything bad to a person like him? Can’t you see?”
“What a bad time you must have had, Ambrosio, how you must have hated me,” Don Fermín said. “Having to hide that business about your woman for so many years. How many, Ambrosio?”
“Making me feel like dirt, making me feel I don’t know what,”
Ambrosio
moaned, pounding hard on the bed, and Queta stood up with a leap.
“Did you think I was going to be mad at you, you poor devil?” Don Fermín said. “No, Ambrosio. Get your woman out of that house, have your children. You’ve got a job here as long as you want. And forget about Ancón and all that, Ambrosio.”
“He knows how to manipulate you,” Queta murmured, going quickly toward the door. “He knows what you are. I’m not going to say anything to Hortensia. You tell her. And God save you if you set foot in here again or at my place.”
“All right, I’m leaving, and don’t worry, I don’t intend coming back,” Ambrosio murmured, getting up. Queta had opened the door and the noise from the bar was coming in and it was loud. “But I’m asking you for the last time. Talk to her, make her be reasonable. Have her leave him alone once and for all, hm?”
*
He’d only stayed on as a jitney driver for three weeks more, which was as long as the jalopy lasted. It stopped for good one morning going into Yarinacocha, after smoking and shuddering in rapid death throes of mechanical bucking and belching. They lifted the hood, the motor had dropped out. The poor thing, at least it got this far, said Don Calixto, the owner. And to Ambrosio: as soon as I need a driver, I’ll get in touch with you. Two days later, Don Alandro Pozo, the landlord, had
appeared
at the cabin, all very pleasant: yes, he already knew that you had lost your job, that your wife had died, that you were in bad shape. He was very sorry, Ambrosio, but that wasn’t welfare, you’ve got to leave. Don Alandro agreed to take the bed, the little crib, the table and the Primus stove in payment for the back rent, and Ambrosio had put the rest of the things in some boxes and taken them to Doña Lupe’s. When she saw him so down, she made him a cup of coffee: at least you don’t have to worry about Amalita Hortensia, she would stay with her in the meantime. Ambrosio went to Pantaleón’s shack and he hadn’t come back from Tingo. He got back at dusk and found Ambrosio sitting on his doorstep, his feet sunken in the muddy ground. He tried to raise his spirits: of course he could stay with him until he found a job. Would he get one, Panta? Well, to tell the truth, it was hard here, Ambrosio, why didn’t he try somewhere else? He advised him to go to Tingo or to Huánuco. But Ambrosio had had a funny feeling about leaving so soon after Amalia’s death, son, and besides, how was he going to be able to make it alone in the world with Amalita Hortensia. So he’d made an attempt to stay in Pucallpa. On one day he helped unload launches, on another he cleaned out cobwebs and killed mice at the Wong
Warehouses
, and he’d even washed down the morgue with disinfectant, but all that was only enough for cigarette money. If it hadn’t been for Panta and Doña Lupe, he would have starved to death. So putting his guts where his heart was, one day he’d shown up at Don Hilario’s, not for a fight, son, but to beg him. He was all fucked up, sir, could he do something for him.