“Not everything,” Sparky said very quickly, smiling, raising his hands a little. “Just the lab, the company. Just the business. Not the house or the apartment in Ancón. Besides, you’ve got to understand that the transfer is only a fiction. Just because the companies are in my name doesn’t mean that I’m going to keep it all. Mama’s part and Teté’s part have already been arranged.”
“Then everything’s fine,” Santiago said. “Business is over and now the soup begins. It has a good look to it, Sparky.”
There his face, Zavalita, his fluttering, his blinking, his reticent
disbelief
, his uncomfortable relief, and the liveliness of his hand reaching for the bread, the butter, and filling your glass with beer.
“I know I’m boring you with all this,” Sparky said. “But we can’t let any more time go by. We’ve got to straighten out your situation too.”
“What’s wrong with my situation?” Santiago asked. “Pass me the chili, please.”
“The house and the apartment were going to be in mama’s name, naturally,” Sparky said. “But she doesn’t want to have anything to do with the apartment, she says she’ll never set foot in Ancón again. It’s some kind of quirk. We’ve come to an agreement with Teté. I’ve bought the shares of stock that would have been hers in the lab and the other companies. It’s as if she were getting her inheritance, see?”
“I see,” Santiago said. “That’s why I’m so frightfully bored with all this, Sparky.”
“That leaves only you.” Sparky laughed, not listening to him, and blinked. “You’re a candle holder in this burial too, even though it bores you. That’s what we’ve got to talk about. I’ve thought that we can come to an agreement like the one we made with Teté. We’ll figure out what you have coming and, since you detest business, I’ll buy out your share.”
“Stick my share up your ass and let me finish my soup,” Santiago said, laughing, but Sparky was looking at you very seriously, Zavalita, and you had to be serious too. “I made the old man understand that I would never put my nose in his business, so forget about my situation and my share. I disinherited myself on my own when I moved out, Sparky. So no stocks, no sale, and that puts an end to the whole matter for good, O.K.?”
There was his fierce blinking, Zavalita, his aggressive, bestial
confusion
: he was holding his spoon in the air and a thin stream of reddish soup poured back into the plate and a few drops spattered on the
tablecloth
. He was looking at you half surprised and half disconsolate, Zavalita.
“Stop your foolishness,” he finally said. “You left home, but you were still the old man’s son, weren’t you? I’m beginning to think you’ve lost your mind.”
“I have,” Santiago said. “There’s no share for me and, if there is, I don’t want a single penny of the old man’s money, O.K., Sparky?”
“Don’t you want any stock?” Sparky asked. “All right, there’s another possibility. I’ve discussed it with Teté and mama and they agree. We’ll put the Ancón apartment in your name.”
Santiago started to laugh and slapped his hand on the table. A waiter came over to ask what they wanted, oh, I’m sorry. Sparky was serious and seemed in control of himself again, the uneasiness had left his eyes and he was looking at you now with affection and superiority, Zavalita.
“Since you don’t want any stock, that’s the most sensible thing,” Sparky said. “They agree. Mama doesn’t want to set foot there, she’s got the notion that she hates Ancón. Teté and Popeye are building a house in Santa María. Popeye’s doing quite well in business now that
Belaúnde’s
president, you know. And I’m so loaded down with work I could never afford the luxury of a summer vacation. So the apartment …”
“Donate it to the poor,” Santiago said. “Period, Sparky.”
“You don’t have to use it if Ancón gets you fucked up,” Sparky said. “Sell it and buy one in Lima and you can live better that way.”
“I don’t want to live any better,” Santiago said. “If you don’t stop, we’re going to get into a fight.”
“Stop acting like a child,” Sparky went on, with sincerity, he thinks. “You’re a grown man now, you’re married, you’ve got responsibilities. Stop putting yourself on that ridiculous level.”
Now he felt calm and secure, Zavalita, the bad moment was over now, the shock, now he could give you advice and help you and sleep
peacefully
. Santiago smiled at him and patted him on the arm: period, Sparky. The maître d’ came over all eager and worried to ask if anything was wrong with the soup: nothing, it was delicious, and they’d taken a few spoonfuls to convince him they were telling the truth.
“Let’s not argue anymore,” Santiago said. “We’ve spent our whole life fighting and now we get along, isn’t that true, Sparky? Well, let’s keep it that way. But don’t ever bring this matter up with me again, O.K.?”
His annoyed, disconcerted, regretful face had smiled weakly, Zavalita, and he’d shrugged his shoulders, made a grimace of stupor or final commiseration and remained silent for a while. They only tasted the duck and rice and Sparky forgot about the crêpes with blancmange. They brought the check, Sparky paid, and before getting into the car they filled their lungs with the damp and salty air, exchanging banal remarks about the waves and some passing girls and a sports car that roared down the street. On the way to Miraflores, they didn’t say a single word. When they got to the elf houses, when Santiago already had one leg out of the car, Sparky took his arm.
“I’ll never understand you, Superbrain,” and for the first time that day his voice was so sincere, he thinks, so feeling. “What the devil do you want out of life? Why do you do everything you can to fuck yourself up all by yourself?”
“Because I’m a masochist.” Santiago smiled at him. “So long, Sparky, give my best to the old lady and to Cary.”
“Go ahead, stay with your nuttiness,” Sparky said, also smiling. “I just want you to know that if you ever need anything …”
“I know, I know,” Santiago said. “Now be on your way so I can take a little nap. So long, Sparky.”
If you hadn’t told Ana you probably would have avoided a lot of fights, he thinks. A hundred, Zavalita, two hundred. Had pride fucked you up? he thinks. He thinks: see how proud your husband is, love, he refused everything from them, love, he told them to go to hell with their stocks and their houses, love. Did you think she was going to admire you, Zavalita, did you want her to? She was going to throw it up to you, he thinks, she was going to reproach you every time they went through your salary before the end of the month, every time they had to ask the Chinaman for credit or borrow from the German woman. Poor Anita, he thinks. He thinks: poor Zavalita.
“It’s getting awfully late, son,” Ambrosio insisted again.
*
“A little farther, we’re getting there,” Queta said, and thought: so many workers. Was it quitting time at the factories? Yes, she’d picked the worst hour. The whistles were blowing and a tumultuous human wave rolled down the avenue. The taxi moved along slowly, dodging figures, several faces came close to the window and looked at her. They whistled at her, said delicious, oh mama, made obscene faces. The factories were
followed
by alleys and the alleys by factories, and over the heads Queta saw the stone fronts, the tin roofs, the columns of smoke from the chimneys. Sometimes in the distance the trees of orchards as the avenue cut through them: this is it. The taxi stopped and she got out. The driver looked into her eyes with a sarcastic smile on his lips.
“Why all the smiles?” Queta asked. “Have I got two heads?”
“Don’t get offended,” the driver said. “For you it’s only ten soles.”
Queta paid the money and turned her back on him. When she was pushing open the small door set in the faded pink wall, she heard the motor of the taxi as it drove away. There wasn’t anybody in the garden. In the leather easy chair in the hall she found Robertito, polishing his nails. He looked at her with his black eyes.
“Why, hello, Quetita,” he said with a slightly mocking tone. “I knew you were coming today. Madame is waiting for you.”
Not even how are you or are you better now, Queta thought, not even a handshake. She went into the bar and before her face saw Señora Ivonne’s sharp silver nails, the ring that exhaled brilliance and the
ballpoint
pen with which she was addressing an envelope.
“Good afternoon,” Queta said. “How nice to see you again.”
Señora Ivonne smiled at her without warmth, while she examined her from head to toe in silence.
“Well, here you are back again,” she finally said. “I can just imagine what you’ve been through.”
“It was pretty bad,” Queta said and was silent and could feel the prick of the injections in her arms, the coldness of the probe between her legs, could hear the sordid arguments of the women around her and could see the orderly with stiff bristly hair crouching down to pick up the basin.
“Did you see Dr. Zegarra?” Señora Ivonne asked. “Did he give you your certificate?”
Queta nodded. She took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to her. You’ve gone to ruin in one month, she thought, you use three times as much makeup and you can’t even see anymore. Señora Ivonne was reading the paper attentively and with a great deal of effort, holding it almost on top of her squinting eyes.
“Fine, you’re healthy now.” Señora Ivonne examined her again up and down and made a disappointed gesture. “But skinny as a rail. You’ve got to put some weight on again, we’ll have to get some color back in your cheeks. In the meantime, take off those clothes you’ve got on. Give them a good soaking. Didn’t you bring anything to change into? Have Malvina lend you something. Right away, you’re not going to stand around full of germs. Hospitals are full of germs.”
“Will I have the same room as before, ma’am?” Queta asked and thought I’m not going to get mad, I’m not going to give you that pleasure.
“No, the one in back,” Señora Ivonne said. “And take a hot bath. With lots of soap, just in case.”
Queta nodded. She went up to the second floor, clenching her teeth, looking at the same garnet-colored carpet with the same stains and the same burns from cigarettes and matches without seeing it. On the
landing
she saw Malvina, who opened her arms: Quetita! They embraced, kissed each other on the cheek.
“How wonderful that you’re all better, Quetita,” Malvina said. “I wanted to go visit you but the old woman scared me. I called you a whole lot of times but they told me only people who paid for them had
telephones
. Did you get my packages?”
“Thank you so much, Malvina,” Queta said. “What I thank you for most is the food. The meals there were awful.”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Malvina repeated, smiling at her. “I got so mad when you caught that dirty thing, Quetita. The world’s so full of bastards. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, Quetita.”
“A month,” Queta sighed. “It seemed like ten to me, Malvina.”
She got undressed in Malvina’s room, went to the bathroom, filled the tub and sank into the water. She was soaping herself when she saw the door open and in peeped the profile, the silhouette of Robertito: could he come in, Quetita?
“No, you can’t,” Quetita said grumpily. “Go on, get out, beat it.”
“Does it bother you for me to see you naked?” Robertito laughed. “Does it bother you?”
“Yes,” Queta said. “I didn’t give you permission. Close the door.”
He laughed, came in and closed the door: then he’d stay, Quetita, he always went against the current. Queta sank down in the tub up to her neck. The water was dark and sudsy.
“My, you were filthy, you turned the water black,” Robertito said. “How long has it been since you had a bath?”
Queta laughed: since she went into the hospital, a month! Robertito held his nose and put on a look of disgust: pooh, you little pig. Then he smiled amiably and took a couple of steps over to the tub: was she glad to be back? Queta nodded her head: of course she was. The water became agitated and her bony shoulders emerged.
“Do you want me to tell you a secret?” she said, pointing to the door.
“Tell me, tell me,” Robertito said. “I’m mad about gossip.”
“I was afraid the old lady would send me away,” Queta said. “Because of her mania about germs.”
“You would have had to go to a second-rate house, you would have gone down in station,” Robertito said. “What would you have done if she’d sent you away?”
“I would have been fried,” Queta said. “A second-or third-rate or God knows what kind of house.”
“Madame is a good person,” Robertito said. “She protects her
business
against wind and tide and she’s right. She’s behaved well toward you, you know that she won’t take back people who’ve caught it as bad as you did.”
“Because I’ve helped her earn a lot of good money,” Queta said. “Because she owes me a lot too.”
She’d sat up and was soaping her breasts. Robertito pointed at them with his finger: hoowee, the way they’ve drooped, Quetita, you’ve got so skinny. She nodded: she’d lost thirty pounds in the hospital, Robertito. Then you’ve got to fatten yourself up, Quetita, if you don’t, you won’t make any good conquests.
“The old lady said I was skinny as a rail,” Queta said. “At the hospital I ate practically nothing, just when one of the packages Malvina sent me came.”
“Now you can have your revenge.” Robertito laughed. “Eating like a hog.”
“My stomach must have shrunk,” Queta said, closing her eyes and sinking into the tub. “Oh, this hot water is so delicious.”
Robertito came over, dried the edge of the tub with a towel and sat down. He started looking at Queta with a malicious and smiling
roguishness
.
“Do you want me to tell you a secret too?” he said, lowering his voice and opening his eyes, scandalized at his own daring. “Do you want me to?”
“Yes, tell me all the gossip of the house,” Queta said. “What’s the latest?”
“Last week Madame and I went to pay a call on your ex.” Robertito had raised a finger to his lips, his eyelashes were fluttering. “To your ex’s ex, I mean. I have to tell you that he behaved like the swine he is.”