“Mr. Bermúdez’ chauffeur?” Ludovico had said, dumbstruck. “Let me give you a hug, let me congratulate you.”
They hit it off, sir, Ludovico had made Ambrosio laugh telling him things about Hipólito, the other one in the trio, the one who turned out to be a degenerate. Now Ludovico was Don Cayo’s chauffeur and Hipólito his helper. At nightfall they got into the van, Ambrosio drove and they parked a long way off from the shantytown because it was a mud-hole. They continued on by shank’s mare, swishing flies, getting stuck in the mud, and asking around they found the guy’s house. A fat, Chinese-looking woman opened the door and looked at them with mistrust: could they talk to Mr. Calancha? He’d come out of the dark: fat, shoeless, in his undershirt.
“Are you the headman of this settlement?” Ludovico had asked.
“There’s no room for anyone else.” The fellow had looked at them with pity, sir. “We’re full up.”
“We have to talk to you about something urgent,” Ambrosio said. “Why don’t we take a walk while we talk?”
The guy had stood looking at them without answering and finally come in, they could talk right here. No, sir, it had to be in private. Fine, anything you say. They walked in the wind, Ambrosio and Ludovico on either side of Calancha.
“You’re getting into deep water and we came to warn you,” Ludovico said. “For your own good.”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” the guy said in a weak voice.
Ludovico took out some oval cigarettes, offered him one, lighted it for him.
“Why are you going around telling people not to go to the rally on the Plaza de Armas on October twenty-seventh, mister?” Ambrosio asked.
“Even going around saying bad things about General Odría,” Ludovico said. “What’s the meaning of that?”
“Who told you lies like that?” As if he’d been pinched, sir, and then and there he sweetened up. “Are you from the police? Glad to make your acquaintance.”
“If we were we wouldn’t be treating you so nice,” Ludovico said.
“Who could ever have said that I’d say anything against the government, worse yet against the President,” Calancha protested. “Why, this very settlement is called October 27 in his honor.”
“Then why did you advise people against going to the rally, mister?” Ambrosio said.
“Everything comes out in this little life of ours,” Ludovico said. “The police are beginning to think that you’re a subversive.”
“Nothing of the kind, that’s a lie.” A good actor, sir. “Let me explain it all to you.”
“That’s fine, people with brains get to understand each other by talking,” Ludovico said.
He’d told them a teary tale, sir. A lot of them were fresh down from the hills and didn’t even speak Spanish, they’d settled on that piece of land without doing any harm to anyone, when Odría’s revolution came they’d named it October 27 so they wouldn’t send the cops down on them, they were thankful to Odría because he hadn’t kicked them out of there. These people weren’t like them—soft-soaping us, sir—or like him, but poor people with no education, they’d elected him President of the Association because he could read and he was from the coast.
“What’s that got to do with it?” Ludovico had asked. “Are you trying to make us feel sorry? It won’t work, Calancha.”
“If we get involved in politics now, the ones who come after Odría will send the cops down on us and kick us out of here,” Calancha explained. “You see?”
“That business of coming after Odría smells subversive to me,” Ludovico said. “Doesn’t it to you, Ambrosio?”
The fellow gave a start and the butt fell out of his mouth. He bent down to pick it up and Ambrosio leave it there, here, have a fresh one.
“I don’t want that to happen, as far as I’m concerned I hope he stays forever,” kissing his fingers, sir. “But Odría might die and an enemy of his might come to power and say those people from October 27 used to go to his rallies. And they’d send the cops down on us, sir.”
“Forget about the future and think about what’s good for you,” Ludovico said. “Get your people all ready for the twenty-seventh of October.”
He patted him on the shoulder, took his arm like a friend: this has been a nice talk, Calancha. Yes, sir, of course, sir.
“The buses will pick them up at six o’clock,” Ludovico said. “I want everyone there, old people, women, children. The buses will bring them back. Then you can organize a blowout if you want. There’ll be free drinks. All set, Calancha?”
Of course, of course he was, and Ludovico gave him twenty soles to pay for the bother of having got his digestion all upset, Calancha. Then he knocked himself out thanking them, sir.
*
Miss Queta almost always came after lunch, she was the most intimate, pretty too but nowhere near as pretty as Señora Hortensia. Slacks, low-cut, tight-fitting blouses, colored turbans. Sometimes the mistress and Miss Queta would go out in Miss Queta’s little white car and come back at night. When they stayed home, they spent the afternoon talking on the telephone and it was always the same bits of gossip and teasing. The whole house would become infected with the carryings-on of the mistress and Miss Queta, their laughter reached into the kitchen and Amalia and Carlota ran to the pantry to listen to the jokes they were pulling. They would speak with a handkerchief over their mouths, get too close to the telephone, change their voices. If a man answered: you’re a nice boy and I like you, I’m in love with you, but you won’t even look at me, do you want to come to my house tonight? I’m a friend of your wife’s. If a woman: your husband’s cheating on you with your sister, your husband’s crazy about me but don’t get worried, I’m not going to take him away from you because he has a lot of boils on his back. Your husband’s going to do you dirty at five o’clock in Los Claveles, you know who with. At first, hearing them left something of a bad taste in Amalia’s mouth, later on she would die with laughter. All the mistress’s girl friends are in show business, Carlota told her, they work in radio, in nightclubs. They were all good-looking, Miss Lucy, fresh, Miss Carmincha, very high heels, the one they called China was one of the Bim-Bam-Booms. And another day, lowering her voice, want me to tell you a secret? The mistress used to be a singer too, Carlota had found an album in her bedroom where her picture appeared, all elegant and showing everything. Amalia searched through the night table, the closet, the dressing table, but she couldn’t find the album. But it must have been true, what else could the mistress have been but a singer, she even had a beautiful voice. They heard her sing while she bathed, when she was in a good mood they would ask her, ma’am, could we have “Caminito” or “Noche de Amor” or “Rosas Rojas para Ti” and she would give them what they wanted. At the small parties she never had to be begged when they asked her to sing. She would run and put on a record, take a glass or a doll from the shelf as a microphone, and stand in the center of the room and sing, the guests would applaud her madly. You can see now, can’t you, that she used to be a singer, Carlota whispered to Amalia.
*
“Textiles,” he said. “Yesterday the discussion of the list of demands was broken off. Last night the employers went to tell the Ministry of Labor that there was a threat of a strike, that the whole thing was politically motivated.”
“I’m sorry, Don Cayo, that’s not the way it is,” Lozano said. “You know, textiles, always an Aprista hotbed. That’s why a good cleanup had been made there. The union can be trusted completely. Pereira, the secretary general, you know him, has always cooperated.”
“Talk to Pereira today,” he interrupted him. “Tell him that the threat of a strike is going to remain just that, a threat, we can’t take a strike right now. They have to accept the mediation of the Ministry.”
“Everything is all explained here, Don Cayo, permit me.” Lozano leaned over, quickly drew out a sheet from the pile of papers on the desk. “It’s a threat, that’s all. A political ploy, not to scare the
employers, but to let the union recover some prestige with its membership. There’s been a lot of resistance against the present leadership, this is going to make the workers come back to …”
“The raise proposed by the Ministry is fair,” he said. “Pereira should convince his people, discussion of that list of demands has to stop. It’s creating a tense situation there, and tensions favor agitation.”
“Pereira thinks that if the Labor Ministry would only accept point number two on the list, he could …”
“Explain to Pereira that he’s being paid to obey, not to think,” he said. “He was put in there to facilitate things, not to complicate them with his thinking. The Ministry has got some concessions from the employers, now the union has to accept the mediation. Tell Pereira that the thing has got to be settled in forty-eight hours.”
“Yes, Don Cayo,” Lozano said. “Absolutely, Don Cayo.”
*
But two days later Mr. Lozano was in a rage, sir: that damned fool Calancha hadn’t gone to the committee meeting and hasn’t shown his face, it was only three days until the twenty-seventh and if the shantytowns didn’t go in a body, the Plaza de Armas wouldn’t be filled. Calancha’s the man, they had to teach him how to give in, offer him up to five hundred soles. You see, he’d tricked them, sir, turning out to be a hypocritical sly bugger. They got into the van, got to his house and didn’t knock on the door. Ludovico rammed the piece of tin down with a blow of his hand: inside there was a lighted candle, Calancha and the Chinese-looking woman were eating, and around them something like ten children crying.
“Come on out, mister,” Ambrosio said. “We have to have a talk.”
The Chinese-looking woman had picked up a stick and Ludovico began to laugh. Calancha cursed her, grabbed the stick away from her, you have to excuse her, an awful play-actor, sir, she was worked up because they’d come in without knocking. He went out with them and that night he only had his pants on and reeked of alcohol. As soon as they were away from the house, Ludovico gave him a mild slap on the face, and Ambrosio another, neither very hard, to lower his morale. What a fuss he made, sir: he threw himself to the ground, don’t kill me, there must have been some misunderstanding.
“You seven-milked son of a bitch,” Ludovico said. “I’ll give you a misunderstanding.”
“Why didn’t you do what you promised, mister?” Ambrosio asked.
“Why didn’t you go to the committee meeting when Hipólito went to arrange for the buses?” Ludovico asked.
“Look at my face, look at it. Isn’t it yellow?” Calancha was weeping. “Every once in a while I get an attack that lays me low, I was sick in bed. I’ll go to the meeting tomorrow. It’ll all be set up.”
“If the people from here don’t go to the rally, it’ll be your fault,” Ambrosio said.
“And you’ll be arrested,” Ludovico said. “And what they do to political prisoners, oh, mama.”
He gave them his word, swore by his mother, and Ludovico hit him again and Ambrosio again, a little harder this time.
“You’re probably saying that it’s foolishness, but those slaps are for your own good,” Ludovico said. “Can’t you see that we don’t want to see you arrested, Calancha?”
“This is your last chance, man,” Ambrosio had said.
His word, on his mother’s name, he swore to us, sir, don’t hit me anymore.
“If all the mountain people go to the square and the thing comes off well, there’ll be three hundred soles for you, Calancha,” Ludovico said. “Choose between three hundred soles or being arrested, you can decide which’ll be better for you.”
“That’s too much, I don’t want any money.” Such a tricky fellow, sir. “I’ll do it for General Odría and no other reason.”
They left him like that, swearing and promising. Could a simpleton like that have a word to keep, Ambrosio? He did, sir: the next day Hipólito went to bring them the banners and Calancha had met him in front of the whole committee, and Hipólito saw that he was giving the word to his people and he cooperated as nice as you could ask.
*
The mistress was taller than Amalia, shorter than Miss Queta, dark black hair, skin as if she’d never been in the sun, green eyes, a red mouth that she was always biting with her even little teeth in a flirty way. How old could she have been? Over thirty Carlota said, Amalia thought twenty-five. From the waist up her body was so-so, but the bottom part what curves. Shoulders thrown back a little, breasts standing out, the waist of a little girl. But her hips were heart-warming, broad broad, and they closed in as they went down, and her legs slowly thinned out, thin ankles and feet like Missy Teté’s. Little hands too, long fingernails, always painted the same color as her lips. When she was wearing a blouse and slacks everything stood out, the tops of her elegant dresses left her shoulders, half her back and half her breasts out in the air. She would sit down, cross her legs, her skirt would run up above her knees and from the pantry, as excited as chickens, Carlota and Amalia would comment on how the guests’ eyes followed the mistress’s legs and neckline. Gray-haired, fat old men, they thought of all kinds of tricks, lifting their whiskey glasses from the floor, leaning over to flick the ashes off their cigarettes, to get their eyes close and take a look. She didn’t get annoyed, she would even provoke them by sitting like that. The master isn’t jealous, is he? Amalia said to Carlota, anybody else would have become furious if they became that intimate with his lady. And Carlota, why should he be jealous of her? all she is is his mistress. It was so strange, the master may have been old and ugly but he didn’t seem to have a stupid hair on his head, and yet he was so calm when the guests, a little high now, began to take liberties with the mistress and fool around. For example, they’d be dancing and kiss her on the neck or stroke her back and the way they held her tight. The mistress would give her little laugh, give a playful slap to the bold one, playfully pushing him into a chair, or keep on dancing with him as if nothing was going on, letting him go too far. Don Cayo never danced. Sitting in a chair, glass in hand, he would chat with the guests, or would look with his washed-out face at the mistress’s coquetry and flirting. A red-faced gentleman shouted one day you’ve got to lend me your siren for a weekend at Paracas, will you, Don Cayo? and the master she’s yours, General, and the mistress all set, take me to Paracas, I’m yours. Carlota and Amalia were dying with laughter listening to the jokes and watching the horsing around, but Símula wouldn’t let them spy for very long, she would come into the pantry and close the door, or the mistress would appear, eyes glowing, cheeks flushed, and send them off to bed. From her bed Amalia could hear the music, the laughter, the squeals, the sound of glasses, and would huddle under the covers, awake, restless, laughing to herself. The next morning she and Carlota had to do triple work. Piles of cigarette butts and bottles, furniture pushed against the walls, broken glasses. They would clean, pick up, rearrange so that when the mistress came down she wouldn’t start with oh, what a mess, such filth. The master would sleep over when there was a party. He would leave very early, Amalia saw him, yellow and baggy-eyed, cross the garden quickly, wake up the two men who’d spent the night in the car waiting for him, he must have paid them a lot to spend the night like that, and as soon as the car left the policemen on the corner left too. On those days the mistress would get up very late. Símula would have a platter of oysters with onion sauce and lots of chili prepared and a glass of cold beer. She would appear in her bathrobe, her eyes swollen and red, would have lunch and go back to bed, and in the afternoon she would ring for Amalia to bring her up some mineral water, some Alka-Seltzers.
*
“Olave,” he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. “Did the people you sent to Chiclayo come back?”
“This morning, Don Cayo.” Lozano nodded. “All taken care of. Here’s the Governor’s report, here’s a copy of the police report. The three leaders are in jail in Chiclayo.”
“Apristas?” He let out another puff of smoke and saw that Lozano was holding back
a sneeze.
“Only a certain Lanza, an old Aprista leader. The other two are young, no previous record.”
“Have them brought to Lima and get them to confess their sins, mortal and venial. A strike like that on Olave isn’t organized just like that. It took time to prepare it, and professionals. Has work on the ranch begun again?”
“This morning, Don Cayo,” Lozano said. “The Governor told me on the telephone. We’ve left a small detachment at Olave for a few days, even though the Governor assures us …”
“San Marcos.” Lozano closed his mouth and his hands sped to the table, picked up three, four sheets of paper and handed them to him. He put them on the arm of the chair without looking at them.
“Nothing this week, Don Cayo. Small groups meet, the Apristas more disorganized than ever, the redtails a little more active. Oh yes, we’ve identified a new Trotskyite group. Meetings, conversations, nothing. Next week there are going to be elections at the Medical School. The Aprista ticket might win.”
“Other universities.” He blew out the smoke and this time Lozano sneezed.
“The same thing, Don Cayo, meetings of small groups, fights among them, nothing. Oh yes, our source of information at the University of Trujillo is finally working. Here it is, memorandum number three. We’ve got two elements there that …”
“Only memos?” he asked. “Aren’t there any fliers, handouts, mimeographed papers?”
“Of course, Don Cayo.” Lozano picked up his briefcase, opened it, took out a folder with an air of triumph. “Fliers, handouts, even the typewritten communiqués of the Federated Centers. Everything, Don Cayo.”
Conversation in the Cathedral Page 25
