Conversation in the Cathedral (5 page)

“All we need is for Amalia to get mad and tell me to go to hell,” Santiago said.

“A hundred soles is a fortune,” Popeye said. “Shell receive you like a king.”

They were near the Cine Miraflores, across from the market with booths of wood, matting and awnings where flowers, ceramics and fruit were sold, and into the street there came shots, galloping, Indian war cries, children’s voices:
Death
in
Arizona,
They stopped to look at the posters: a cowboy picture, Skinny.

“I’m a little jumpy,” Santiago said. “I couldn’t get to sleep last night, that must be why.”

“You’re jumpy because you’ve lost your nerve,” Popeye said. “You put on for me, nothing’s going to happen, don’t be chicken, and at the zero hour you’re the one who loses his nerve. Let’s go to the movies, then.”

“I haven’t lost my nerve, it’s passed,” Santiago said. “Wait, I’m going to see if my folks have left.”

The car wasn’t there, they’d gone. They went in through the garden, passed by the tiled fountain, and what if she’d gone to bed, Skinny? They’d wake her up, Freckle Face. Santiago opened the door, the click of the switch and the shadows turned into rugs, pictures, mirrors, tables with ashtrays, lamps. Popeye was going to sit down but, Santiago, let’s go up to my room first. A courtyard, a study, a stairway with an iron railing. Santiago left Popeye on the landing, go in and put some music on, he was going to call her. School pennants, a picture of Sparky, another one of Teté in her first-communion dress, beautiful Popeye thought, a big-eared, snouty pig on the bureau, he picked it up, how much money could there be. He sat down on the bed, turned on the clock radio, a waltz by Felipe Pinglo, steps, Skinny: everything O.K., Freckle Face. He’d found her awake, bring me up some Coca-Colas, and they laughed: shh, she was coming, could it be her? Yes, there she was at the door, surprised, examining them with suspicion. She’d folded up against the door, a pink jumper and a blouse without buttons, she didn’t say anything. It was Amalia and it wasn’t, Popeye thought, how could it be the one in a blue apron who went through Skinny’s house with trays or a duster in her hands. Her hair was tangled now, good afternoon, child, a pair of men’s shoes and you could see she was frightened: hello, Amalia.

“My mother said you’d left the house,” Santiago said. “What a shame that you’re leaving.”

Amalia left the door, looked at Popeye, how was he, young master, who smiled at her in a friendly way from the sidewalk, and turned to Santiago: she hadn’t left because she wanted to, Señora Zoila had thrown her out. But why, ma’am, and Señora Zoila because she felt like it, pack your bags this instant. She spoke and was making her hair peaceful with her hands, adjusting her blouse. Santiago listened to her with an
uncomfortable
face. She didn’t want to leave the house, child, she’d begged the mistress.

“Put the tray on the table,” Santiago said. “Stay awhile, we’re listening to music.”

Amalia put the tray with the glasses and the Coca-Cola in front of the picture of Sparky and remained standing by the bureau, her face puzzled. She was wearing the white dress and low-heeled shoes of her uniform but not the apron or the cap. Why was she standing there? come here, sit down, there’s room. How could she sit down, and she gave a little laugh, the mistress didn’t like her to go into the boys’ rooms, didn’t he know? Silly, my mother’s not home, Santiago’s voice suddenly became tense, neither he nor Popeye would tell on her, sit down, silly. Amalia laughed again, he said that now but as soon as he got annoyed he’d tell on her and the mistress would take it out on her. I swear that Skinny won’t tell on you, Popeye said, don’t make us beg you and sit down. Amalia looked at Santiago, looked at Popeye, sat down on a corner of the bed and now her face was serious. Santiago got up, went to the tray, don’t let your hand slip, Popeye thought and looked at Amalia: did she like the way that group sang? He pointed to the radio, the real thing, right? She liked it, they sang pretty. She had her hands on her knees, she kept herself stiff, she was squinting as if to hear better: they were the Trovadores del Norte, Amalia. Santiago was still pouring the Coca-Colas and Popeye was spying on him, uneasy. Did Amalia know how to dance? Waltzes, boleros, guarachas? Amalia smiled, turned serious, smiled again: no, she didn’t know how. She moved a little closer to the edge of the bed, crossed her arms. Her movements were forced, as if her clothes were too tight or her back itched: her shadow was motionless on the floor.

“I brought you this for you to buy something,” Santiago said.

“Me?” Amalia looked at the banknotes, without taking them. “But Señora Zoila paid me for the whole month, child.”

“My mother didn’t send it to you,” Santiago said. “I’m giving it to you.”

“But why should you be giving me your money, child?” Her cheeks were red, she looked confusedly at Skinny. “How can I accept it?”

“Don’t be foolish,” Santiago insisted. “Go ahead, Amalia.”

He set the example for her: he lifted up his glass and drank. Now they were playing “Siboney,” and Popeye had opened the window: the
garden
, the small trees on the street lighted by the lamppost on the corner, the trembling surface of the fountain, the tile base glimmering, I hope nothing happens, Skinny. Well, child, to your health, and Amalia took a long drink, sighed and took the glass away from her lips half empty: delicious, nice and cold. Popeye went over to the bed.

“If you want, we can teach you how to dance,” Santiago said. “That way, when you get a boyfriend you’ll be able to go to parties with him without being a wallflower.”

“She probably has a boyfriend already,” Popeye said. “Tell the truth, Amalia, have you got one?”

“Look how she’s laughing, Freckle Face.” Santiago took her by the arm. “Of course you have, we’ve found out your secret, Amalia.”

“You have, you have.” Popeye dropped down beside her, took her other arm. “Look at the way you’re laughing, you devil.”

Amalia was twisting with laughter and shook her arms but they didn’t let her go, how could she have one, child, she didn’t, she elbowed them to keep them away. Santiago put his arm around her waist, Popeye put a hand on her knee, and Amalia a slap: none of that, child, no touching her. But Popeye returned to the attack: devil, devil. She probably even knew how to dance and was lying that she couldn’t, come on, confess: all right, child, she accepted. She took the bills that wrinkled in her fingers, just to prove to Santiago that she didn’t want to beg, that’s all, and she put them in the pocket of her jumper. But she was sorry to take his money, now he wouldn’t have any even for the Sunday matinee.

“Don’t worry,” Popeye said. “If he hasn’t got any, we’ll take up a collection in the neighborhood and invite him.”

“Friends that you are,” and Amalia opened her eyes as if
remembering
. “But come in, even if just for a minute. Excuse my poor place.”

She didn’t give them time to refuse, she went running into the house and they followed her. Grease spots and soot, a few chairs, religious pictures, two unmade beds. They couldn’t stay very long, Amalia, they had an appointment. She nodded, dusted the table in the center of the room with her skirt, just a few minutes. A malicious spark broke out in her eyes, would they wait for her and talk a little while? she was going to buy something to serve them, she’d be right back. Santiago and Popeye looked at each other surprised, delighted, she’s a different person, Skinny, she’s gone batty. Her laughter echoed through the whole room, her face was sweaty and there were tears in her eyes, her bravado had infected the bed with a squeaking shudder. Now she too was
accompanying
the music with clapping: yes, yes she knew how. Once they had taken her to Agua Dulce and she’d danced at a place where an orchestra was playing, she’s completely mad Popeye thought. He stood up, turned off the radio, turned on the phonograph, went back to the bed. Now he wanted to see her dance, how happy you are, you devil, come on let’s go, but Santiago got up: he was going to dance with her, Freckle Face. You bastard, Popeye thought, you take advantage because she’s your servant, and what if Teté appeared? and he felt his knees weaken and a desire to leave, bastard. Amalia had stood up and was doing steps by herself across the room, bumping into the furniture, clumsy and heavy, humming, spinning blindly, until Santiago embraced her. Popeye leaned his head on the pillow, reached out his hand and turned out the lamp, darkness, then the glow of the street light sketchily illuminated the two silhouettes. Popeye watched them floating in a circle, heard Amalia’s shrill voice, and put his hand in his pocket, did he see that she did know how to dance, child? When the record was over and Santiago came back to sit on the bed Amalia kept leaning against the window, her back to them, laughing: Sparky was right, look what’s happened to her, shut up you bastard. She was talking, singing and laughing as if she were drunk, she didn’t even see them, her eyes were rolling, Freckle Face, Santiago was a little frightened, what if she faints? Stop talking nonsense, Popeye said in his ear, bring her to the bed. His voice was determined, urgent, he had a hard on, Skinny, didn’t you? anguished, thick: he too, Freckle Face. They would undress her, they would fondle her: they would jump her, Skinny. Leaning halfway out over the garden, Amalia was slowly swaying, murmuring something, and Popeye made out her silhouette outlined against the dark sky: another record, another record. Santiago stood up, a background of violins and the voice of Leo Marini, pure velvet Popeye thought, and he saw Santiago go to the balcony. The two shadows came together, he’d given him the idea for all this and now he had him twiddling his thumbs in great shape, you’ll pay me for this trick, you bastard. They weren’t even moving now, the breed girl was short and seemed to be hanging from Skinny, he must have been petting her beautifully, it was too much, and he imagined Santiago’s voice, aren’t you tired? clogged up and weak and as if she were strangled, did she want to lie down? bring her over, he thought. They were beside him, Amalia was dancing like a sleepwalker, her eyes were closed, Skinny’s hands ran up and down, disappeared behind her back and Popeye couldn’t make out their faces, he was kissing her and he an innocent bystander, it was too much, help yourselves, boys.

“I brought these straws too,” Amalia said. “That’s how you drink it, right?”

“Why did you bother,” Santiago said. “We were just leaving.”

She handed them the Coca-Colas and the straws, dragged over a chair and sat down opposite them; she had combed her hair, had put on a hairband and buttoned her jumper and was watching them drink. She didn’t have any.

“You shouldn’t have spent your money like that, silly,” Popeye said.

“It’s not mine, it’s what young Santiago gave me.” Amalia laughed. “Just to do a little something for you.”

The street door was open, outside it was beginning to grow dark and sometimes and in the distance the sound of streetcars was heard. A lot of people were passing along the sidewalk, voices, laughter, some faces paused to look for a moment.

“They’re getting out of the factories now,” Amalia said. “It’s too bad your father’s laboratory isn’t near here, child. I’ll have to take the streetcar to the Avenida Argentina and then the bus.”

“Are you going to work at the lab?” Santiago asked.

“Didn’t your papa tell you?” Amalia said. “Yes, starting Monday.”

She was leaving the house with her suitcase and she met Don Fermín, would you like me to get you a job in the lab? and she of course, Don Fermín, anywhere, and then he called young Sparky and told him to telephone Carrillo to give her a job: what a show-off, Popeye thought.

“Oh, that’s good,” Santiago said. “You’ll be much better off in the lab.”

Popeye took out his pack of Chesterfields, offered a cigarette to
Santiago
, doubted a moment, and another to Amalia, but she didn’t smoke, child.

“You probably do smoke and you’re fooling us the way you did the other day,” Popeye said. “You told us I can’t dance and you knew how.”

He saw her grow pale, no, child, no, he heard her stammer, he sensed that Santiago was moving in his chair and he thought I put my foot in it. Amalia had lowered her head.

“I was kidding,” he said, and his cheeks were burning. “What have you got to be ashamed of, did anything happen, silly?”

She was getting her color back, her voice: she didn’t even want to remember, child. How bad she felt, the next day everything was still all mixed up in her head and things danced in her hands. She raised her face, looked at them timidly, enviously, with amazement: didn’t Coca-Cola do anything to them? Popeye looked at Santiago, Santiago looked at Popeye and they both looked at Amalia: she’d vomited all night long, she’d never drink Coca-Cola again in her life. And still, she’d drunk beer and nothing happened, and Pasteurina, nothing, and Pepsi-Cola, nothing, could that Coca-Cola have gone bad, child? Popeye bit his tongue, took out his handkerchief and blew his nose furiously. He squeezed his nose and felt that his stomach was going to explode: the record was over, now was the time, and he quickly took his hand out of his pants pocket. They were still sunk in half darkness, come on come on, sit down for a while and he heard Amalia: the music had finished, child. A difficult voice, why had the other child turned out the light, barely fluttering, that they should turn it back on or she was leaving, complaining without strength, as if some overpowering dream or languor were extinguishing her, she didn’t like the dark, she didn’t like it that way. It was a shapeless silhouette, one more shadow among the other shadows of the room and they seemed to be struggling in a sham way between the night table and the bureau. He got up and went over to them, go out into the garden, Freckle Face, and he it’s too much, he bumped into something, his ankle hurt, he wasn’t going, bring her to the bed, let me go, child. Amalia’s voice rose up, what’s the matter, child, she was getting furious, and now Popeye had found her shoulders, let me go, he should let her go, and he dragged her, what a nerve, how dare the young master, eyes closed, breathing heavy and he rolled onto the bed with them: there it was, Skinny. She laughed, don’t tickle me, but her arms and legs kept on struggling and Popeye laughed anxiously: get out of here, Freckle Face, leave me alone. He wasn’t leaving, why should he leave, and now Santiago was pushing Popeye and Popeye was pushing him, I’m not leaving and there was a confusion of clothing and wet skins in the shadows, a whirl of legs, hands, arms and blankets. They were smothering her, child, she couldn’t breathe: the way you laugh, you devil. Get away, they should let her go, a drowned voice, a regular, slow animal panting, and suddenly shh, shoves and little shouts, and Santiago shh, and Popeye shh: the street door, shh. Teté, he thought, and he felt his body dissolve. Santiago had run to the window and he couldn’t move: Teté, Teté.