Conversation in the Cathedral by Mario Vargas Llosa

business.”
    “You’re happy with your lot, you don’t mind growing old as a penniless country boy,” Espina said. “You’re not ambitious anymore, Cayo.”
    “But I’m still proud,” Bermúdez said dryly. “I don’t like to take favors. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
    The Colonel was watching him, as if measuring him or guessing what he was thinking, and the cordial little smile that had been floating on his lips vanished. He clasped his hands with their polished nails and leaned forward.
    “Do you want to get down to cases, Cayo?” he asked with sudden energy.
    “It’s about time.” Bermúdez put out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You were getting me tired with that great show of affection.”
    “Odría needs people he can trust.” The Colonel spaced his syllables, as if his safety and confidence were suddenly threatened. “Everybody here is with us and nobody is with us. La Prensa and the Agrarian Society only want us to abolish controls on exchange and to protect free enterprise.”
    “Since you’re going to do what they want, there’s no problem,” Bermúdez said. “Right?”
    “ El Comercio calls Odría the Savior of the Nation just because it hates APRA,” Colonel Espina said. “They only want us to keep the Apristas in the clink.”
    “That’s an accomplished fact,” Bermúdez said. “There’s no problem there either, right?”
    “And International, Cerro and the other companies only want a strong government that will keep the unions quiet for them,” Espina went on without listening to him. “Each one pulling in his own direction, see?”
    “The exporters, the anti-Apristas, the gringos and the army too,” Bermúdez said. “Money and power. I don’t see that Odría has any reason to complain. What more could he ask for?”
    “The President knows the mentality of those sons of bitches,” Colonel Espina said. “Today they support you, tomorrow they stick a knife in your back.”
    “The way you people stuck it in Bustamante’s back.” Bermúdez smiled, but the Colonel didn’t laugh. “Well, as long as you keep them happy, they’ll support the regime. Then they’ll get another general and throw you people out. Hasn’t it always been that way in Peru?”
    “This time it’s not going to be that way,” Colonel Espina said. “We’re going to keep our backs covered.”
    “That sounds fine to me,” Bermúdez said, stifling a yawn, “but what the hell have I got to do with all this?”
    “I talked to the President about you.” Colonel Espina studied the effect of his words, but Bermúdez hadn’t changed his expression; his elbow on the arm of the chair, his face resting on his open palm, he listened motionless. “We were going over names for Director of Security and yours came to mind and I let it out. Did I do something stupid?”
    He was silent, a look of annoyance or fatigue or doubt or regret, he twisted his mouth and narrowed his eyes. He remained for a few seconds with an absent look and then he sought Bermúdez’ face: there it was, just as before, absolutely quiet, waiting.
    “An obscure position but important for the security of the regime,” the Colonel added. “Did I do something stupid? You need someone there who’s like your other self, they warned me, your right arm. And your name came to mind and I let it out. Without thinking. You can see, I’m talking frankly to you. Did I do something stupid?”
    Bermúdez had taken out another cigarette, lighted it. He took a drag, tightening his mouth a little, biting the lower lip. He looked at the end of it, the smoke, the window, the piles of garbage on the Lima rooftops.
    “I know that if you want it, you’re my man,” Colonel Espina said.
    “I can see that you have confidence in your old classmate,” Bermúdez finally said, in such a low voice that the Colonel leaned forward. “Having chosen this frustrated and inexperienced hick to be your right arm, it’s a great honor,