Conversation in the Cathedral by Mario Vargas Llosa Page A

Uplander.”
    “Cut your sarcasm.” Espina rapped on the desk. “Tell me whether you accept or not.”
    “Something like that can’t be decided so fast,” Bermúdez said. “Give me a few days to mull it over.”
    “I won’t even give you a half hour, you’re going to answer me right now,” Espina said. “The President expects me at the Palace at six. If you accept you’re coming with me so I can introduce you. If not, you can go back to Chincha.”
    “The functions of Director of Security I can imagine,” Bermúdez said. “On the other hand, I have no idea what it pays.”
    “A base salary and some living expenses,” Colonel Espina said. “Around five or six thousand soles, I would calculate. I know it isn’t very much.”
    “It’s enough to live modestly.” Bermúdez barely smiled. “Since I’m a modest man, it’ll do me.”
    “Not another word, then,” Colonel Espina said. “But you still haven’t answered me. Did I do something stupid?”
    “Only time will tell, Uplander.” Bermúdez gave a half-smile again.
    Whether the Uplander ever recognized Ambrosio? When Ambrosio was Don Cayo’s chauffeur he got into the car a thousand times, yessir, he’d taken him to his house a thousand times. Maybe he recognized him, but the fact is that he never showed it, no sir. Since he was a minister then, he was probably ashamed that he’d known Ambrosio when he was a nobody, he wouldn’t have found it amusing that Ambrosio knew he’d been mixed up in the kidnapping of Túmula’s daughter. He’d probably erased him from his head so that black face wouldn’t bring back bad memories, no sir. The times they saw each other he treated Ambrosio like a chauffeur seen for the first time. Good morning, good afternoon, and the Uplander just the same. Now he was going to say something, yessir. It’s true that Rosa turned into a fat Indian covered with moles, but underneath it all her story made you feel sorry for her, yessir, right? After all, she was his wife, right? And he left her in Chincha and she couldn’t enjoy anything when Don Cayo became important. What became of her during all those years? When Don Cayo came to Lima she stayed there in the little yellow house, she’s probably still there turning to bone. But he didn’t abandon her the way he did Señora Hortensia, without a penny. He sent her her pension, many times he told Ambrosio, remind me that I have to send Rosa some money, black man. What did she do all those years? Who can say. Probably the same life she always had, a life without friends or relatives. Because from the day she was married she never saw anyone from the settlement again, not even Túmula. Don Cayo must have forbidden it, he must have. And Túmula went on cursing her daughter because she wouldn’t receive her in her house. But that wasn’t why, no sir; she didn’t get into Chincha society, never, who wanted to mix with the milk woman’s daughter, even if she was Don Cayo’s wife and wore shoes and washed her face every day. They’d all seen her driving the donkey and pouring out gourds of milk. And besides, knowing that the Vulture didn’t recognize her as his daughter -in-law. There was nothing left for her to do but shut herself up in a little room that Don Cayo took behind the San José Hospital and live the life of a nun. She almost never went out, from shame, because they pointed at her in the street, or from fear of the Vulture, maybe. Then it must have become a habit. Ambrosio had seen her sometimes, in the market or taking out a washbasin and scrubbing clothes, kneeling on the sidewalk. So what good was all her spark, yessir, all the tricks to catch the white boy. She might have got a better name and joined a better class, but she was left without any friends and even without a mother. Don Cayo, you say? Yes, he had friends. On Saturdays he could be seen having his little old beers in the Cielito Lindo or tossing coins at the toad in the Jardín el Paraíso, and