Read Conversation in the Cathedral for Free Online Page B

how did he know that she was a hooker? Because besides being a restaurant and bar La Catedral was also a pickup place, son, behind the kitchen there was a little room and they rented it for two soles an hour. They went along Larco, looking at the girls who were coming out of the shops, the women pushing carriages with crying babies. In the park Popeye bought Última Hora and read the gossip aloud, thumbed through the sports pages, and as they passed in front of La Tiendecita Bianca hi, Lalo. On the Alameda Ricardo Palma they crumpled the newspaper and took a few steps until it fell apart and was abandoned on a corner in Surquillo.
    “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