Conversation in the Cathedral by Mario Vargas Llosa Read Free Book Online

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