Juan Gómez Bárcena - The Sky Over Lima

And he doesn’t open his mouth again for the next hour.

The daughters don’t say anything either. Elizabeth sits motionless in her seat, rigid as a rod, her feet placed close together and her hands on her knees. She looks like the cover illustration of a correction manual for young ladies. Carlos decides not to look at her. He longs to wreck the whole farce, so reminiscent of a livestock market, the cattle remaining silent while their handlers negotiate the price. As for Madeleine, she couldn’t talk even if she wanted to, as her mastery of the Spanish language seems to be limited to three phrases: No, thank you (when the servants offer her a canapé), Pleased to meet you (when anyone enters the room), and Pardon me? (the rest of the time, even when asked the simplest of questions). Or perhaps four; she will most likely also say Thank you for everything, I’ve had a lovely afternoon when it is time to go.

The parents talk animatedly, perhaps to make up for their offspring’s silence. Señor Almada, for example, takes the opportunity to trot out some of his impressions of the United States. He speaks of his second homeland with the indulgent air used to describe a summer residence that is dearly beloved despite its many imperfections and discomforts. The problem with the United States is the unions, he says. The problem is Italian immigration. The problem is the coloreds. He sees problems everywhere, but the problem of the coloreds is clearly his favorite. He even mentions one Dr. Eldridge in Philadelphia who uses an x-ray machine to whiten colored people’s skin. “Yes, just what I said,” he repeats, “the ray turns them not completely white but at least tolerably pale.” They spend a few minutes discussing the convenience of the procedure, particularly the thorny matter of financing: whether the government should or should not cover the cost of the skin whitening.

Each family takes the opportunity to share lies that the other will then enthusiastically pretend to believe. The Almadas complain of the vices of servants they no longer have, discuss the rents of properties they’ve already sold, and laboriously reestablish businesses that have long since fallen into ruin or oblivion. They also mention, in passing, the prospect of a trip to Europe. A summer in seaside towns and jaunts down the Crimean coast, which is as far removed from their financial possibilities as the European continent is from Peru. As for the Rodríguezes, they speak at length of their illustrious dead — that is, they spin lies as fast as they can. They choose a few sonorous names, dole out a few honors and achievements among them, and then describe them with an affection and generosity that transcend the centuries. Did you know that Carlos’s great-grandfather’s grandfather’s great-great-grandfather — on the maternal side — was a count in a city you’ve no doubt never heard of? Or that he is descended from a particular Frenchman who was a general during the revolutions? The Almadas have not heard all that. Or yes, actually, now that she thinks about it, Señora Almada seems to recall having heard of the Marquis Rodríguez y Rodríguez, decorated by Emperor Charles V himself after the Battle of Mühlberg.

At some point the conversation returns to reality — that is, to the front page of the newspapers. Don Augusto mentions the end of the dockworkers’ strike, and Señor Almada nods and says that the problem in the United States of America is the workers. Those anarchists need to be taught a lesson, shown a firm hand, but most certainly not condemned to death, he adds, because as everyone knows, the gallows creates martyrs — take the strikers in Chicago, for instance — and they even created a Labor Day, as if they didn’t already have all those Sundays for resting. For her part, Señora Almada agrees with her husband on the fundamentals and confesses that while some of them are no doubt good people, she wouldn’t say otherwise, nevertheless one might prefer to cross the street when encountering a laborer on the sidewalk. As for Señora Rodríguez, she finds it ludicrous to compromise the health of one’s soul in a quest for earthly riches, which are ultimately fleeting, when everyone knows that when Judgment Day comes, rich and poor will be equal, God willing, which He will be. Finally, Don Augusto smooths his mustache and notes that the matter bears careful consideration, which is what he always says to resolve any debate in which he’s not quite sure what his interlocutor wants to hear.

Carlos suddenly interrupts. He has not spoken yet, which may be why his words sound unexpectedly brusque. He does not know, he says, whether the gallows creates martyrs or not; whether laborers are better people when viewed from the opposite sidewalk; whether it is or is not God’s will for His creatures to be able to eat. But there is no doubt that the dockworkers are first and foremost human beings, that at least they bleed as if they were — because he has seen that blood, their blood, pooling on the ground under their heads — and as far as he knows they eat too. Although, given that they earn about two soles a day, they certainly don’t eat very much. Because does anyone know how much it costs to buy a piece of bread? Well, according to his calculations it’s half a sol , which means four pieces of bread a day per family; four crusts of bread and not even a sip of that delicious hot chocolate they’re drinking, which by the way costs three soles an ounce.

Carlos breaks off, panting. He’s not quite sure why he’s said all that. The words don’t even sound like his own; it is as if Sandoval has spoken through his mouth for a moment. His first thought is that the books Sandoval lent him might be to blame, though to be honest he hasn’t understood much of them, and so in that sense Marx’s Das Kapital isn’t all that different from Carlos’s textbook on canon law. Nor is it due to the memory of the workers and their wives collapsing on the paving stones in the port, however tempting it is to believe otherwise. No, if he’s honest with himself, he has to admit that he simply wants to irritate the guests. To shred the fabric of the wedding that will never be celebrated, not if he has anything to do with it, even if the Almadas will have to go beg at the door of the San Juan Bautista Church, even if the Rodríguezes are obliged to do without coats of arms and continue to stink of rubber and paraffin.

For a moment, the Almadas do not react. His mother breaks in to dispel the severity of the commentary; she smiles and says that her son must still be somewhat agitated after a certain unpleasant incident at the port from which he still has a number of visible wounds, look, look, there on the poor boy’s face. Don Augusto clears his throat and says that of course that position too bears quite careful consideration. And then there’s Señor Almada, who, rather than being offended, bursts out laughing.

“You sound just like my daughter,” he says, oddly jovial. “You know, dear Elizabeth has her head crammed full of these fashionable ideas about workers’ rights and aid for the needy. It’s clear from a mile off that you share those noble views, my dear Carlos. Maybe you’ve even been influenced by those Russian and German philosophers that young people are so wild about these days. Ah, we’re getting old, Augusto, don’t you think? We’re all dried up and no longer understand the passions of our children — and they in turn do not understand that time and God always settle everything back into its proper place, always. But they have good hearts, I say, first-rate hearts. My daughter is such a kind soul that she even helps out at the orphanages and with the Public Beneficence Society — don’t pull that face, my dear, I’m only telling these gentlemen the purest truth. In fact, on some afternoons we hold gatherings at our home to discuss politics with family friends, and Elizabeth uses those occasions to take up collections for the needy. You should bring a friend and come along to one of those meetings, Carlos — it’s not often that one meets a young person so passionate about social justice.”