Juan Gómez Bárcena - The Sky Over Lima

Occasionally he also mentions Georgina. Indeed, he seems to talk about her constantly, even when he doesn’t say her name. The girl doesn’t know much about her. She imagines her to be wan, and very somber, and most of all very boring, languidly fanning herself in her garden and drinking the same endless lemonade. Feeble too — practically moribund. She’s not sure why, but she also feels a slight ache in her chest on those nights when Carlos says her name too much. It’s a pang of jealousy, but she doesn’t realize it. In fact, she doesn’t really know what that word means, jealousy , since nothing has ever belonged to her and so she’s never feared losing anything.

Most likely, she thinks, it’s just hunger.

On some nights she is able to ask the young man questions. She feels comfortable in her role as a secondary character, offering protagonists the opportunity to think and reflect on themselves. Her questions are sometimes thoroughly gauche but asked with endearing guilelessness. After each one, she always adds: You needn’t answer. But he doesn’t mind. One day he even works up the confidence to tell her about the Polish prostitute. Maybe he is answering a question about his earliest sexual experience, or his adolescence, or his first love. Or maybe he’s not even answering a question — he just starts talking. She listens to the story with interest, and for a moment she feels that pang again. Especially when she hears the price. Four hundred dollars! On her fingers she tries to count out how many soles that is, how many nights with her you’d need to pay for a single night with the Polish girl. But her hands are clumsy and she finally gives up. She concludes that it would be many, many nights. More nights than there are in a year. Maybe more than there are in a lifetime.

She’d like to know if he slept with the Polish prostitute. If he looked at that woman, that girl, the same way he looks at her now. But she doesn’t dare ask him. Carlos doesn’t explain any further, the story comes to a close, and in the end she decides that they did sleep together. She thinks it, and she smiles. She tells herself that the reason the young gentleman doesn’t touch her is precisely that she means something to him, while the Polish girl was just your everyday harlot, a little four-hundred-dollar doll to mindlessly mount. That he stripped off her clothes on the bed or on the floor and maybe even hurt her, because in the end she meant nothing to him. That he must have learned from her, under her, beside her, moving in and out of her, everything a man needs to know about a woman. That over the course of that night, he made her weep more than she’d wept during the month-long Atlantic crossing.

And the truth is that she takes pleasure in these cruel, piteous images. The Polish girl’s tears comfort her because she is jealous (hunger pangs again): her Peruvian virginity was never worth a single dollar, let alone four hundred of them, and there is a certain universal justice in that sadness, in the suffering of a pale European girl who must have felt her body becoming less and less valuable every night, one hundred dollars, twenty dollars, twenty soles , one sol , finally a nickel — just one goddamn nickel to drag her down on the floor and do the usual to her again.

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Time passes. José is nowhere to be found. He is no longer attending his classes at the university, nor is he lounging outside them smoking on the bench in the atrium. Everybody says he’s writing a novel. Carlos can’t tell whether it’s the same novel or if he’s started a different one, but in any case José seems to be quite busy. He doesn’t even go out anymore, and Ventura and his friends say he’s changed quite a bit. For a moment Carlos thinks that yes, José must be writing the love story of Juan Ramón and Georgina; indeed, he’d even say that he’s writing his own life, and also everyone else’s. The life of all of Lima. The whole world contained in its pages.

Carlos goes back to the university. Now that José’s not there, he goes as often as possible. He had almost forgotten the classrooms’ scent of wood and chalk, the height of the lectern from which all those mediocre professors give their classes. He barely even remembered his classmates’ names, much less the import of the law of habeas corpus or the particular subtleties of the Napoleonic civil code. Just a few hours of studying each day — he has so much free time now — and he learns it all, a little late but in time to take his exams. He may not write novels, or letters either, but at least he knows how to do that: pass exams. That’s what he thinks as he scribbles his answers and glances at José’s empty desk out of the corner of his eye.

His parents are happy and even tell him so. José has turned out to be a bad influence. That business with that Juan Jiménez fellow was just a silly bit of fun. They are proud that, little by little, disappointment by disappointment, Carlos is becoming a real man. Yes, he stays out all night sometimes and that’s not good, of course, but who can blame him; he’s young, it’s springtime — better that than going around cooing sweet nothings to a decent girl, the kind of girl who’s so decent that when she ends up pregnant, she refuses to have an abortion. He is a good son, there’s no doubt about it. Someone who will take on the mantle of the family’s birthright when they die.

Sandoval seems quite satisfied too. He comes to visit often now, loaded with new books and projects that Carlos accepts in silence. One night he insists on taking Carlos to a political meeting in an apartment on Calle Amargura. According to the organizers, the meeting is secret — there’s even a password — but it’s a secret no one cares about, not even the police. Most of the people in attendance are Italian socialists and Spanish anarchists who claim to have been behind every assassination attempt in Europe. They confess their crimes in the same tone of voice José used to employ when claiming to have bedded the most beautiful women in Peru. Carlos only half understands them. But at one point Sandoval talks about how “all our ideologies, and even our consciousnesses, are nothing more than a reflection of material reality,” and that phrase keeps echoing in Carlos’s mind. He thinks about Georgina, though he does not know why. About their fifteen months of correspondence. About the nights when he falls asleep convinced that she is writing and breathing somewhere out there in Lima. And he wonders whether she is a false consciousness like the ones Sandoval and his friends are so animatedly discussing or if there are real ideas in the world too, as real as class warfare and annual steel production.

On some afternoons he makes his way to the garret. After idly chatting with the watchman, he climbs the stairs very slowly, gripping the banister on each step. He likes to study among the worn furniture and burlap sacks. He repeats aloud the elements of rhetorical discourse— inventio, dispositio, elocutio —and the punishment prescribed by law for the crime of impersonating another individual: three years in jail. All this in the very same place where he and José once recited Baudelaire, Yeats, Mallarmé. And during his breaks from reading, he thinks about many things. He thinks about the Professor, whom he’s been ducking for weeks, taking long detours to avoid passing through the square and running into him beneath the arches and then having to tell him — tell him what? He thinks about Ventura and his friends, who no longer haunt the club and its billiards tables. They have vanished as thoroughly as José himself, and with him those letters he is no doubt still writing and that Carlos will never read, blank chapters of the novel that once was his.