Free Conversation in the Cathedral by Mario Vargas Llosa Page B

rest of the class,” Bermúdez said calmly, looking at Espina without arrogance, without modesty. “But you, of course, you’ve done better than all the rest of us put together.”
    “The best student, the most intelligent, the one who studied the hardest,” Espina said. “Bermúdez will be President and Espina his Minister, old Dapple Gray used to say. Remember?”
    “Even then you wanted to be a minister, really,” Bermúdez said with a sour little smile. “There you are, now you are one. You must be happy, right?”
    “I didn’t ask for it and I didn’t look for it.” Colonel Espina opened his arms in resignation. “They laid it on me and I accepted it as a duty.”
    “In Chincha they said you were an Aprista officer, that you’d gone to a cocktail party given by Haya de la Torre,” Bermúdez went on, smiling without conviction. “And now, just think, hunting down Apristas like vermin. That’s what the little lieutenant you sent to get me said. And, by the way, it’s time you told me why so much honor for me.”
    The office door opened, a man with a circumspect face came in bowing , with some papers in his hand, could he come in, Mr. Secretary? but then the Colonel Dr. Alcibíades stopped him with a gesture, no one was to disturb them. The man bowed again, very well, Mr. Secretary, and he left.
    “Mr. Secretary.” Bermúdez cleared his throat, without nostalgia, looking around lethargically. “I can’t believe it. Like sitting here. Like the fact that we’re already in our forties.”
    Colonel Espina smiled at him affectionately, he’d lost a lot of hair but the tufts he still had showed no gray and his copper-colored face was still vigorous; he ran his eyes slowly over the tanned and indolent face of Bermúdez, the old-before-its-time, ascetic body sunken in the broad red velvet chair.
    “You fucked yourself up with that crazy marriage,” he said with a sweetish and paternal voice. “It was the great mistake of your life, Cayo. I warned you, remember.”
    “Did you send for me to talk about my marriage?” he asked without anger, without drive, the same mediocre little voice as always. “One more word and I’m leaving.”
    “You’re still the same. Still grumpy.” Espina laughed. “How’s Rosa? I know you haven’t had any children.”
    “If you don’t mind, let’s get to the point,” Bermúdez said; a shadow of fatigue clouded his eyes, his mouth was tight with impatience. Roofs, cornices, aerial trash piles were outlined against fat clouds through the windows behind Espina.
    “Even though we haven’t seen much of each other, you’ve always been my best friend.” The Colonel was almost sad. “When we were kids I thought a lot of you, Cayo. More than you did of me. I admired you, I was even jealous of you.”
    Bermúdez was imperturbably scrutinizing the Colonel. The cigarette he had in his hand had burned down, the ash fell on the rug, the curls of smoke broke against his face like waves against brown rocks.
    “When I was a minister under Bustamante, the whole class looked me up, all except you,” Espina said. “Why? You were in bad shape, we’d been like brothers. I could have helped you.”
    “Did they come like dogs to lick your hands, to ask you for recommendations , to propose business deals to you?” Bermúdez asked. “Since I didn’t come, you must have said that fellow must be rich or maybe he’s dead.”
    “I knew that you were alive but half dead from hunger,” Espina said. “Don’t interrupt, let me speak.”
    “It’s just that you’re still so slow,” Bermúdez said. “A person has to use a corkscrew to get the words out of you, just the way you were at José Pardo.”
    “I want to help you,” Espina murmured. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
    “Just give me transportation back to Chincha,” Bermúdez whispered. “The jeep, a bus ticket, anything. Because of this trip to Lima I may have lost out on an interesting piece of