Free The Real Life of Alejandro Mayta by Mario Vargas Llosa Page B

history,” explained Mayta, very serious, full of his role as professor. “The struggle that results from the contrary interests of each class in society. Interests innate in the role of each class in the production of wealth. There are those who own capital, those who own property, those who own knowledge. And there are those who own nothing but their labor: the workers. And there are as well the marginal people, those people from the slums, the lumpen. Are you getting confused?”
    â€œJust hungry.” Vallejos yawned. “These talks always give me an appetite. Let’s forget the class struggle for today and have a nice cold beer. I’m inviting you to have lunch at my parents’ house. My sister is coming out. A big event. She’s worse off than if she were in a barracks. I’ll introduce you. And the next time we see each other, I’ll bring the surprise I told you about.”
    They were in Mayta’s tiny room, Mayta sitting on the floor and the second lieutenant on the bed. From outside came the sounds of voices, laughter, and automobiles. Minute dust motes floated around them like weightless little animals.
    â€œIf you go on this way, you won’t learn anything about Marxism.” Mayta gave up. “The fact is, you don’t have much of a teacher. I always complicate the things I teach.”
    â€œYou’re better than many of the ones I had in military school.” Vallejos encouraged him with a laugh. “You know what happens to me? I’m really interested in Marxism, but all those abstractions get me. I’m much more open to practical, concrete things. By the way, should I tell you my plan for revolution before we have the beer, or later?”
    â€œI’ll only listen to your inspired plan if you pass the test,” Mayta said, following his lead. “So what the fuck is the class struggle?”
    â€œThe big fish eats the little fish,” said Vallejos, cackling. “What else could it be, brother? To know that a landowner with a thousand acres and his Indians hate each other, you don’t have to do much studying. Well, did I get a hundred? Now, my plan is gonna knock your socks off, Mayta. Even more when you see the surprise. Will you come to lunch? I want you to meet my sister.”
    â€œMother? Sister? Miss?”
    â€œJuanita,” she decides. “We’re better off calling each other by name. After all, we’re about the same age, right? And this is María.”
    The two women wear leather sandals, and from the bench I’m sitting on, I can see their toes: Juanita’s are still, and María’s wiggle around nervously. Juanita is dark, energetic, with thick arms and legs, and dark down on her upper lip. María is small and light-skinned, with clear eyes and an absent expression.
    â€œA Pasteurina or a glass of water?” Juanita asks me. “Better for us if you have a soda, because around here water is gold. Just to get it, you have to go all the way to Avenida de los Chasquis.”
    The place reminds me of a cabin out in the San Cristóbal hills where two Frenchwomen, sisters in the congregation of Father de Foucauld, lived. That was long ago. Here the walls are also whitewashed and bare, the floor covered with straw mats; the blankets make you think this could be the dwelling of a desert nomad.
    â€œAll we need is sun,” says María. “Father Charles de Foucauld. I read his book In the Heart of the Masses . It was famous at one time.”
    â€œI read it, too,” says Juanita. “I don’t remember much. I never did have a good memory, even when I was young.”
    â€œWhat a shame.” Nowhere do I see a crucifix, an image of the Virgin, a religious picture, a missal. Nothing that might allude to the fact that the inhabitants are nuns. “About that lack of memory. Because I …”
    â€œWell, that’s something else. Of course I remember him.”