From the doorway of La Crónica Santiago looks at the Avenida Tacna without love: cars, uneven and faded buildings, the gaudy skeletons of posters floating in the mist, the gray midday. At what precise moment had Peru fucked itself up? The newsboys weave in and out among the vehicles halted by the red light on Wilson, and he starts to walk slowly toward Colemena... He was like Peru, Zavalita was, he'd fucked himself up somewhere along the line. He thinks: when? ... He thinks: there's no solution. He sees a long line at the taxi stop for Miraflores, he crosses the square, and there's Norwin, hello, at a table at the Zela Bar, have a seat, Zavalito, fondling a chilcano and having his shoes shined, he invites him to have a drink. He doesn't look drunk yet and Santiago sits down."Conversation in the Cathedral," Maria Vargas Llosa
[Damen Avenue above Haddon Street]
