The arrival of Tomatis and Violeta finds the three of them in the water. It’s around noon, and Faustino has already lit the fire; with his back to everyone, he busies himself with it. Tomatis shakes a bag from the hypermarket (the W emblazoned on it is red), and shouts, with tremendous satisfaction, even before saying hello, This is for after lunch! but instead of revealing the contents of the bag, wraps it around the object it contains, apparently a rectangular box.
—Does it go in the fridge? Gutiérrez says, coming out of the water, intrigued.
—Not at all, Tomatis says. But somewhere cool and humid, yes. How’s it going? What a beautiful morning, no?
Violeta arrives behind him, waving silently. Clara and Marcos come out of the pool and, following Gutiérrez, walk across the grass, against which the midday sun falls steeply, to meet them. They exchange greetings and observations but they don’t touch because Violeta and Tomatis maintain a comfortable distance from the three dripping water. Suddenly they hear the engine of a car, apparently moving slowly, and when they look in that direction they see Soldi’s car (Soldi’s father’s car, actually) parking next to Violeta’s, in front of the gate. At that same moment, a man on horseback passes behind the parked cars at a slow trot and disappears behind the trees—enormous rosewoods—that border the sandy dirt road. The group pauses, waiting for the newest guests to get out of the car, cross the gate, and enter the courtyard, but, apparently remembering his duties as owner of the house, Gutiérrez advances and starts walking obsequiously toward the entrance. The arrival has produced some curiosity in Faustino as well, and he turns around and, with his back to the flames, advances a few steps, staring at the white bars of the gate. Finally, Soldi and a stranger get out of the front seat, and Gabriela Barco from the back, each one slamming their respective door. That’s José Carlos, Gabriela’s friend, Tomatis whispers to the Rosembergs, who nod their heads affirmatively, thanking him in this way for the information. At a distance, Gutiérrez and the three visitors carry on a conversation that is inaudible to those watching from the courtyard, by the swimming pool, a few steps from the grill. But everyone imagines that it’s a set of conventional displays of affection, the mundane sounds to which some sacrifice is required at any party, before beginning a conversation worthy of the name. Gutiérrez hurries to open the gate and leans over to receive a quick kiss on the cheek from Gabriela before she introduces her friend, while Soldi, taking advantage of the presentation ceremony, walks around them and hurries toward the others, their motionless, unrecognizable shadows gathered at their feet because of the perpendicular position of the sun, smiling, watching him.
There’s not a single cloud visible in the deep blue sky, in which, surrounding the sun, impossible to look at directly, golden sparks hover. Tomatis, who imagined in the bus yesterday that it would be raining all day today, nevertheless doesn’t allow himself to believe what he heard earlier on the weather report, while they were driving to Rincón, namely that by the end of the afternoon, and that night at least, the whole region would be covered with storms. Gabriela and José Carlos listen to him with an interest that isn’t overly apparent. For some time, Tomatis has noticed, with considerable relief, that in José Carlos’s company the adoration that Gabriela has felt for him since she was a baby is somewhat attenuated. That affective displacement allows him to relax, temporarily relinquishing his role as the infallible, sapient role model. But, curiously, when Gabriela replaces him with José Carlos, he, José Carlos, seems to grant him limitless credibility. It’s now almost one, and all the guests, with the exception of Leonor, have arrived, and the three of them are the only ones in the shade, not swimming, under the trees at the back, from which they can hear the attenuated sounds of the diving and splashing and the shouts and laughter of the swimmers. Tomatis is unaware of Gabi’s reason for not going in, or José Carlos’s (solidarity with Gabi), though his is perfectly straightforward: he doesn’t feel like getting wet, and besides, the cool shade under the trees is more pleasant than the water in the swimming pool. Also, from where they are, the smell of the cooking reaches them from time to time.
As though he were considering Tomatis’s meteorological observation, José Carlos appears thoughtful. His neatly combed black hair and his black beard betray his Sicilian origins, but he’s thin and tall, the mixture of blood from some genealogical branch saving him from the stereotype. He must be around forty, more or less, and his slow, almost modest gestures, his slightly faint voice, along with thinness, contrast with his taste for a generous table and for unsparing but courteous conversation. Last night, he was the one who prepared the chicken that Ángela left in the fridge, alla cacciatore, which is to say, sliced up in a pot with tomatoes and other vegetables and some white wine. Gabriela, entranced, watched him cook, forgetting the very existence of “Carlitos,” her mentor. After eating, they’d started watching a movie on television, but they got bored before it finished and went to sleep. They’re happy with the news, and though José Carlos already has two adolescent sons from his first marriage, the thought of being a father for a third time causes him a lot of pleasure, especially because he feels good with Gabriela and is sure that their relationship will last a long time, maybe for the rest of his life.
—Weather predictions depend too much on chance, he says, just to say something, trying to shore up with a more or less scientific observation the hope that it won’t rain during the cookout or the week ahead.
—It’s true. That’s why I prefer to organize events based on a more dignified system, Tomatis says. For example, this past month it’s been raining every Sunday. On other occasions, I’ve observed rainfall only on even days, and so on the odd days I never went out with an umbrella.
Gabriela and José Carlos laugh, and Tomatis, satisfied, allows himself a sip of white wine.
—Weather phenomena are a useful model for the universe, Gabriela says.
—The part and the whole equally unpredictable, José Carlos says.
They sit thoughtfully. The chaos of the Genesis, the primordial explosion, the ungodly rains and cyclones, and, more reasonable but no less mysterious, the Santa Rosa storm that, contradictorily, arrives punctually every August 30th, boil and churn wordlessly in their imaginations, speechless from the excessiveness of what they are forced to evoke. Though they are all standing calmly under the trees, holding a glass of cold wine, they feel trapped by the whirlwind of space that makes and unmakes events, part of which, out of habit, with an overabundance of confidence, they call their lives.
Suddenly, the sounds coming from the swimming pool are no longer heard, as though everyone had frozen and gone silent at the same moment. Instead, from some vague point, but very close by, from one of the ramshackle houses spread randomly across the fields, or possibly in one of the nearby homes, they hear the unexpected, sweet sound of a chamamé playing on a local radio station, like a fragment of order that they’d forgotten to include, erasing the chaos of the world with the intimate sound of the accordion.
—So that’s the great corruptor of the wives of the bourgeoisie, starting with his own? It actually looks like he could use some corrupting himself, Diana whispers to Nula when she sees Riera come out of the house in shorts and stop at the edge of the pool
—You little slut, Nula says, laughing. Neither you nor the bourgeoisie have anything left to corrupt.
They’re lying on the lounge chairs, drying off after their first swim. They arrived about a half an hour ago, after having dropped off the kids at La India’s for the day, bringing with them six bottles of wine (two of Nula’s favorite, the sauvignon blanc), something which, apparently at least, produced extreme pleasure in Gutiérrez. Nula suggested that he let them rest a couple of weeks before drinking them. Gutiérrez invited them inside to change, but they already had their swimsuits on, so they got undressed by the swimming pool and put their clothes in the large, straw bag that had contained the bottles. Diana’s tiny yellow bikini, in a certain sense demonstrating the aptness of mediev
al realism, openly displayed her godlike body, the absence of her left hand seeming to evoke the history of a dark, mythological episode. And just as they finished undressing and began walking quickly along the lawn from the white slabs around the entrance, Lucía and Riera appeared (Leonor would arrive later, on her own). Standing on the edge of the swimming pool, they greeted the people in the water—the Rosembergs, Soldi, Violeta, and Gutiérrez—walked passed the grill and exchanged a few words with Faustino, waved politely to Gabriela, José Carlos, and Tomatis, who were talking in the shade, under the pavilion, and hurried toward Diana and Nula, who were waiting for them, hesitantly, near the pool. Nula wondered how the encounter would turn out, but they reached them so quickly that he didn’t have time to think up a plan. Riera kissed Diana loudly on the cheek, as did Lucía, and then they hugged Nula with the spontaneity of old friends seeing each other again after a long time. Gutiérrez, who was coming out of the swimming pool at that moment, seemed surprised to see Lucía and Riera treating Nula so intimately, and Nula, noticing his expression, told himself that it would probably cost him some effort to make sense of the scene that had taken place the previous Tuesday, when they’d found Lucía at the house after returning, under the rain, from the fish and game club with the two catfish and Lucía and pretended not to know him. Luckily, Nula thought, Gutiérrez isn’t someone who worries too much about the lives of others. After that effusive introduction, Lucía and Riera followed Gutiérrez into the house, and, without saying a word, Diana and Nula dove into the blue water. While Diana swam, Nula started talking to Soldi, whose curly, black beard clumped together into pointed thickets that dripped water. After swimming a while, Diana got out of the pool to dry off on a lounge chair, and Nula followed her a couple of minutes later. They fell silent under the sun, lying in the lounge chairs, until they saw Riera come out of the house, dressed only in shorts, and because he was barefoot, and the white slabs were roasting by that time, he chose to walk along the lawn. He’s now standing at the edge of the pool, smiling.
—I think it’s you he’s smiling at, Nula whispers, but without concealing his comment very much, and Riera realized that they were talking about him and, with a hesitant smile, approaches slowly and stops in front of them, with his back to the pool.
—What kinds of nasty things are you saying? he says.
—None, actually, Nula says. Diana was asking me if we’re really in the company of the great corruptor of the wives of the bourgeoisie.
—At your service, madam, Riera says, staring at Diana. They exchange a quick, almost imperceptible smile that Nula nevertheless understands as a sign of recognition, as though they were two members of a secret society who, when they meet in public, have to perform certain ritualized gestures that only they know in order to identify each other. Or as if, after a long search, two creatures destined to find each other had met unexpectedly, recognizing each other in the act without the slightest hesitation. Though Nula believes he knows Diana deep down, a slight and momentary twinge of jealousy at once surprises and mortifies him.
—Well, he says. It’s not really as bad as all that.
—I could already tell on the phone that it would be worth meeting you, Riera says.
—But, you see, Diana is incorruptible, Nula says.
—It’s my primary charm, in fact, Diana says. Or am I wrong?
Nula, with considerable relief, realizes that the imperceptible smile that Diana just exchanged with Riera does imply a kind of recognition, but also a sense of defiance.
—Incorruptible bourgeois, Riera mutters with affected thoughtfulness. A contradiction in terms.
Nula and Diana laugh, and Riera follows with a brief cackle. Amalia comes out of the house with a platter of plates of olives, cheese, mortadella, and salami. She distributes them around the table under the pavilion, which has already been set for lunch, and turns back toward the house. Tomatis, José Carlos, and Gabriela approach the table and, in a highly educated manner, withdraw pieces of food with their fingers and bring them to their mouths. Soldi, completely wet, shaking himself off energetically to remove some of the water, comes out of the pool and stands a moment at the edge, unsure. Finally, seeing that the yellow lounge chair in which he sat on Thursday is empty, he hurries to it. From the other side of the pool, sitting in adjoining lounge chairs, Nula and his wife laugh with Doctor Riera. Soldi would like to approach, but he prefers to watch the scene from a distance, especially because Gabi has gestured warmly from the pavilion, where she talks with José Carlos and Tomatis, and, if he gets up now, he ought to walk over to them.
—An oxymoron. Like saying cold fire, Nula says after he manages to contain himself.
—An oxy-what? Riera says, alarmed.
—Nothing a man of science would understand, Nula says, with feigned condescension.
They laugh again. It’s the easy, expressive, and vaguely complicitous laughter that, as usual, the immediate affection for Riera, product of his physical presence and his spontaneous and tempestuous friendliness, creates in everyday interactions, and not only with women. Amalia comes out of the house again with a bottle of wine and an ice bucket, and behind her, carrying identical objects, Lucía and Gutiérrez appear. This arrival produces a subtle but unmistakable euphoria among the guests: the appetizers were merely a preface of the start of the feast that the procession of the three wine-bearers signals in earnest. For now, the guests, scattered around the pool, inside it, or under the pavilion, will serve themselves a glass of wine and pick at something from the plates at their own pace, until the announcement that the cookout is ready will gather them around the table, which has already been set. With a vague gesture, and in a very loud voice, Gutiérrez encourages his guests to serve themselves from the table, and though no one seems to pay any attention to him, as soon as he disappears into the house, José Carlos, Gabriela, and Tomatis each serve themselves a glass of wine and eat avidly from the plates, this time using toothpicks arranged in glass jars to pick at the cubes of cheese or mortadella, the salami slices or the oval-shaped green and black olives. Though he isn’t much of a drinker, Soldi looks curiously at the table from his yellow lounge chair, but doesn’t make a move to stand. The Rosembergs and Violeta are talking in the water, at the shallow end of the pool, and Nula is too busy with Diana and Riera, and somewhat too anxious in fact, to think about eating just now, and his anxiety heightens when he sees Lucía, rather than following Gutiérrez and Amalia back into the house, walking toward them and stopping next to Riera.
—It’s so great to see you, she says with a happiness that is paradoxical, given that it’s the first time in her life that she sees Diana, and that, five days before, in front of Gutiérrez, she’d pretended not to know who Nula was.
Nula is confused, and even somewhat worried. Lucía’s dependence on Riera could motivate her, with the hope of recovering him, to exceed her husband’s allusions and ostensibly humorous insinuations, especially with regard to their encounter Wednesday afternoon in Paraná. But after her excessive comment, Lucía falls silent and her expression turns serious and slightly disoriented, and Nula’s alarm takes on a hint of shame and compassion. It seems to him that Lucía is more lost in the world than she was the morning he first saw her, dressed in red, when he started following her, eventually penetrating her aura, and Riera’s, for months and months. He sees them from the outside now, and though they don’t seem much different, he interprets their words and actions in a way that seems more reasonable to him, though he’s unsure if it’s more accurate. Diana, meanwhile, smiles, urbane and expectant. I’m going to help Amalia with the salads, Lucía says finally, and with the gentle suddenness typical to her, she steps around Riera and heads to the kitchen.
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