As he waited in line to congratulate the bride and groom, Dr. Quinteros was obliged to laugh at a dozen jokes about the government told to him by the Febre brothers, a pair of twins who looked so much alike that it was said that even their own wives couldn’t tell them apart. The reception room was so jam-packed it seemed about to collapse; many of the guests were still outside in the gardens, waiting their turn to come inside. A swarm of waiters circled about, offering champagne. Laughter, jokes, toasts could be heard on every hand, and everyone agreed that the bride was absolutely beautiful. When Dr. Quinteros finally reached her, he saw that Elianita still looked serene and elegant despite the heat and the crush of people. “A thousand years of happiness, sweetheart,” he said to her, embracing her, and she said in his ear: “Charito called me this morning from Rome to congratulate me, and I talked with Aunt Mercedes, too. How darling of them to have phoned me!” Red Antúnez, dripping with sweat and as red as a shrimp, was beaming with happiness. “So from now on I’ll have to call you uncle, too, is that right, Don Alberto?” “Of course, nephew,” Dr. Quintero answered, clapping him on the back, “and you’ll have to address me in the familiar tu form as well.”
Half asphyxiated, he left the reception room, and amid the popping of flashbulbs, the press of the crowd, greetings, he finally managed to reach the garden. There were fewer people per square centimeter there and he could at least breathe. He took a glass of champagne and soon found himself surrounded by a circle of doctor friends of his, the butt of their endless jokes about his wife’s trip abroad: Mercedes wouldn’t come back home, she’d stay over there with some Frenchy, you could already see tiny cuckold’s horns growing out of either side of his forehead. Everybody seems bent on making fun of me today, Dr. Quinteros thought to himself, remembering the gym, as he patiently put up with their teasing. Every so often he caught a glimpse of Richard above a sea of heads, standing at the other end of the reception room, amid laughing boys and girls: glum and scowling, he was downing glasses of champagne as though they were water. Maybe he feels sad that Elianita’s marrying Antúnez, Dr. Quinteros thought. Perhaps he, too, would have liked to see his sister make a more brilliant match. No, it was more likely that he was going through some sort of identity crisis. And Dr. Quinteros remembered how he himself had gone through a difficult transition period when he was Richard’s age, unable to decide whether he should study medicine or aeronautical engineering. (His father had finally tipped the scales with a weighty argument: as an aeronautical engineer in Peru, he could look forward to only one career, spending the rest of his life designing kites or model airplanes.) Perhaps Roberto, who was always all wrapped up in his business affairs, was in no position to advise Richard. And Dr. Quinteros, in one of those accesses of generosity that had earned him everyone’s esteem, decided that one of these days he would invite his nephew over and subtly explore the best way to help him, with precisely the delicate touch that the case required.
Roberto’s and Margarita’s house was on the Avenida Santa Cruz, just a few blocks from the Church of Santa María, and when the reception in the sacristy was over, the guests who had been invited to the wedding luncheon filed down the street, beneath the trees and the sun of San Isidro, to the red-brick mansion with its shingled roof, surrounded by lawn, flowers, and grillwork fence, and very prettily decorated for the wedding party. The moment Dr. Quinteros arrived at the front gate, he saw that the celebration was going to go beyond his own predictions, that he was about to attend a social event that the gossip columnists would describe as “a magnificent occasion.”
Tables and umbrellas had been set up all over the garden, and at the far end of it, next to the kennels, a huge awning shaded a table with a snow-white tablecloth running the length of the wall and loaded with trays of multicolored canapés. The bar was next to the pond full of bright-gilled Japanese fish, and there were enough glasses, bottles, cocktail shakers, and pitchers of punch set out to quench the thirst of an army. Waiters in short white jackets and maids in coifs and aprons were receiving the guests and plying them, from the moment they entered the gate, with pisco sours, carob piscos, vodka and tropical fruit, glasses of whiskey or gin or flutes of champagne, and little cheese sticks, tiny potatoes with hot peppers, sour cherries stuffed with bacon, breaded shrimp, vol-au-vent, and all the tidbits dreamed up by the collective culinary genius of Lima to stimulate the appetite. Inside the house, huge baskets and bouquets of roses, gladiolas, stocks, carnations, tuberoses, standing against the walls, set out along the stairways or on the windowsills and the tables and desks and commodes and cabinets, refreshed the atmosphere. The parquet floor was newly waxed, the curtains pristine, the porcelains and silver gleaming, and Dr. Quinteros smiled at the thought that probably even the pre-Columbian figurines in their glass cases had been polished. There was also a buffet in the foyer, and in the dining room a vast assortment of desserts—marzipan, ice cream, ladyfingers, meringues, candied egg yolk, coconut sweets, walnuts in syrup—had been set out around the impressive wedding cake, a construction decorated with tulle and spun-sugar columns that set the ladies to cooing with admiration. But what aroused their curiosity most of all were the wedding presents, on display upstairs; such a long line had formed to have a look at them that Dr. Quinteros immediately decided not to queue up too, even though he would have liked to see if his bracelet looked impressive alongside all the other gifts.
After he’d wandered all over the house, more or less—shaking hands, giving and receiving friendly embraces—he went back out into the garden and sat down under an awning to sip his second glass of champagne of the day in relative peace and quiet. It was all going very well; Margarita and Roberto were really experts at the grand gesture. And even though he considered their idea of hiring a combo a touch lacking refinement—the carpets, the pedestal table, and the buffet with the ivory pieces had been removed so that there would be room to dance—he excused this inelegance as being a concession to the younger generation, since, as everybody knew, today’s young people thought that a party without any dancing wasn’t a party at all. They were starting to serve the turkey and the wine, and now Elianita, standing on the second step in the foyer, was tossing her bride’s bouquet as dozens of her schoolmates and neighborhood girlfriends waited with outstretched arms, hoping to catch it. In a corner of the garden Dr. Quinteros spied old Venancia, Elianita’s nanny since the day she’d been born, moved to tears, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.
His palate was unable to discern the vintage of the wine, but he knew immediately that it was an imported one, perhaps Spanish or Chilean, or for that matter—in view of all this day’s mad extravagances—possibly a French one. The turkey was so tender it melted in his mouth, the puree as smooth as butter, and there was a cabbage-and-raisin salad that, despite his dietary principles, he couldn’t resist the second time it came around. He was enjoying a second glass of wine, as well, and beginning to feel pleasantly drowsy, when he saw Richard making his way toward him, swaying back and forth with a glass of whiskey in his hand; his eyes were glassy and his voice quavered.
“Is there anything stupider than a wedding celebration, Uncle Alberto?” he murmured, with a scornful wave of his hand at everything around them and collapsing in the chair alongside him. His tie had come undone, there was a fresh stain on the lapel of his gray suit, and his eyes showed signs not only of all the liquor he had drunk but of a barely repressed, oceanic rage.
“Well, I grant you I’m not terribly fond of parties,” Dr. Quinteros replied good-naturedly. “But the fact that at your age you don’t like them very much either surprises me, Richard.”
“I absolutely abhor them,” his nephew muttered, looking about as though he’d like to wipe every last guest off the face of the earth. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”
“Just think how your sister would have felt if you hadn’t come to her wedding.” Dr. Quinteros pondered all the silly things that alcohol makes a person say. Hadn’t he seen Richard
whooping it up at many a party? Wasn’t he an excellent dancer? Hadn’t he often seen his nephew trooping in at the head of the gang of boys and girls coming up to Charito’s rooms to have a spur-of-the-moment dance? But he didn’t remind him of any of these things, and merely watched him drain his glass and ask a waiter for another whiskey.
“Be that as it may, you’d better steel yourself,” he said to him. “Because when you get married, your mother and father are going to throw an even bigger party for you than this one.”
Richard brought the new glass of whiskey to his lips and, half closing his eyes slowly, took a sip. Then, without raising his head, in a muffled voice that reached the doctor’s ears as a slow, nearly inaudible whisper, he muttered: “I’m never going to get married, Uncle Alberto, I swear to God—never.”
Before he could answer him, a slender, fair-haired girl, a blue silhouette with a determined air, planted herself in front of them, grabbed Richard by the hand, and without giving him time to react, dragged him to his feet. “Aren’t you ashamed to be sitting here with the old men? Come and dance, you idiot.”
Dr. Quinteros watched the two of them disappear through the door of the foyer and suddenly realized he’d lost all his appetite. He could hear those two little words, “old men”—uttered so unthinkingly and in such a sweet piping voice by the youngest daughter of his friend Aramburú, the architect—ringing in his ears like a persistent echo. After drinking his coffee, he got up and went to have a look at what was going on in the living room.
The party was in full swing now and the dancing had gradually spread beyond its original matrix in front of the fireplace, where they had installed the orchestra, into the neighboring rooms, in which couples were also dancing and singing along with the cha-cha-chas and the merengues, the cumbias, and the waltzes, at the top of their lungs. Fostered by the music, the sun, and the drinking, the wave of joy had spread from the young people to the adults and from the adults to the oldsters, and to his surprise Dr. Quinteros saw that even Don Marcelino Huapaya, an octogenarian related to the family, was waggling and shaking his creaking old bones, following the rhythm of “Nube Gris,” with his sister-in-law Margarita in his arms. The atmosphere in these rooms full of smoke, noise, movement, light, and happiness suddenly made Dr. Quinteros slightly dizzy; he leaned on the banister and closed his eyes for a moment. And then, smiling and happy too, he stood there watching Elianita, still in her wedding gown but without her veil now, leading the dancing. She never once stopped for a second; at the end of each piece, twenty men surrounded her, asking for the next dance, and with flaming cheeks and shining eyes, she chose a different partner each time and returned to the maelstrom. His brother suddenly appeared at his side. Instead of the morning coat, he was now wearing a lightweight brown suit, but sweating nonetheless because he’d been dancing.
“I can’t believe she’s married, Alberto,” he said, motioning to Elianita.
“She looks simply adorable,” Dr. Quinteros said with a smile. “And you’ve given her a really lavish wedding, Roberto.”
“The best in the world is none too good for my daughter,” the brother exclaimed with a touch of sadness in his voice.
“Where are they going to spend their honeymoon?” the doctor asked.
“In Brazil and in Europe. The trip’s their wedding present from Red’s parents.” He waved in the direction of the bar and said laughingly: ’They’re supposed to leave early tomorrow morning, but if he keeps on at this rate, my son-in-law’s not going to be in any condition to go off on a honeymoon.”
A group of Red Antúnez’s pals had surrounded him and were taking turns drinking a toast with him. The groom, his face more flushed than ever, was laughing a bit anxiously and trying to cheat by merely wetting his lips in his glass each time, but his friends were protesting and making him down every last drop. Dr. Quinteros looked around for Richard, but he couldn’t see him either in the bar or dancing or in the part of the garden visible from the windows.
It was at that moment that it happened. The waltz “Ídolo” was just ending, the couples were preparing to applaud, the musicians were raising their fingers from their guitars, Red was facing up to the twentieth toast, when the bride suddenly raised her right hand to her eyes as though to chase away a mosquito, staggered, and before her partner could catch her, fell to the floor. Her father and Dr. Quinteros stood there motionless, thinking perhaps that she’d slipped and would get to her feet again in a moment, laughing fit to kill, but the commotion in the living room—exclamations, people pushing and shoving to reach her, her mama’s voice shouting “Elianita, Elianita, oh, my poor little darling!”—made them run to help her, too. Red Antúnez had leapt to her side and swooped her up in his arms, and with a group of friends following close behind, was now carrying her upstairs, with Senora Margarita leading the way, saying over and over: “This way, to her room, slowly, watch your step,” and pleading: “A doctor, somebody call a doctor.” Some of the members of the family—Uncle Fernando, Cousin Chabuca, Don Marcelino—were reassuring the guests, ordering the musicians to resume playing. Dr. Quinteros saw his brother Roberto motioning to him from the top of the stairs. How stupid of me, he thought. I’m a doctor, what am I waiting for? He bounded up the stairs two by two as people moved quickly aside to let him past.
They’d taken Elianita to her bedroom, a room decorated in pink, overlooking the garden. Roberto, Red, Venancia the nanny were standing around the bed, where the girl, still very pale, was beginning to come to and blink her eyes as her mother, sitting beside her, rubbed her forehead with a handkerchief soaked in alcohol. Red had taken one of his bride’s hands in his and was looking at her with mingled rapture and anguish in his eyes.
“For the moment, you are all to go outside and leave me alone with the bride,” Dr. Quinteros ordered, assuming his professional role. And as he ushered them toward the door: “Don’t worry, I’m sure it isn’t anything. But out you go—I want to have a look at her.”
The only one who refused to leave was old Venancia; Margarita practically had to drag her out bodily. Dr. Quinteros went back over to the bed and sat down next to Elianita, who looked at him in fear and trembling from between her long black eyelashes. He kissed her on the forehead and smiled at her as he took her temperature: it wasn’t anything, she mustn’t be frightened. Her pulse was a bit unsteady and she was having difficulty breathing. The doctor noticed that her dress was very tight-fitting across the bosom and he helped her unbutton and take it off.
“Since you have to change clothes in any case, you’ll save time this way, my girl.”
When he saw the cruelly tight girdle, he realized instantly what was wrong, but kept himself from making the slightest gesture or asking a single question that might betray the fact that he’d discovered his niece’s secret. Elianita’s face had grown redder and redder as she took off her dress, and she was so embarrassed now that she didn’t raise her eyes or say a word. Dr. Quinteros told her it wasn’t necessary to remove her underclothes, just the girdle, because it was making it hard for her to breathe. Smiling the while, and assuring her, his mind seemingly elsewhere, that it was the most natural thing in the world if on her wedding day, what with all the emotion of the occasion, plus all the hustling and bustling about and all the fatigue of getting ready for the big day, and above all if she were mad enough to go on dancing for hours on end without a minute’s rest, a bride happened to have a fainting spell, he palpated her breasts and her belly (which, on being freed from the powerful embrace of the girdle, had literally popped out) and deduced, with the certainty of a specialist through whose hands thousands of pregnant women had passed, that she was in her fourth month. He examined the pupils of her eyes, asked her a couple of stupid questions to put her off the track, and advised her to rest for a few minutes before going back downstairs—and above all not to go on dancing like that.
“You see, you just got a little too tired, my girl. In any event, I’m going to give you a little something to counter
act all the day’s excitement.”
He stroked her hair, and to give her time to compose herself before her parents came back into the room, he asked her a few questions about her honeymoon trip. She answered him in a languid voice. Going on a trip like that was one of the best things that could happen to a person; with all the work he had, he could never take the time off to visit so many countries. And he hadn’t even been to London, his favorite city, for almost three years now. As he spoke, he watched Elianita surreptitiously put her girdle out of sight, slip on a bathrobe, lay a skirt, a blouse with an embroidered collar and cuffs, a pair of shoes out on a chair, lie down in the bed again, and cover herself with the down quilt. He wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better to have a frank talk with his niece and give her some advice as to what she should and shouldn’t do on her wedding trip. No, the poor thing would have had a bad time of it, she’d have felt very embarrassed. Moreover, she’d undoubtedly been seeing a doctor in secret all this time and would know exactly what she should and shouldn’t do. Nonetheless, wearing such a tight girdle was dangerous, she might have a real scare, or harm her baby if she continued to wear it. He was touched to think that Elianita, that little niece he could only think of as an innocent child, had conceived. He walked over to the door, opened it, reassured the family in a loud voice so that the bride would hear him: “She’s healthier than any of the rest of us, but she’s dead-tired. Send somebody out to buy her this tranquillizer and let her rest for a little while.”
Venancia had rushed into the bedroom, and Dr. Quinteros saw over his shoulder that Elianita’s old nanny was cooing over her and comforting her. Her father and mother entered the room, too, and Red Antúnez was about to do so as well, but the doctor discreetly took him by the arm, led him down the hall with him to the bathroom, and closed the door.
Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter: A Novel Page 4
