At the far end of the room, the photographers were waiting for him, gathered around the green-damask armchair, under the fifty-candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The clock on the mantel struck seven; a fire was blazing because it had been so cold the past few days. Two leather hassocks flanked the fireplace. He greeted the photographers with a nod and sat down in the armchair, arranging his stiff shirtfront and his piqué cuffs. Another servant led in the two gray mastiffs with their red dewlaps and melancholy eyes and placed their rough leashes in the master's hands. The bronze studs on the dogs' collars glittered with reflected light. He raised his head, squeezing his dentures back into place. The flashbulbs gave a tone of fresh plaster to his large gray head. As they asked him to strike new poses, he insisted on straightening his hair and running his fingers along the two heavy bags that hung off the sides of his nose and gradually disappeared into his neck. His high cheekbones still had the old hardness, though even they were crisscrossed by a network of wrinkles that began at his eyelids, which seemed to sag more and more every day, as if to protect his eyes, which expressed a combination of amusement and bitterness, their greenish irises hidden in the folds of loose skin.
One of the mastiffs barked and tried to get loose. At the exact moment he was pulled out of his chair by the powerful dog, a flashbulb went off, and his expression of rigid astonishment was captured in the photograph. The other photographers stared severely at the man who had taken the photo. The guilty party pulled the black plate out of his camera and without a word handed it to another photographer.
When the photographers were gone, he reached out his trembling hand and took a filtered cigarette out of the silver box on the rustic table. He had difficulty getting the lighter to work and, nodding all the time, slowly reviewed the hagiography of the old oil paintings, all varnished, all stained by large empty spaces of direct light which effaced the principal details of the pictures but which, by the same token, contributed an opaque relief to the corners with yellow tones and reddish shadows. He ran his fingers over the damask and inhaled the filtered smoke. The servant approached soundlessly and asked if there was anything he wanted. He nodded and asked for a martini, very dry. The servant opened two carved-cedar doors, revealing the built-in, mirrored bar filled with colored labels and bottled liquids, emerald-green opal, red, crystal-clear—Chartreuse, peppermint, aquavit, vermouth, Calvados, Armagnac, vodka, Pernod, Courvoisier, Long John—and the rows of crystal glasses, some thick and squat, others thin and tinkling. He signaled to the servant to go to the cellar and bring up the three wines for dinner. He stretched his legs and thought of the pains he had taken in the construction and comforts of this, his real home. Catalina could live in the mansion in Las Lomas, devoid of personality, identical to the residences of all other millionaires. He preferred these old walls with their two centuries of quarried stone and red tezontle, which in a mysterious way brought him closer to events of the past, to an image of the country he did not want to lose completely. Yes, he fully realized that it was nothing but a simulacrum, a wave of the magic wand. Yet the woods, the stone, the wrought iron, the moldings, the refectory tables, the cabinetwork, the cross-pieces in the doors, the panels, the fabric on the chairs—all of it—returned to him, with just a slight hint of nostalgia, the scenes, the very air, the tactile sensations of his youth.
Lilia whined; but Lilia would never understand. What could a ceiling of antique beams say to such a girl? What could a barred window opaque with rust say to her? What could the sumptuous feel of the chasuble over the fireplace, covered with gold scales and embroidered with silk thread, say to her? What could the aroma of the ayacahuite chests say to her? The washed shine of the kitchen with its Puebla tiles, the archbishop's chairs in the dining room…? The mere possession of these things was as rich, as sensual, as sumptuous as that of money and the obvious signs of plenitude. Oh yes, what total pleasure, what absolutely personal pleasure…Only once a year did his guests participate in all this, in his celebrated New Year's Eve party, the feast of St. Sylvester…A day of multiplied pleasures, because his guests had to accept this as his real home and think of the solitary Catalina, who, at about this time, would be having dinner in the house in Las Lomas accompanied by Teresa and Gerardo…He, on the other hand, would introduce Lilia and open the doors to a blue dining room, with blue china, blue linen, blue walls…where the wines flow and the platters are brought in piled high with rare meats, rosy fish, savory shellfish, secret herbs, specially made sweets…
Why did this moment of rest have to be interrupted? The indolent clumping of Lilia's feet on the floor. Her unpainted nails on the door to the hall. Her face slathered with cold cream. She wanted to know if her pink dress was all right for this evening. She didn't want to be out of place again, as she was last year, and arouse his scornful rage. Oh-ho, already having a little drink, eh? Why didn't he ask her if she wanted one? His distrust was starting to annoy her, with the liquor locked away and that bossy butler who wouldn't let her into the wine cellar. Was she bored? As if he didn't know it. She wished she were old, ugly, so that he'd kick her out once and for all and let her live as she pleased. She can leave whenever she wants? And live on what? Without luxury, without the mansion? Lots of money here, lots of luxury, but no happiness, no fun, not even the right to have a little drink. Of course she loves him. She's told him a thousand times. Women put up with anything; it all depends on how much tenderness they get in return. A woman can get used to a young man or an old one. Of course she's nice to him; what a thing to ask…It'll be eight years they've been living together, and he's never made a scene, never chewed her out…He just made her…But another little fling would do her the world of good!…What? Could anyone think she was that dumb?…All right, all right, he never knew how to take a joke. Sure, but he realizes how things are…No one lasts forever…Crow's feet around his eyes…Their bodies…Except that he was also used to having her around, wasn't that right? At his age, it's hard to start over. No matter how many millions…It's work, and you can waste a lot of time hunting down a woman…The bitches…know so many tricks, they like to take things slow…prolong the first stages…say no, have doubts, the waiting, the temptation, oh, all that stuff!…And make fools of the old men…Of course she's more comfortable…And she doesn't complain, no, not a chance. He's even flattered that people come to pay their respects every New Year's Eve…And she loves him, yes, she swears, she's too used to him…But how bored she gets!…Let's see, what's the big deal about having a few close friends—women? What's the big deal about going out once in a while to have fun, to…have to drink somewhere, once a week…?
He never moved. He never gave her the right to annoy him, and yet…a warm, indolent lassitude…completely alien to his character…made him stay there…holding the martini in his hardened fingers…listening to the nonsense spouted out by this woman who grew more vulgar every day and less, less…No, she was still desirable…even if he couldn't stand her…How was he going to keep her in control?…Everything he controlled used to obey him, but now, after a certain inert prolongation…of the strength of his youth…Lilia would leave him…It weighed on his heart…He couldn't dispel that…that fear…There might not be another chance for him…being left alone…He laboriously moved his fingers, his forearm, his elbow, and the ashtray fell on the rug and spilled the damp yellow butts at one end, a layer of white dust, gray outside, black inside. He bent down, breathing hard.
"Don't bend down. I'll just call Serafín."
"Yes."
Perhaps…Tedium. But disgust, repulsion…Always, imagining, hand in hand with doubt…An involuntary tenderness made him turn to look at her…
She was watching him from the door…Spiteful, sweet…Her hair bleached ash-blond, and that dark skin…She, too, could not go back…She'd never get him back, and that made them equal…no matter how age or personality separated them…Make a scene, why?…He felt tired. Nothing else…No more things, no more memories, no more names than those he already kne
w…He again caressed the damask…The butts, the spilled ash did not have a good smell. And Lilia, standing there with her greasy face.
She at the threshold. He sitting in his damask armchair.
Then she sighed and sauntered to the bedroom, and he waited, sitting, not thinking about anything until the darkness surprised him by showing him his reflection so clearly in the glass doors that led to the garden. The boy came in with his tuxedo jacket, a handkerchief, and a bottle of cologne. Standing up, the old man allowed the servant to help him into the jacket and then unfolded the handkerchief so he could sprinkle a few drops of scent on it. When he put the handkerchief into his breast pocket, he exchanged glances with the servant. The boy lowered his eyes. No. Why should he bother to worry what this man might feel?
"Serafín, get rid of these butts right away…"
He straightened up, leaning both hands on the arms of the chair. He took a few steps toward the fireplace, caressed the wrought-iron poker from Toledo, and felt the breath of the fire on his face and hands. He stepped forward when he heard the first whispering voices—delighted, admiring—in the entryway. Serafín had just finished cleaning up the mess.
He ordered the boy to stoke up the fire. The Régules walked in just as the boy shifted the logs with the poker and a huge flame shot up. Through the door that led to the dining room came another servant, carrying a tray. Roberto Régules took his drink while the young couple—Betina and her husband, the Ceballos boy—toured the room hand in hand, in ecstasy over the old paintings, the stucco moldings, the carved beams, the polychromed corbels. His back was to the door when the glass smashed on the floor with the tinkle of a broken bell, and Lilia's voice shrieked something in mocking tones. The old man and the guests saw the unmadeup face of the woman, who peeked in, holding on to the door handle: "Haaaapy Neeew Yeear! Don't worry, honey, I'll be okay in an hour…and then I'll come down…I just wanted to tell you that I'm gonna take it easy next year…real easy!"
He walked toward her with his shuffling, laborious gait, and she shouted, "I'm bored watching TV all day…honey!"
With each step he took, Lilia's voice rose higher and higher. "I know all the cowboy shows by heart…bang-bang…the Arizona marshal…the Indian camp…bang-bang…I'm starting to hear those squeaky voices in my dreams…honey…just drink Pepsi…that's all …honey…security and comfort; insurance policy…"
His arthritic hand slapped her face devoid of makeup, and her bleached curls fell over her eyes. She stopped breathing. She turned around and slowly went away, rubbing her cheek. He went back to the Régules and Jaime Ceballos. He stared fixedly at each one for a few seconds with his head held high. Régules took a sip of whiskey so he could hide his face in the glass. Betina smiled and walked toward her host with a cigarette in her hand, as if asking for a light.
"Where did you ever find that huge chest?"
The old man stood aside, and Serafín lit a match close to the girl's face, forcing her to move her head away from the old man, turning her back on him. At the end of the corridor, behind Lilia, were the musicians, wrapped in scarves and shivering with cold. Jaime Ceballos snapped his fingers and spun on his heels, like a flamenco dancer.
On the table whose legs ended in dolphins, and under the bronze candelabra: partridges soaking in a bacon-and-sour-wine sauce, hake wrapped in leaves of tarragon mustard, wild duck in orange glaze, carp surrounded by roe, Catalonian bullinada thick with the smell of olives, coqauvin flambé in Macon, pigeons stuffed with pureed artichoke, platters of fresh eel resting on mounds of ice, brochettes of pink lobster in a spiral of lemon skin, mushrooms and slices of tomato, Bayonne ham, boeuf bourguignon sprinkled with Armagnac, goose necks stuffed with pork-liver paté chestnut puree and fired apple skins with walnuts, onion and orange sauces, garlic and pistachio-nut sauces, almond and snail sauces. An inaccessible point glowed in the old man's eyes as he opened a door carved with cornucopias and fat-buttocked putti polychromed long ago in a Querétaro convent. He opened the doors wide and emitted a dry, hoarse laugh each time a butler offered a Dresden plate to one of the one hundred guests, who then joined in the percussion of knives and forks against the blue china, the crystal goblets stretched toward the bottles held out by the servants. And he gave the order to draw open the curtains blocking the glass doors to the garden, where bare cherry trees and clean statues of monastic stone cast their shadows: lions, angels, monks, having emigrated from the palaces and convents of the Viceroyalty. The fireworks exploded: huge illusory castles shot into the heart of the winter sky, so clear and so far away; the white and sparkling introduction mixed with the red flight of a fan in which was woven a streak of yellows; fountain of the open scars of the night, festive monarchs flashing their golden medallions on the black backcloth of the night. Behind his closed lips, he laughed that grunted laugh. The empty platters were refilled with more fowl, more seafood, more rare meats. Naked arms circulated around the old man heavily seated in a niche among the old choir chairs, inlaid, carved exuberantly with fantastic crests and baguettes. He sniffed the perfumes, he peered at the overflowing decolletés of the women, the shaved secret of their armpits, their earlobes weighed with jewels, their white necks, and their slim waists where the swirl of taffeta, silk, and gold net began its flight; he breathed in that smell of after-shave lotion and cigarette smoke, lipstick and mascara, feminine slippers and spilled cognac, of labored digestion and nail polish. He raised his glass and stood up; the servant handed him the leashes of the dogs, who would accompany him for the rest of the evening. The shouting of the New Year burst forth: glasses smashed on the floor and arms hugged, squeezed, rose up to celebrate this feast of time, this funeral, this pyre of memory, this fermented resurrection of all facts, while the orchestra played a traditional New Year's Eve tune, "The Swallows," the resurrection of all the facts, words, and things that died in this cycle, to celebrate the preservation of these one hundred lives who held back their questions, men and women, in order to say to each other, at times with tear-filled eyes, that there will never be a time like this one, the one lived and prolonged during these instants artificially extended by the bursting of skyrockets and bells hurled into the sky. Lilia threw her arms around him as if asking forgiveness. He knew, perhaps, that many things, many small desires, had to be repressed so that a single moment of plenitude could be completely enjoyed, without any prior expense, and that she would thank him for it: he said it in a whisper. When the violins in the ballroom began to play "The Poor People of Paris" again, she, making a face he knew only too well, took him by the arm. But he refused with a shake of his head and walked, preceded by his dogs, to the armchair he would occupy for the rest of the evening, facing the couples…He would amuse himself watching those faces—false, sweet, cunning, malicious, idiotic, intelligent—thinking about luck, the luck they all had, they and he…faces, bodies, the dances of free beings, like him…They vouch for him, they assure him as they move lightly over the waxed floor under the glittering chandelier…freeing, blotting them out, his memories…The perversely force him to enjoy this identity even more…liberty and power…He wasn't alone…these dancers accompanied him…That's what the warmth in his stomach told him, the satisfaction in his guts…black, carnivalesque escort of powerful old age, of the gray-haired presence, arthritic, laborious…echo of the persistent, hoarse smile reflected in the movement of those little green eyes…recent coats of arms, like his own…some even newer…spinning, spinning…he knows them…industrialists…businessmen…thieves…society boys…speculators…government ministers…deputies…news papermen…husbands…fiancées…go-betweens…lovers…. The cut-off words of those who danced by him swirled in the air…
"Yes…We'll go after…But what about my father…I love you…Free?…That's what they told me…We've got plenty of time…So…like that…I'd like to…Where?…Tell me…I'll never go back…Did you really like it?…Hard to tell…That's finished…cute…divine…lost everything…got what he deserved…Hmmm…
Hmmm!…H
e knew to tell from their eyes, from they way they moved their lips, their shoulders…He could tell them what they were thinking…He could tell them who they were…He could remind them what their real names were…fraudulent bankruptcies…leaks about currency devaluations…price speculations…bank speculations…new latifundia…editorials at so much a line…inflated contracts for public works projects…a political hanger-on…spent every cent his father left him…thievery in state ministries…false names: Arturo Capdevila, Juan Felipe Couto, Sebastián Ibargüen, Vicente Castañeda, Pedro Caseaux, Jenaro, Arriaga, Jaime Ceballos, Pepito Ibargüen, Roberto Régules…And the violins played and the skirts flew and so did the tuxedo jackets…They won't talk about all that…They'll talk about trips and affairs, houses and cars, vacations and parties, jewels and servants, sicknesses and priests…But they're all there, in the court…before the most powerful…make them or break them with a line in the newspaper…force Lilia on them…with a little whisper make them dance, eat, drink…feel them when they come close…