The Promise

by Silvina Ocampo

  Gabriela went bird hunting with Gusano. If Verónica had seen them, she would have forbidden it, but Gabriela skillfully hid her doings and pretended that she was fishing in the lagoon or gathering wild peaches in a distant pasture. To Gabriela, Gusano’s life in that hovel without even a television seemed the happiest on earth. Horses and chickens ambled into the house as if they owned the place. That was the biggest draw for Gabriela. What better friends could she ask for?

  No one forced Gusano to wash his hands or behind his ears, and the only baths he ever took were in the lagoon, in the rain when it rained, or in puddles where he’d stick his hands looking for his toys, which were ropes, wheels, wires, or old boards with which he built machines or cars. She would never forget the day they found an armadillo, or the ostrich egg, which they gave to the armadillo as a gift. The two of them would ride off through the pastures on a gimpy horse until they came to the lagoon. They would dismount, take off their clothes, and slip into the water. One night, Gabriela returned to the house so late that the next day Verónica grounded her and wouldn’t let her out of her room for the entire day.

  MR. AND MRS. ARÉVALO

  Did they have faces? Tiny faces like rubber balls, that day.

  Just like the salesroom, the dining room was crowded with furniture. It was a holiday. They were seated around the table: Mr. and Mrs. Arévalo; Inés, Verónica’s aunt, who behaved in a flamboyant manner; Fernández, a history professor; Verónica; Alberto, a young student; Leandro and a woman in a feathered hat. Ceferina, a timid maid, served the table under the watchful eye of the lady of the house, who tried to smile at her guests. It was the first time that Leandro was attending such an intimate gathering at the Arévalos’ house. Nervous, not knowing the relationships among the assembled guests, he looked from side to side trying to hide his discomfort. The meal was long—not even the soup course was missing—and the dishes that followed, so complicated with their additions of little salad bowls or tureens, prolonged the ritual. Leandro was relieved when the desserts arrived. The sound of people chewing toast exasperated him.

  “Do go on explaining those theories to us, Professor; it’s so pleasant to hear about something other than politics,” said Mrs. Arévalo to the professor, who was seated next to her.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Arévalo,” said the professor, slurping little sips of wine, a repugnant smile on his face.

  “Now that truly is a work of art!” exclaimed the woman in the feathered hat as she served herself dessert.

  What a dessert it must have been!

  “It’s my daughter’s creation,” said Mrs. Arévalo.

  “I congratulate you, darling,” said the woman, the feathers on her hat stirring as she turned to address Verónica.

  Why doesn’t she take off that hat? She must be wearing a wig that she’s trying to hide, thought Leandro.

  “Professor, do go on, please,” coaxed Mrs. Arévalo.

  “As I was saying,” continued the professor, working his jaw, “ever since we have had recorded knowledge about civilizations, it has been proven that they evolve in cycles: while some populations are at the bottom. …”

  Leandro deliberately dropped his napkin. As he picked it up, he saw that Alberto’s and Verónica’s feet were touching beneath the table so insistently that one of her shoes had come off.

  “… others are at the apex.”

  Leandro looked surreptitiously at Verónica and Alberto. He saw that they wore smooth gold rings. He had fallen in love with Verónica.

  “Professor, will you have seconds?” inquired Mrs. Arévalo, indicating with her eyes to Ceferina that she should come around again with the platter bearing the mille-feuille.

  “It has been observed,” continued the professor, trying to help himself to the dessert from the platter that Ceferina was holding extremely high up, “that it is adversity that leads to the advancement. …”

  Mrs. Arévalo gestured to Ceferina with a slight movement of her oystercatcher’s head that she should lower the platter. The professor went on:

  “… or the decline of a civilization.”

  Still unable to cut the mille-feuille, he added: “This pastry is very hard to cut! Populations that must struggle against an adverse environment develop. …” He cut violently through the pastry, soiling the tablecloth. “Forgive me … they develop the strength to survive, and, using that momentum, they arrive at perfection, if we may speak of such a thing as perfection.”

  Mr. Arévalo, thinking about his most recent acquisition, a seventeenth-century clock with little figures that told the time, wasn’t listening, although his upturned zebu cow’s face appeared the very model of attentiveness. Ceferina slowly cleared the table.

  “The same happens in biology,” said Leandro. It was the first sentence he ventured to utter and just at the same moment a bit of dessert fell onto his pants.

  “I’ve always said that suffering is a good thing,” murmured Aunt Inés with a little laugh that sounded like a frog in her throat. “Why do we complain about bad governments? Afterward, the country rebounds, and we’re on top of the world again.”

  “And why do sinners complain? Afterward, they atone and go to heaven,” she added.

  “Toynbee’s theory is not original. It can be summed up in a proverb: every cloud has a silver lining,” said Alberto.

  The professor wasn’t interested in the conversation when other people were speaking. Quickly, Leandro cleaned the spot with his napkin. The professor used his fingernail to sketch some drawings on the tablecloth. Mrs. Arévalo stood and spoke a few unintelligible words, and everyone followed her into the sitting room.

  “What is this painting?” said the professor, pausing in front of a golden frame. The painting was deeply immersed in darkness.

  “Attributed to Delacroix,” replied Mr. Arévalo, coming out of his reverie. I found it in the most incredible place: in a hotel in Alta Gracia. At first, I couldn’t tell what it depicted. I washed it with soap and this marvel appeared.”

  Mrs. Arévalo, Verónica’s aunt and the woman with the feathered hat sat down in the armchairs.

  “What a beautiful house! These old apartments are the best, with these high ceilings and large rooms,” said the woman in the feathered hat.

  “Give me a cigarette,” Verónica said to Alberto, who patted his pockets and confirmed that he had none left.

  “I’ll go down to the corner store. There are never any cigarettes in this house,” Alberto said, and left.

  Verónica, facing Leandro, leaned her elbow on the piano as though about to have her picture taken. She was an idiot, as far as I was concerned, but I was careful not to say so.

  “Do you still play the piano?” asked Leandro gravely.

  “Not right now; we’re in mourning, and Papa doesn’t like it. Just for these first few days, that’s all. My father is unconventional and always criticized people in mourning, but music brings back so many memories for him, and he told me he’d prefer not to remember.”

  “I’d like to speak with you alone,” said Leandro in a low voice. “Could we meet tomorrow? Tell me where.”

  Verónica looked at Leandro in surprise.

  “Why? What for?” she asked.

  “I have something very important to tell you,” replied Leandro. “I want to see you, but not here. We can’t talk here. Where? Wherever. On the corner, at the ends of the earth.”

  “I don’t know,” answered Verónica. “Is it that urgent?”

  “Extremely urgent. In a café, in a square, or in a movie theater?” asked Leandro.

  “I don’t go to the movies.”

  “Fine, in a café then.”

  “Fine,” agreed Verónica, chewing the end of a pen, then added: “But which café?”

  “América, El Águila, La Ideal. Somewhere in this neighborhood or somewhere else.”

  Verónica’s father and the professor, who had been looking at the paintings in the sitting room, came over to look at one hanging over
the piano: it was the portrait of Lea.

  “She was too beautiful to live,” commented the professor, “and what talent that girl had.”

  Verónica and Leandro’s conversation was thus interrupted, and so they also looked at the portrait.

  “Do you still study piano? Bach, Brahms, Bela Bartok, Hindemith, Prokofieff, Debussy, Ravel? Who do you prefer now?” the professor asked Verónica, leafing through the music books atop the piano.

  “Prefer?” replied Verónica dryly. “I’m not allowed to prefer.”

  Poor little Verónica!

  ALBERTO, JULIO, PERFECTO, CLODOMIRO

  Alberto, Julio, Perfecto, Clodomiro: four filthy boys. I remember them as if they were my own brothers.

  Those four boys gathered together at sundown in Plaza Intendente Seeber, where there’s a ficus tree with very flexible branches. I used to go there sometimes to sit and read a book. The boys were doing dares, letting go of the highest branches to drop down to the lower branches, where they would swing like little monkeys. The four boys were friends of Gabriela.

  “She doesn’t want her to talk to us,” the youngest one was saying, perched on one of the high branches.

  “Who told you that?” said another boy, climbing down from the tree.

  “Gabriela herself: she told her that we weren’t a good influence because we’re foul-mouthed boys,” replied the eldest.

  The boys left the tree and walked over to the bandstand. They started smoking and cursing. A group of students was dancing to rock and roll in the bandstand. One of the students was changing the records on a portable phonograph that sat on the ground. I watched them as if in a dream.

  “We’ll give her a scare,” said the older boy. “Just wait and see what a good influence we are. What time did you say she comes by?”

  The younger boy didn’t answer.

  “If you don’t answer me, I’ll bash your face in,” the older boy insisted.

  “Every Monday night at eight-thirty,” the youngest boy mumbled, exhaling a mouthful of smoke.

  “Who told you that?”

  “I just know. I’m telling you. She’s coming from an aunt’s house.”

  “You hide behind that plant,” said the boy. “And the rest of you? You guys get behind the hedge. When I whistle I’ll throw her down on the ground, and then the rest of you come out.”

  The students stopped dancing. They gathered up the records, and one of them left with the phonograph. The boys took up their agreed-upon posts and went on smoking. Growing tired of waiting, they sat down on the ground. I thought I should say something to them, but they frightened me.

  It was a damp evening; a light fog began to roll in, and the sun’s glow was dying on the horizon. The streetlamps came on.

  “Should we throw rocks at them?” said the youngest, looking at the lights.

  “Let’s do it,” said the oldest.

  I walked away sadly.

  Beneath a grove of trees, the smoke from a bonfire mingled with the mist and the crackling of broken glass from the streetlamps. From the distance came the clicking sound of Irene’s steps. I passed her. I didn’t recognize her. Later she told me what happened. The older boy whistled. When Irene reached the front of the bandstand, the older boy appeared in front of her, covered her mouth with his hand, dragged her and threw her down on the grass. Irene struggled desperately. The older boy embraced her roughly and, pinning her arms, he looked her in the eye and asked:

  “We’re not a good influence on Gabriela?” Then he kissed her on the mouth and repeated the same sentence twice more.

  The other boys surrounded them. They struggled with her. Irene was strong and managed to get free of the older boy’s arms. She stood up. She saw a metal bar lying on the ground a few feet away. She picked it up and delivered a blow that appeared to injure the youngest boy. The boy fell to the ground. He seemed to have fainted. The other boys surrounded him. Irene, kneeling, listened to his chest and took his pulse, then went to find a water fountain. The boy opened one eye and closed it again, just as Irene returned with a wet handkerchief that she pressed to his forehead. Irene looked all around, ran to the edge of the road. The trotting of hooves and the sound of bells: a horse-drawn taxi was coming down the avenue.

  “Let’s go. We’ll take him to the hospital,” said Irene imperiously. She signaled to the driver to stop.

  All together, they lifted the boy and put him into the carriage. There was no one around. Occasionally, a car passed by with its headlights on. The sound of the bells and the horse’s hooves echoed through the night. Irene looked at the boy, who was the same age as Gabriela. They boy opened one eye to look at her: Irene didn’t notice. The boys elbowed one another: a sob, then another. Irene tried to identify which boy was crying, but they all had their heads turned away.

  “Where to?” asked the coachman.

  “To the Fernández Hospital,” said Irene.

  The carriage moved along Acevedo Street, running alongside the bars of the zoo, where the beasts could be heard roaring. Then, once again, silence, the trotting of the horse’s hooves, and the bells. Again she heard a sort of sob. This time Irene realized that those noises that sounded like sobs were really muffled laughter. She saw the youngest boy’s half-opened eye. Irene sat up straight in her seat and looked at the other boys in horror. Then she slowly began to cry, lacking the will to get down from the carriage. The boys looked at her in surprise. They stopped laughing and started arguing amongst themselves in rough voices. The carriage kept moving until it came to the Fernández Hospital. There it stopped.

  Irene paid the coachman and walked away without a word.

  Poor Irene. She didn’t like the water. Sometimes we would go swimming in the river, but she almost always stayed on the bank. What would she think of the ocean, this ocean that surrounds me! She would have died a thousand times over already. There’s too much water to cry. Wouldn’t my eyes drown?

  ROSINA LÓPEZ

  Rosina López, the corset maker, was also a good landlady. She had three chins and a streak of white hair. Enormous, she sat in a rocking chair, a smile on her impassive porcelain face. “Come in, come in,” she said softly.

  There was a party in the courtyard. Arranged on a large table covered in a white tablecloth were plates, glasses, trays of sandwiches and alfajores, bottles of cider, and pitchers of orangeade. The music coming from the radio was too loud. A few couples were dancing; others ate; others sat on chairs, fanning themselves or dabbing their foreheads with handkerchiefs. The nearness of summer could be felt in the sounds, the scents, in the demeanor of the guests. Irene and her friend stood in the doorway.

  “I’m going to follow him one day, and if he’s cheating on me I’ll shoot him straight through the heart,” said Irene.

  “You talk big, but you couldn’t kill a fly,” replied her friend, stroking the doorframe.

  “Or I’ll find someone else; it’s not so hard. After all, he’s just a kid, and he has no money. I wash all his shirts and socks for him; I even wash his pajamas, and he never gives me anything, not even on my birthday.”

  “You’ve never cared before.”

  “I do now,” declared Irene. “You’ll see, I’m going to get some respect.”

  “How’s the party?”

  “See for yourself,” replied Irene, looking inside at the courtyard. “Like any other family party they’re serving chocolate milk, orangeade, cider, sandwiches, chocolate cake, and the worst part is I ate and drank a little of everything. The boys are worthless. I wouldn’t give a cent for any of them.”

  “Who else do you like aside from Leandro?”

  “Someone I could find attractive.”

  “But you don’t find anyone attractive.”

  “It’s not so easy. You don’t just find the man of your dreams on any old street corner. But, God help me, it’s at these sorts of parties where you find the least attractive boys in the world. Gabriel gets the most out of these parties. All she cares about is eating,”
she said, looking into the courtyard, where Gabriela was eating a piece of cake and pouring herself a glass of chocolate milk from a pitcher. “Why don’t you go in?”

  “They didn’t invite me. Anyway, I’m a mess; I haven’t shaved my legs, and I can’t get rid of this stain on my shirt.”

  “Who cares? Existentialists are in fashion. That boy just winked at me. What do you think?”

  “He’s crazy about you. It’s just his way of expressing himself.”

  Irene shrugged her shoulders.

  “If he were good-looking I’d pay attention to him. Especially if he were intelligent, because you get tired of physical beauty when it doesn’t come with something else.”

  Three gypsy women paused near the door. One of them was carrying a little boy in her arms, one appeared to be pregnant, and the third looked like a man dressed as a woman.

  “How about some money to buy food, blondie?” said one of the gypsy women, looking toward the courtyard.

  “We’re starving to death, all we do is walk and walk,” said the other, cracking her knuckles.

  “Look at this,” said the third woman, lifting her skirts one by one to display the varicose veins standing out on her legs.

  “We’ll give you something,” said Irene, going into the courtyard with her friend.

  They approached the landlady, sitting in her wicker chair.

  “I’ve come in to say hello,” the friend said timidly to the landlady.

  The well-endowed landlady invited her to sit down, and a ripple went through part of the crowd like when a new hen enters a chicken coop.