– But María Justa . . . Doña Consuelo began to object.
– Yes, yes, admitted Doña Carmen. She’s the Cinderella type. I always told her, “Courage, my child, your mother is blessing you up there in Heaven.” But inside I was thinking, “The day I see the back of her going out that door in a bridal gown, I’m gonna get myself righteously squiffed.” But I never got the chance to!
– They did her dirty! protested Doña Martina. It wasn’t her fault that the Other One . . . Fiancés nowadays! Bah, why bother getting engaged?
But Doña Consuelo was out of the loop.
– Whose fiancé? she wanted to know, anxious and flustered.
– María Justa’s fiancé, Doña Martina clarified. Just imagine, standing her up like that, when her trousseau’s all ready and everything. All because the Other One . . .
– I see, said Doña Consuelo, not understanding a word.
Doña Carmen bowed her head as though burdened by a well-ripened sorrow.
– It had been going on for a long time, she began. When María Justa met that penpusher . . . a nice-looking boy and with good intentions, to be sure. But when it came time to act like a man, he turned out to be spineless. The day he broke the engagement, I gave him a darn good piece of my mind, and the lad turned every colour in the rainbow. Even Ciruja went after him in the yard, barking his head off – just about broke his chain, he tugged so hard. Because sometimes animals seem almost like Christians, even if they don’t have a soul.
Doña Carmen paused, in thrall to a great agitation, and her bony hand swatted at what must have been a swarm of painful images.
– Where was I? she asked at last.
– You were talking about when María Justa met the penpusher, Doña Consuelo reminded her eagerly.
– That’s right, Doña Carmen resumed. War broke out the day they met. It was Márgara who did her best to upset the applecart. If the betrothed pair talked together in the street, Márgara would say it was a scandal and the neighbours were already gossiping and the boy’s intentions weren’t honourable. If the boy came to the house, well, he was coming every night and he was a nuisance, and this, that, and the other. All out of jealousy, of course. Because no man came calling for her; the wretch didn’t have so much as a dog bark at her.
– Isn’t it always the way! Doña Martina chimed in, her disgust on display. A dog in the manger!
– So, of course, Doña Consuelo ventured to break in, the penpusher got fed up and . . .
– No, no, interrupted Doña Martina. That wasn’t why!
– So why, then? asked Doña Consuelo, more baffled than ever.
– Let Doña Carmen tell the story, Doña Martina demurred cautiously.
But Doña Carmen was unexpectedly reticent.
– I don’t know if I should say . . . she whispered at last, with a furtive glance at the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law.
– But Doña Carmen! Doña Martina encouraged. The whole neighbourhood knows!
– How could they not know? Doña Carmen burst out. Yes, yes. María Justa had her trousseau all nicely done up. What lovely sheets! The hems all stitched by her own hand – she was an angel with the needle. Yes, like I was saying, they even had the wedding date fixed. Then all of a sudden, the Other One takes a wrong step . . .
– The Other One? asked Doña Consuelo, definitely disconcerted. What Other One?
– La Beba, whispered Doña Martina. The Babe, the youngest sister.
Doña Carmen glared at her.
– Don’t even mention her name in front of me, Doña Martina! she censured. Don’t mention her name in front her poor dead father! You know full well that the heartache she caused was what drove him to his grave. His youngest daughter, the apple of his eye!
– Yes, yes, responded Doña Martina, somewhat abashed. But who would have thought . . . ?
– Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth! growled Doña Carmen. Knowing her as well as I did, I always had my suspicions. Good as gold at home, but a vixen once she was out the door. Good at dodging work, but fond of dance halls and luxury. And flighty as all get out – had to have everything she saw. Well, now she’ll have everything she wants.
– They say she’s got a car, furs, and diamonds the size of chickpeas, Doña Martina revealed.
The three old women set their cups on the floor. Doña Carmen and Doña Martina withdrew into themselves, apparently brooding dolefully. But Doña Consuelo still didn’t have a firm grip on the whole story.
– So that was enough to make the penpusher leave María Justa? she inquired.
Doña Carmen opened her half-closed eyes, looked long and hard at Doña Consuelo, and decided the poor thing must be quite gaga.
– The penpusher? she yawned. His parents put him up to it, but he was spineless. When dishonour strikes a family . . .
– Spineless, echoed Doña Martina.
Satisfied, illuminated now, Doña Consuelo seemed to pick up a thread that had slipped from her grasp up till now.
– The Other One! she said. Let her have her diamonds! I don’t give her very long. When her youth fades and there’s no one around to tell her, “knock ’em dead!” . . . Then she’ll see. God punishes without stick or whip.
The candlelight was growing dim again. The silence was absolute but for the spluttering wicks. The Three Crones began to nod gently, their eyelids drooping and mouths purring. Suddenly, just as Doña Carmen was dozing off, a high-pitched explosion of flatulence escaped her. Her two neighbours half-opened their eyes.
– Alms for the poor, Doña Martina declared sententiously. But the rich can pay.
– Doña Carmen! reproached Doña Consuelo. Right under the nose of the deceased!
Doña Carmen smiled, half embarrassed, half gleeful.
– It slipped out when I was asleep, she clarified. What does it matter, anyhow? The departed won’t hear it. Nothing matters to him anymore. I washed him myself with aromatic vinegar and dressed him from head to foot. Heck, it’s just a corpse!
– You did? Doña Consuelo whispered admiringly.
– Habit, affirmed the other woman. I’ve dressed the corpses of the whole neighbourhood. I made a promise to the Virgin of Candlemas.
Doña Carmen got to her feet, rubbed her cramped knees, and took a rosary of black beads from her apron pocket.
– The Rosary, she invited her two neighbours.
– Yes, yes, they assented as they stood up as well.
The three old women approached the head of Juan Robles’s coffin and made the sign of the cross.
– Thou, O Lord, wilt open my lips, Doña Carmen began to recite.
– And my tongue shall announce Thy praise, responded her neighbours.
– Incline unto our aid, O God.
– O Lord, make haste to help us.
The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, who seemed to be snoozing beneath their black mourning shawls, suddenly brought their heads together in unison.
– Just take a look at that and drop dead! whispered Dolores, her eyes darting toward the three old women.
– The very picture of piety!2 said Leonor. I’ll bet their wicked tongues have raised blisters on the hide of the deceased himself!
– I wouldn’t stake my life on it, Dolores asserted.
Wrapped both in her shawl and in the gloom that was turning favourable again, Gertrudis eyed the Three Crones, whose yellowed fingers passed the rosary beads one by one.
– Hmm! she squawked at length. High time they started pushing up daisies!
– Them? laughed Dolores, revealing her ravaged gums. Tough old coots! They’ll see us all dead’n buried.
The three Sisters-in-Law looked at each another, nose to nose, eyeball penetrating eyeball, mutually exhaling fetid breath into one another’s face. And they smiled beatifically as they inhaled that delectable atmosphere of death. Harpies guided by their great olfactory acuity, they were immediately on the spot whenever anyone entered his death throes. Fluttering, still invisible, around the
dying person, they would gather his last look, final gesture, and ultimate drop of sweat. Then they would promptly materialize in the afflicted home to savour that tumultuous first moment, the shock in the clenched faces that haven’t yet yielded to weeping. And then – oh joy! – the immense night of the wake, the long vigil in the semidarkness beside the inert thing at once there and no longer there in this world; the thick odours of mortuary flowers and melting wax; and that vast silence of the predawn hours, broken once in a while by the terrible groan of someone who has fallen asleep, reawakened, then remembers.
Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law passed a critical eye over the details of the improvised mortuary chapel – the thickness of the casket, the size of the candelabras, the price of the flowers.
– Four tacky little boards, said Leonor, pointing at the coffin.
– The handles are used, Gertrudis added. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know those thieving undertakers.
– Weeds! complained Dolores as she looked around at the flower bouquets placed here and there.
All at once they stopped talking and pricked up their ears, anxious to catch the slightest sound in the grief-stricken house. By and by, not picking up anything new, they sipped at the dregs of liqueur remaining in their glasses.
– Homemade anisette, Leonor said, not hiding her displeasure.
– Cheap! Gertrudis agreed, licking her lips.
But Dolores beckoned the other two shawled heads and whispered something in their ears.
– What? whistled Gertrudis and Leonor, incredulous.
– Only two horses for the funeral coach, Dolores reaffirmed out loud.
Now that was scandalous. Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law were not about to accept such niggardliness lying down. They had arranged that their dead husbands travel in coaches drawn by six jet-black horses. And they’d lodged them in massive oak caskets, with solid lead covers and finely wrought bronze handles. So what if they’d gone into debt up to their necks? Fine and dandy! After all, you only die once, and the poor fellow couldn’t take anything else to the grave with him. And besides, there were the neighbours to think about! How grand it was when the funeral coach took off, pulled by six foaming horses whose iron-shod hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones! And the coachmen in their fine top hats, rigid as statues as they drove! Next came the line of varnished coupés, the entire spectacle displayed before a multitude slack-jawed in awe and reverence! They could still hear the sweet sounds of the neighbours singing their praises. Each of them had the photographs of the cortège, framed in real English frames, hanging in their bedrooms as souvenirs of those glorious days. Things ought to be done properly, or not at all. But the dearly departed Juan Robles didn’t deserve the disdain shown him by his children. No matter what his faults, at least he’d left them the house mortgage-free.
The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law agreed, nodding their heads in unison to underscore their disapproval. Then, recalling illustrious burials they’d attended in the past, they felt a marvellous exaltation carrying them away to the point of inebriation until Gertrudis recalled with nostalgia the Gringo Mastrovicenzo’s funeral.
– My good Lord! Dolores exclaimed. The way the Gringo’s chapel was all lit up, it looked like a church altar! Stained glass, gorgeous candelabras, expensive flowers, and the Gringo layin’ there pleased as punch in his catafalque. The box alone must’ve cost an arm and a leg.
– Remember the drinks? recalled Gertrudis, ecstatic.
– Nothing but the best, said Leonor. And served up in crystal to die for.
– The Gringo must’ve been rolling in it, Gertrudis observed.
– Him? laughed Dolores. He owned half of Villa Urquiza.3 And to think he arrived in Buenos Aires with only the shirt on his back!
– Yes, yes, said Leonor. Some are born under a lucky star, others ’re born star-struck.
But when Gertrudis extolled the supper they served at midnight in the Gringo Mastrovicenzo’s big dining room, Dolores owned up to a certain doubt about whether it was appropriate to celebrate banquets like that right beside a cadaver. Gertrudis set her straight:
– Listen, sister, she said sententiously. Dead folks are beyond all needs, they’re free from the miseries of this world. But, upon my word, those of us left behind in this vale of tears have a duty to keep on living till our time comes.
Gertrudis, abominable harpy! The real truth was that other people’s deaths aroused in you a voracious hunger, a gloating joy that you’re still here and living at full gallop, inhaling stinks and aromas through nostrils quivering with glee, moving triumphant beside the inert and vanquished. Loathsome Erinyes! I’ve followed you through cemeteries; I’ve seen the rhythm of your steps, the mad mercurial lilt of your dance, though you hide it beneath your eighteen skirts of mourning.
– Till our time comes, repeated Dolores plaintively.
– Our time, echoed Leonor.
Hypocritical Dolores, abominable Gertrudis, toothless Leonor! In reality, they didn’t believe in their own deaths – heavens, not that! Instead, they would slip into a sort of stagnant eternity staged in the form of a wake.
Gertrudis was about to push her line of argument further, when someone began to wail in the next room. So heart-rending was the lament that even the Crones stopped praying for a moment to exchange a significant gaze. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law sharpened their ears.
– It’s Márgara, whispered Dolores after a bit. She’s having another fit.
– Must be about the fifth one, Gertrudis groused malevolently.
– Pure histrionics, said Leonor.
The three listened again, for a hoarse voice could now be heard in the adjoining room.
– Not Doña Tecla? asked Dolores apprehensively.
– Who else? said Gertrudis. The old witch wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
– Shhh! warned Leonor, fearful.
Dolores and Gertrudis heeded her invitation to prudence.
– She’s latched onto Márgara like a bedbug, Dolores observed in a low voice.
– It’s her own fault, murmured Gertrudis. Who the heck sent her out to the old crone’s shack? What was she doing there, anyways?
– I don’t know, Dolores insinuated. Probably looking for some herb or potion. If you know what I mean. She was dying to get married, don’t you know?
– Hmm! assented Gertrudis with some reserve. I wouldn’t stake my life on it.
But Leonor knew the score, and she announced in a wisp of a voice:
– Márgara went to Doña Tecla’s shack for a cure to get her old man off the booze.
– Tell that to my tea kettle! exclaimed Gertrudis, patting herself on the behind.
– She told me so herself, Leonor insisted. She was supposed to put it in his wine, some disgusting thing or other that came from a mouse. Márgara couldn’t go through with it.
Dolores and Gertrudis displayed withering skepticism.
– So how come the old crone won her over? asked Dolores. Everybody knows they’re thick as thieves now.
– Doña Tecla is curing Márgara, said Leonor, hesitant now. Her chest pains . . .
– Tell that to my tea kettle! Gertrudis exclaimed again.
– And what a treatment! Dolores observed. Cutting open a live pigeon and applying it to her breast like a poultice, imagine that!
– And that’s not all, Leonor hinted.
– What else? asked Dolores and Gertrudis, feigning indifference.
– The crone had three toads fetched. She told Márgara to spit in their mouths, then hang them from the fig tree. If they died after three nights, she’d be cured.
– Did they die? inquired Gertrudis, her interest piqued.
But Leonor had no chance to answer: the groans from the other room intensified abruptly, becoming long and deep like the bellowing of a calf having its throat cut. Immediately, urgent voices resounded and hurrie
d footsteps clattered. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law knew right away that Márgara had embarked on her great scene. A delicious shiver ran down their spines. Then they stood up in unison and, more thoroughly swaddled than ever in their grieving shawls, they made for the door. It opened noiselessly before them. The three old women turned their wonderfully identical faces to watch the sisters-in-law leave. Laid out full length in his coffin, the deceased Juan Robles journeyed on.
At first, the greedy eyes of the Three Necrophile Sisters registered only a scene of confusion dimly illuminated by a bedside lamp, its purple shade blocking more light than it diffused. Toward the margins of the tableau, the semi-darkness left faces and gestures indistinct; closer to the lamp, however, the drama’s central figures were vigorously etched by the indigo light. There, on a dishevelled cot, Márgara was struggling in the arms of the Neighbour Lady in Red and the Neighbour Lady in Blue, while Doña Tecla, phlegmatic, rubbed the girl’s temples with a handkerchief soaked in vinegar. Burly were the arms of the fat ladies in Red and in Blue, but Márgara was resisting furiously, a snarl of snaky curls lashing about her Medusa-like head. As she thrashed around, her face moved in and out of the violet light, revealing enormous pupils and chattering white teeth.
It was the horror of death, for she’d just glimpsed its abyss. It was the perplexity of finding herself at the dramatic centre of all those people’s attention. It was her amazement at her own incredible pain, as well as an inchoate pride at being the object of so many solicitous regards, so many soothing murmurs, so many kind hands reaching out to her. It was all that, and more: an obscure desire to live up to the greatness of that unique moment, to act it out in the fullness of gestures, to offer herself entirely as spectacle.
When Márgara caught sight of the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, she reached out to them with open arms, instantly provoking a sense of general expectancy. The Three Sisters-in-Law understood their cue to enter the stage. Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, they made their way to the cot and occupied the place respectfully vacated for them by the ladies in Red and in Blue.
Adam Buenosayres: A Novel Page 27