For now, he said to himself, finish the float, exhibit it on January 6, and more than that, let it exist in the world, as though memory were preserved on any corner of Pasto’s streets, the first bastion of the truth, of the real past. Something must come out of this float, something crucial, something definitive. Ah, he said to himself, if it could be exhibited permanently right in the middle of the children’s park, for the edification of infants and grandparents alike, but how would it be installed? What nook of the city would permit its permanent presence? For now, pay the craftsmen for its construction, guide the work; he would have to choose the scenes carefully — from among the many macabre events with which Bolívar’s life was full to overflowing.
He would sell his finca. He had been ready to do this for a long time: sell off those several, poorly managed acres of wheat, the ancestral but collapsing house, the abandoned sugar mill, the swimming pool with its missing tiles, the stables empty of livestock, the gardens empty of flowers — Primavera must be the only woman in the world, and poet to boot, who did not know flowers existed. One thing’s for sure, he thought, the frustrated poet would be delighted to get half the finca sale price in cash; she would not complain, she would immediately plan what clothes to buy, which shoes, where she would travel. But he would not stint on paying Maestro Abril what he deserved, nor Martín Umbría and the sculptor Cangrejito Arbeláez, and each and every one of the makers. They would understand later on what work they had created. Zulia Iscuandé had shown that sufficient memory still survived in Pasto. Bolívar’s carriage, the carriage of history, of legitimate rage, was imminent. No-one was going to stop it, no-one.
Then he sneezed.
“Provided I don’t die of a cold first,” he said, because he was dripping water, leaving a wet trail as he walked through his lonely house, empty of voices — not just the voices of his family, but his employees too: Sinfín was nowhere to be seen. He found her hurried note, written in a childish hand: We bought the chickins already Im going with the señora its midday now docter dont be long.
In the margin he discovered Primavera’s rounded writing and it scared away his drunkenness: I hope you’ll come to the birthday party and stay with your daughters at the finca, that’s if you remember, you ape.
Ape.
It was still not too late.
He drank a mug of black coffee and put on dry clothes. A one-hour journey to the finca, near Sandoná, lay before him; the hot weather there would cure his cold: he was not going to die.
But before setting off he made up his mind and telephoned the philosopher and professor Arcaín Chivo, a fifty-year-old like himself and a childhood friend, who asked, rather taken aback, whether the fact that he was calling meant the world was coming to an end. They had not spoken for years, not since their mutual interest in Simón Bolívar used to drive them to meet at the Guadalquivir café on Nariño Square and reconstruct the details, the bickering and backbiting, setbacks and apathies of Colombian independence. That was years ago now, when Arcaín Chivo was Professor of History; these days they just recognized one another every so often, from a distance: in Pasto’s only bookshop, or in the queue for one of the three cinemas, or on some corner — life slipping past as quickly as crossing the street.
“See you at my house this Friday, seven o’clock,” Doctor Proceso said, rounding off his invitation.
“The day after tomorrow, December thirtieth? Let’s wait one more day and we can bring in New Year together on the thirty-first.”
“Our New Year hug can be brought forward.”
So he fixed a meeting with Arcaín Chivo, better known as “the Philanthropist” thanks to his notorious stinginess, emeritus educator at the University of Nariño — friend or acquaintance? Whichever he was, the doctor needed a deputy he could count on for the whole fast-approaching carnival firestorm.
And he also considered the involvement of Monsignor Pedro Nel Montúfar, Bishop of Pasto, the “Wasp,” who despite being a priest was — he thought — an intelligent one at least, representative of ecclesiastical power, plus the involvement of Mayor Matías Serrano, the “One-Armed Man of Pasto”—not actually missing either arm — representative of civil power; both acquaintances of his since school — although that might not mean much, but he could rely on them, unlike Governor Nino Cántaro, the “Toad,” who had also been at the same school but might yet turn out to be an enemy, he thought, due not so much to his intelligence, but his irrational idiocy.
He called the mayor and the bishop and they accepted the invitation, more intrigued than happy about it: it was unusual that Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López, gynaecologist-historian, should remember a living soul — what was he up to?
And he arrived at his finca in Sandoná after a tortuous journey along the unpaved road; he arrived after nightfall, making plans like dreams are made, battling with himself. He parked the Land Rover beside the other vehicles belonging to the guests; he could not see Primavera’s Volks-wagen, and this bothered him. He smelled the damp earth, the wet bark of the trees. As he approached the house, hands in pockets, absorbed expression, his shadow stooping between bushes and sheaves of wheat, hearing dogs barking without really listening to them, he seemed like a sombre stranger.
Primavera was not at the finca.
Genoveva Sinfín told him so, surrounded by a tumult of clowns and kids, among whom his daughter Floridita stood out, riding her Shetland pony.
“The señora went back to Pasto,” Sinfín explained. “She left word that she wanted to be alone and that you would look after things here till tomorrow.”
They were talking about fifty metres from the main entrance to the house, in the middle of a wood of eucalyptus trees. The windows were shining with a yellow light. Floridita did not even acknowledge him: when he wanted to say hello, she turned her head, irritated. He did not try going up to her, sensing only too keenly that she would run from him — but why? He did not know. What had he done? His seven-year-old daughter loathed him, possibly instructed by her mother; she was going back and forth on her pony, followed the whole time by the boy Chanchán and the gang of admiring children; when all was said and done, it was her birthday: she could do and not do whatever she liked.
“And Luz de Luna?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen her for ages,” answered the cook, after a guarded silence. “She must be around somewhere.”
She scratched her greying head; did she want to change the subject?
“I’m here, obliged to serve, as is right and proper,” she said. “I’ve got six girls helping me, but they’re on their knees. And to think this goes on till tomorrow, señor.”
The doctor greeted the steward, old and aloof, who was no doubt waiting his turn to put in his complaints. The strumming of various guitars could be heard in the house: twelve-string tiples, a mandolin. A woman was singing off key. Applause. Stamping on the wooden floor. It was Primavera’s family, the Pinzóns — the doctor sighed — who never missed a christening or wake in Pasto.
He paused halfway between the eucalyptus wood and the front door. More parked cars warned of a sizable gathering. He asked Sinfín to bring him a cup of coffee and headed for the opposite side of the house, where the swimming pool was, closely followed by the steward. He did not listen in detail to his complaints: he was asking for money to pay the farm labourers; the tractor needed a spare part that was impossible to get in Pasto, they would have to order it from Bogotá; somebody was stealing the fence posts; the sheep pen was empty of sheep one morning; some-one set fire to the pine trees, señor.