It was the wife of Arcángel de los Ríos.
The doctor greeted her impatiently; he did not want to know anything about anything anymore, and much less about Furibundo Pita and his revolver.
“He’s told me everything,” she said.
She sounded on the verge of tears. The doctor remembered her: she had been the very shy, skinny, mixed-race girl who used to keep herself to herself and read her Bible on a bench in the children’s park; and she’s still beautiful, he thought, an innate beauty, who knows what penance cast her into Furibundo Pita’s jaws, but didn’t she try to kill me one Innocents’ Day with those poisoned empanaditas? And hadn’t he been in love with her when they were children? Wasn’t she the same girl leaning over a balcony, a black Bible in her pale hands? The same Bible she was always reading as a youngster? It was her.
She swallowed air, as though it would give her courage to speak.
“He told me he fired at a man, and that he doesn’t know how.”
She waited a few seconds for the doctor to answer but he was so surprised that he could not. He just thought: I don’t know how either.
“He told me he fired at Maestro Abril and he doesn’t know how; he’s sorry.”
The doctor remained mute.
“Arcángel’s not like they say. He drinks, it’s true, but that’s all; he’s done me harm, but he’s a good man, when all’s said and done.”
Doctor Proceso looked at her in amazement: there was Alcira Sarasti, sticking up for Furibundo Pita.
“He told me about the float, about what that float represents. I myself…” she said, stifling a sob and raising her voice, “I’d be the first to be insulted; how could such a float occur to a man like Maestro Abril, someone I know? How many times did I go to his house with the Day of the Poor ladies to comfort his children, to leave shopping, pencils and exercise books, clothes, medicines; why does he repay us in such a mean-spirited way? How could he think of goading my husband? He knows my husband well; the whole of Pasto knows my husband when he drinks. Don Tulio Abril knew perfectly well what he was taking on.”
And she made up her mind to ask, terrified:
“Tell me, Doctor, for goodness’ sake, just tell me he didn’t kill him.”
She had started to cry.
“He didn’t kill him,” the doctor said.
She crossed herself.
“Thanks be to the Blessed Virgin of La Playa,” she said, and lifted the veil from her face; her shining eyes appeared, her voice recovered:
“I knew God would protect us, how could Arcángel think of firing at so good a man as Maestro Abril?”
The doctor looked at her, yet more astonished.
“I don’t know,” he said.
And he was about to go in, but she stopped him; she placed her gloved hand on the doctor’s arm.
“Wait,” she whispered, “are you in a hurry? Are you sure Señora Primavera’s expecting you? Come over to ours, just one minute, Arcángel needs you. He sent me to beg you to listen to him, one minute.”
“Tell him he didn’t hurt anyone. The float won’t be seen. Tell him to forget the whole thing.”
And once more, he made as if to go inside.
“No,” she said, “don’t go in, please.”
Did she really want to stop him entering his own home? It seemed so: her hand bore down on the doctor’s arm. And, all of a sudden, she began to stroke it, really began to stroke it, she was stroking it: the doctor found that Alcira Sarasti was stroking his arm without realizing it, as if she were caressing him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “No-one got hurt, this whole misunderstanding’s going to be cleared up: neither you nor Arcángel will have anything to do with what the float says.”
“Dear God,” she fretted. “It would be my biggest sorrow.”
Her eyes roamed across the starry sky; was she going to cry again? She recovered:
“Listen,” she said, “I understand Maestro Abril, I know why he did it, I know him better than I know myself. He’s a good man.”
“Another good man,” the doctor said.
But the pious Alcira did not hear him.
“One afternoon, coming out of church, after Benediction, I bumped into Maestro Abril. He didn’t just say hello, but walked along with me. I don’t know if he already knew, like everyone else, what was in store for him: Arcángel appeared, as he always does, hooting in the Willys, accelerating and slowing down, making all his usual racket when he finds me in the street after Benediction. He came up behind us, Hell itself on our heels. I said to the maestro: ‘Señor Tulio, you don’t need to come with me,’ and he said: ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll stay with you.’ Arcángel caught us up: he hooted more than ever, shouted at the maestro to leave me on my own, he said some things to his face it would be a sin to repeat, Doctor; the whole of Pasto heard them, what an insult, and me so sorry to be the centre of attention. The maestro took my arm, because I tripped and nearly fell over with fright, can you imagine? He didn’t let me go and stayed with me and told my husband that he should get out of the car, to see if he was big enough to make him leave my side, he said that to him, my God, and thank heavens Arcángel didn’t get out: somebody turned up, one of his secretaries, a good angel who tempted him with a meal of guinea pig in Catambuco and took him away, that angel saved us, because Maestro Abril remained stubborn, determined to accompany me, taking my arm: Arcángel would surely have run us both over, he was capable of driving over us a hundred times, out of fury. But the maestro’s bravery was something to see: he wasn’t scared, although he was trembling as much as I was or more, and he was crying like me, from pure courage, God bless his strength of purpose. How rotten I feel, my shame shaming others. I put a good man like Maestro Abril’s life in danger, do you understand? That’s why the maestro got his own back with the float, he was saving my honour, what an upright man. Thank him for me in any case, because it’s the thought that counts at least.”
“Goodbye, Señora Alcira.”
“No,” she said, with an expression the doctor thought was pity for him. “You shouldn’t go in.”
“And why not?” he asked.
She smiled, undecided. He thought she would insist, in order to convince him to go to her husband, for a minute. She gave up, her voice a whisper:
“My regards to your wife.”
And she disappeared down the street: slowly, light-footed, as though afraid of making a noise, she seemed to float. The doctor grasped the door handle again and pushed, at last, as if it were a heavy sheet of lead.
He made the door click audibly as he closed it: best let his presence be known, although it was possible Primavera had already heard his conversation — that depended where she was, he thought.
And straight away he saw her emerging, from the depths of the corridor leading to the guest bathroom, a shadow barely illuminated by the single light bulb switched on, was she still unaware of his presence? She approached with her leather skirt hitched up almost to the waist, bending down — in the middle of the infinitely complex manoeuvre of pulling down the skirt stuck around her thighs — and at the same time he heard her voice. It was hard to make it out.
“I heard the door,” she said, “who was it?”
“Me,” he said.
Primavera Pinzón stopped in astonishment, open-mouthed, just like him.
“A fish bone,” she said.
And despite everything, he discovered, her voice was unchanged, unruffled by the slightest emotion.
Bewildered, he heard her persevere:
“A fish bone got stuck in his throat. I was seeing that he drank some water, in the bathroom.”