And just then the Mayor of Pasto — another one from the same school — arrived, with more pomp than his predecessors: he was guarded by a policeman on a motorbike. He got out of the official car, spotted the three of them and hailed them at the top of his voice:
“By God, Bolívar is on trial today.”
By which Doctor Proceso understood once and for all that Bolívar’s carriage was common knowledge, or at least known about by the authorities.
“Let it be in God’s hands and the Devil’s,” he said quietly, but not so quietly that the bishop did not hear him.
“What’s that, Justo Pastor?”
“Let’s go inside at once, señores. Pasto is cold.”
7
In the living room, when all they had done was exchange those few warning words about the Bolívar float, Primavera Pinzón appeared before the learned invited friends, appeared, because you had to appear — he thought, gazing at her as if for the first time — my wife, he thought, you had to appear when I least needed you, showing up as if absolutely nothing had happened between the two of us (no scalpel, no tongue of any General Aipe), waltzing in, what’s more, as if the Bishop of Pasto were not among them; her appearance dazzled them, her blonde hair in two plaits, hands on hips, her hatred and vengeance well concealed — the doctor thought — Primavera Pinzón appeared wearing her costume for the Pasto carnival, and said:
“I was just trying on my ñapanga costume, señores, which will have its debut on the sixth of January. What do you think?”
And she gave a twirl.
Like a flame, thought Arcaín Chivo, recovering from the surprise. He was the first to approve.
“And God created woman,” he said, “the only thing in the world capable of coming between two brothers.”
“Or two peoples,” noted mayor Matías Serrano, “if we look to the Iliad.”
The professor ignored the reference. He had said what he said after taking a gulp of air, and without knowing whether it was appropriate to say it. He pulled himself together:
“It’s been ages, Primavera, since you’ve graced us with the pleasure of your company. That costume does wonders for you, but you do far more for it.”
“It’ll be a controversial costume,” the mayor said. “The ñapanga, the traditional dress of the Nariño countrywoman, comes down somewhat further below the knees.”
“This has been the year of the miniskirt,” Primavera reminded them. “At last they invented the miniskirt for us, señores.”
“Glorious invention by men for men,” Arcaín Chivo said. “Marvellous gift.” And bowing his head slightly in the bishop’s direction, he added: “Begging the pardon of those present.”
“There’s no need to beg the pardon of anyone present,” the Bishop of Pasto seemed benignly put out. “The discussion is worthy of interest. One might just ask oneself whether a real ñapanga, our countrywoman, would ever adopt this last word in fashion: the miniskirt.”
“Usurper of men’s peace,” the professor added quickly.
“I don’t think she would,” the bishop answered himself, ignoring the professor. “The Vatican has already expressed its disapproval — yes, allow me to continue, Arcaín — these days nobody cares about the Pope’s disapproval — you’re a living example of that — but it’s a matter of the Pope’s reflection, which we should consider from time to time, as Christians.”
“No ñapanga would wear a skirt that short,” the mayor said. “You’re taking a risk, Primavera: I read in the newspaper that a man was arrested for biting the thighs of a woman in a miniskirt; he claimed to the judges that she had provoked him.”
“A flimsy excuse,” Arcaín Chivo said. “It is provocative, but that doesn’t give us the right to go so far as to bite.”
“Quite so,” the mayor said. “We should ask permission first.”
“Not even if they do ask my permission, señores.” Primavera smiled fleetingly. “My thighs are not flesh for anyone’s nibbles.”
“I can’t believe that,” snorted Chivo, and confronted the doctor with a wicked look.
“Come to think of it,” the doctor said, straight-faced, not looking at Primavera, but watching her, “I can’t remember having bitten you in such a distant place.”
Discreet chuckles were heard coming from the mayor and the professor. The bishop did not join in.
“I shall rectify that mistake,” the doctor went on coolly.
Primavera struck a capricious pose, which might have meant pity or defiance.
Primavera Pinzón, stood with arms akimbo, one leg slightly out in front of the other, irremediably beautiful, turned yellow by the firelight, then suddenly red, a standing sphinx, the doctor thought, inflamed by men, unseasonably shivery in the midst of all those eyes, not knowing what to do or say — you allowed yourself to be adored dressed as a ñapanga: the skirt of coloured, woollen cloth, trimmed with a velvet border; velvet too around the edges of the huge pocket; again the skirt, pleated from the waist, somewhat shorter than the petticoat, of which they could see the crocheted edging; the white, shiny satin blouse revealing her pert, medium-sized breasts, deliberately badly covered up with a fringed, embroidered black shawl; on her head she wore a tortoiseshell comb, and ribbon bows finished off the plaits; against the whiteness of her throat the glass beads, the necklaces virtually tinkled, a gold filigree crucifix glittered; she wore large earrings; both hands played nervously with a felt hat that she remained undecided about putting on; her rope-soled alpargatas showed off her tiny feet, the toenails of which she had not neglected to paint a vivid pink: it was that detail Professor Arcaín Chivo observantly fixed upon:
“My dear señora,” he said, “like a good ñapanga you did not forget to paint your nails pink; I bet you don’t know why ñapangas do that.”
Primavera looked at him for a moment with genuine curiosity. She tossed her head as she said:
“So you don’t bite us, señor.”
The mayor congratulated her:
“So you did know,” he said. “Painting the toes pink wards off bites from snakes and academics. You are farsighted, Primavera.”
Chivo opened his arms.
“You’ve beaten me,” he said.
And he turned back to Primavera; he could not take his eyes off her.
“Nonetheless,” he advised, “wearing alpargatas is incorrect; ñapanga, my lovely lady, is a corruption of the original word llapanga, which is Quechua for ‘barefoot.’”
“Come off it, Arcaín,” the mayor continued. “You’re not suggesting our Primavera go through the streets barefoot on January the sixth.”
“Heaven forbid,” Arcaín Chivo protested hammily. “I just want…”
But Primavera was no longer paying him any attention.
“Your Grace,” she said, making for the bishop, and seeming frankly astonished, almost shocked at herself, but only for a second, “forgive my intrusion. I did not know you were among my husband’s guests. You’ll understand my delight in the carnival — which is why you see me in my costume,” she said, gesturing at herself from head to foot.