“You’re a good few bottles ahead of me,” Chivo said. “I’m in the way here.”
He left quickly, heading along the stone path. They no longer saw him; only his voice could be heard, in the night:
“See you tomorrow, Justo Pastor. It’s Black Day, you’ll have a sore head.”
And, still shouting:
“Watch the company you keep.”
Puelles and the doctor were hardly listening to one another anymore. Puelles was explaining to the doctor that death brought them together: it was death that was uniting them sooner or later, yes, Doctor, he repeated, if there’s one thing bringing us together it’s death, but were they talking about marriage or the deceased Matías Serrano? In marriage — the poet Puelles said, who had not known a woman — each partner thinks about the death of the other. I should say so — the doctor said — if you were to die, wife, I’d be the happiest man on earth, and then he did stand up, and he stayed that way with his index finger raised, in the pose of someone about to say something definitive — I wish you were my son, he said to Puelles in the end. Puelles burst out laughing: I don’t wish you were my father; tomorrow or the day after I’d be an orphan. The doctor said he wanted to give him a hug, but he did not do it; Puelles did, he hugged him, you’re a good bloke, he said, stressing each syllable as if telling off a surly child as he advised him: best fly to Singapore, stay there a century and only come back when the monsters disappear, you’re like my granddad, another good bloke, he’s stubborn, like you, the last thing we argued over was whether Pedro Infante had a purer voice than Javier Solís, a serious argument, two friends in Mexico settled it with pistols, my granddad said that to settle it in Colombia it would not be unusual for a grandfather to take it into his head to murder his grandson, funny, huh? One day he told me to take care: women’s legs are actually scissors, you already know what it is they’ll snip off, I really love that granddad of mine, I love you, what I’m telling you is a prophesy, I’m a seer, all I’m telling you is get out; and after he said that, the poet’s face lit up with curiosity — as if a different Puelles was peeping out, the real one — Doctor, is it true you go to bed with all your patients? Now it was the doctor who burst out laughing: you’re too skinny, you need to get more sleep, and he moved off towards the street — at last he could walk — Puelles stopped watching him: either I’m very young or he’s very old, and he stayed on his feet, swaying about; if he sat back down on the bench, he would not get up again. He drank some more.
Alone. In the park. There was not even a passer-by to exchange a word with, a girl to offer this bouquet of words to, what great legs I saw today, what eager faces, what bums, and the day came back to him in flashes, events like a river passing before his eyes, fleeting voices, snapshots of fleeing girls with frightened faces, what did he say to them? Did he open his fly, did he show it to them? He had left Quiroz’s Vespa in a Pasto garage. Which one? Tomorrow I’ll go to Mandarina’s place, Black Day is perfect for it, tomorrow Paris will burn when I paint my face black, maybe I’ll bump into the doctor, happily surrounded by beauties. What else did we do for Carnavalito? We went past Santiago church, we drank a toast there, there the poet painted a sign in black on the white walclass="underline" R.I.P, GOD, and the doctor was not far behind: GOD BLESS THIS BUSINESS; he had his funny side, and they saw the little nuns go by, flirted with them, three or four nuns who did not kick up a fuss. Did we chase them? They’re all wet between the legs, the doctor said, or was it him who said it? What a rotten memory: I’ve got gaps like black holes, I’ll crash Quiroz’s Vespa. Puelles’s face clouded over: fuck, he cried in terror, why did we leave the bar? He suddenly remembered eyes like blue-black globes, Ilyich from Cali, his profile reminiscent of twisted wire, sitting on the next seat along, listening to them all that time, had he heard the denunciation? Doctor they’re going to kill you, Ilyich had followed them into the furthest depths of the bar, Puelles greeted him with a wink, tried to explain: Enriquito ordered me to make friends with this good old doctor, let me introduce you, but Ilyich slipped away, without a word. Puelles let himself fall onto the grass, face up: “fuck,” he roared, overhead the whole park grew dark, the lamps were switching off, fuck, he murmured something, and passed out, he looked like a corpse.
Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso still had one more Carnavalito surprise to go — other than the surprise of his imminent death, which he had already forgotten about.
The surprise revived him in the nick of time, because he was no longer finding it easy to walk: the devout Alcira Sarasti, who that very morning had offered him achira biscuits, was passing by — or was there, close to midnight, at his front door, waiting for him.
“This is sad, Doctor,” he heard her say, “Arcángel won’t come home tonight, he was seen very drunk at his new finca in Sandoná. Why did you sell it to him? He won’t come home to sleep and I won’t know what to do.”
Neither will I, thought the doctor.
“Your wife and daughters aren’t here,” the pious woman continued, as if remarking on the day of the week. “They went to see street bands in El Tambo, with the servant and all. They told me they’d be back tomorrow, for Black Day.”
Only then did Alcira Sarasti notice: he’s completely drunk — and she wanted to go up the next street, run across the road to the other pavement, “all the men here go about drunk, they drink for one reason, they drink for another, Holy Mother of Mercy, Pasto is still sick and there’s no cure,” but it was already too late: the doctor stretched out a hand as if in greeting and pulled her to him hard and kissed her much harder still, crushing her. Then he just said “follow me” in her ear, and she did.
More than drunk, immoral — the pious woman thought, hearing him laugh; the doctor struggled to open the door, but when he managed it she went straight in, rather startled.
So they were going to kill him, the doctor remembered, and froze; he could remember it now he was inside, in the heart of his own home: some murderer might be lurking behind the walls. That fact shook him, waking him up, but the thought soon vanished; Primavera’s absence grew more noticeable; so Primavera wasn’t around, oh, how much her presence mattered to him — in spite of everything, he thought.
But he forgot about Primavera when he sensed, behind him, the perfumed shadow of the pious Sarasti silently encouraging him. She was a shadow aflame, burning the air, a red-hot apparition. He forgot his forthcoming death, forgot for ever that they were going to kill him and, amazed, observed the pious Sarasti in the pitch-black night: yes, he confirmed, the heat emanated from her, physically. He saw it as a sort of orange glow around her pale face. She had pressed her palms together as though praying, and her lips were moving in prayer, no doubt about it. What was she asking for? Strength? Protection? Which saint was she putting her faith in? The doctor saw light separate itself from the line of her stomach, another mouth, sinuous and floating. Or am I raving? The devout Sarasti was a living torch, levitating. “Not even modern science could explain you,” he said. “What did you say?” the pious woman asked, but he was already dragging her by the hand, stumbling along. On the stairs, heading for the bed, the doctor tripped time and again, but the pious woman’s hand appeared, to save him.