“Let us rest,” she said, like a supplication. What a hallowed voice. She was praying. In the middle of the bed the doctor thought he could smell incense. She — the mystical voice — went on with utter sincerity: “I haven’t experienced such excitement since my first communion; this is the first time I’ve been with a man other than my husband, and, I promise you, it is more terrible than the first time I was with him.”
Doctor Proceso was struggling to pay attention to her, he did not know what had gone on or how, he did not remember. Before reality should hit him in the face it would be better to find another bottle of aguardiente, or reality will be worse, he thought. Was I rude with her in this bed? I threatened to nibble her biscuit, that’s what he’d called it, and he’d nibbled away until he heard her cry out, and now he felt the devout woman’s leg on top of his, rubbing it gratefully, he heard her Mass-time voice, her voice of the Elevation. Dawn was not yet breaking in the bedroom: Black Day was only lighting up the cracks in the window frames very slightly. One of the windows gave onto the garden, the other onto the street: the doctor did not know against which of the two Primavera Pinzón’s face and silhouette were outlined.
Impossible, he thought.
“What a pair of rabbits,” they heard. “You’ve been magnificent.”
Yes, it was Primavera Pinzón’s voice — like diamond because it seemed to cut through them in the gloom; a very different voice to Alcira Sarasti’s sung Mass, a deep voice but deeply feminine, and in spite of that, a roar.
Neither of the two moved; they just listened, overwhelmed.
“I never imagined it,” they heard, “such acrobatics, Doctor Donkey, what rubber doll bendiness, my God, what jumping, what jerking, what appetites, why did you never give me a bit of that?”
“Primavera,” the doctor said.
“What?”
“We can talk later.”
“Really? Painted black?” she asked.
Then:
“And in my own bed, with such a paragon of virtue: little Saint Alcira Sarasti.”
The pious woman was heard to sob.
The doctor sat on the edge of the bed. In the incipient semi-dark he was casting about for Alcira Sarasti’s clothes.
“There are no clothes,” Primavera announced emphatically. “I threw them into the street.”
Sarasti’s exclamation of disbelief was audible.
“I threw out yours and your saint’s,” Primavera said.
The doctor wanted to look into her eyes: he made out her face with difficulty. Full of perversity, a woman possessed, he thought. And, nevertheless, inexplicably, he felt like laughing.
Primavera took a step towards him.
“If that Furibundo finds out,” she said, “he’ll leave no-one alive; aren’t you worried? Are you very brave or very drunk?”
The voices of merrymakers leapt up from the street, quarrelsome cries. A rocket burst in the sky, its radiance lighting the room blue; the doctor discovered it was true: there was no clothing anywhere; bringing it in from the street would mean getting past the formidable obstacle of Primavera, in her white dressing gown — happy or unhappy?
“Now,” the doctor said, getting up, “you’ll have to lend her a dress, so she can leave.”
Another sob from Sarasti.
Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López, naked as found, and not trying to cover himself, went to the wide-open window. He leaned out and saw, by the light of the street lamps, Alcira Sarasti’s clothes and his own scattered about; he even made out their shoes, here, there, upside down, on their sides, everything squalid and twisted like when there’s a traffic accident, he thought, with fatalities.
He went up to Primavera, took her by the arm and, without effort, with just a hint of his anger, put her from the room. He closed the door.
“It doesn’t end here,” Primavera shouted from the other side.
Hearing her shout, the doctor realized she was drunk. He wondered whether his daughters were in the house, listening to it all. Furibundo Pita’s wife was standing, waiting for him, covering her breasts with her hands.
“Has she really thrown out my clothes?” she asked in a thin voice.
“She may well have,” the doctor said. “Pity she didn’t throw herself out.”
And he flung open the doors to the bedroom wardrobe.
“And dawn’s already broken,” the pious Sarasti moaned. And now she covered herself with the sheet, she was a frightened ghost. The doctor chose any old dress from a hanger.
“Not even my shoes are here,” Alcira Sarasti said.
In her surprise, the sheet slipped off her body and she did not notice: her eyes were scanning the whole carpet. She knelt down and groped about under the bed; she did not care about bending over like a spectacle: the doctor positively applauded the fact.
“Put this on,” he said, handing her the dress. “And don’t worry, I’ll come downstairs with you.”
“What will they say at home?” the pious woman sobbed, “what will the maids think when they see me turn up in a different dress, and without shoes?”
“It’s carnival,” the doctor said.
Sarasti let out a deep sigh, as if she agreed.
“And in any case, pick up your things from the street, put your shoes on while you’re there. See? No problem.”
Sarasti finished dressing as well as she could, arranged her hair. She looked distressed, and was trembling so much the doctor felt sorry for her: after all, she was the only one who did not drink a single drop to relax; they had operated on her without anaesthetic. They opened the bedroom door: no-one. They went down the stairs; the doctor went first, naked, on the lookout for further surprises: Primavera might hurl herself at him, fingernails at his eyes, as had happened once before.
To Sarasti’s relief, they found no sign of Primavera. Complete silence. But once at the front door they heard her sibylline voice anew:
“My clothes don’t suit you, señora. You could hardly squeeze into my dress. In general, they say, thick calves mean a big bum.”
“Primavera,” the doctor said.
“And you, Doctor Donkey, you should see how you wobble along, with all that belly of yours. But no cow-fat mattress would have borne you better than she did.”
“She’s plump, but a real woman,” the doctor said. It seemed incredible to him to be having such a conversation, and yet, it was true: there he was arguing over these details with two women. He gave way to laughter, albeit brief, bitter, like he was crying. And he concluded: “Every inch a woman.”
“Watch out, little Alcira,” Primavera went on, undaunted, “if your blessed husband sees you arriving without shoes he’ll go into orbit.”
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Alcira Sarasti said, startling them with her cathedral voice. “He’s not there. He won’t even notice. He doesn’t want me, not like Doctor Justo Pastor wanted me here in his bed, God bless him.”
And she left.
There they remained, frozen, looking into one another’s eyes, Primavera Pinzón and her naked husband, the church voice still exerting its hold over them.