The operation seems complicated, but for Diana it’s easy: she does it several times a day with a variety of similar artifacts each designed for a different function, and though some in the group consider it polite to pretend they don’t see her, whether or not they do doesn’t matter to Diana or Nula; it consists, simply, of strapping a leather wristband to her left arm, over which a metal hoop, probably of stainless steel, is attached, and which extends into the shape of a fork. Once this maneuver is carried out, Diana, just as casually, picks up the glass into which Nula, with affectionate deference, has just poured a considerable quantity of white wine, and takes a long drink. Across from her, on the other side of the table, Soldi wonders whether it wouldn’t have been better to sit down to eat with the prosthetic already in place, but eventually he decides that to Diana it must seem more natural to put it on in front of everyone.
Before sitting down at the table, the bathers, after drying themselves off with a few minutes of exposure to the sun, have gotten dressed again, the men in a shirt or an undershirt and the women in their light dresses, easy to take on and off, and which they now wear over their one- or two-piece swimsuits. Though Faustino announced the cookout several minutes ago, and all of the guests including Amalia are sitting at the table, the two empty seats, one next to the other, delay the service for a few moments. A taxi has just stopped in front of the white gate without turning off its engine, and Gutiérrez has hurried outside to meet Leonor Calcagno. Walking slowly, they cross the gate and, with a satisfied look, turn toward the table. Just as he was that Friday night at the Hotel Palace restaurant, Nula is once again astonished at the fragility that radiates from Leonor’s body, from her arms and legs, scrawny and blackened by the sun and by tanning lamps, from her face, ravaged, along with her chest and buttocks, in all likelihood, by surgeries as useless as they have been recurrent, from her reddish dyed hair, from her upper lip, swollen from an injection of silicone; her skeletal fingers, almost as black, are covered with rings, her wrists with bracelets, and several fantasy necklaces attempt to conceal the recalcitrant wrinkles on her neck. And yet, despite the impression of fragility, Leonor moves with a litheness that suggests an indifference to her surroundings, and when they reach the pavilion, her free hand (in her other hand she carries a white purse that matches her white dress and her white, high-heeled sandals, made of chunky jute, and knotted around her ankles) lifts to her head to straighten her hair, and she offers a distant smile when Gutiérrez, raising his voice, presents her to his guests:
— For those who don’t know her, Mrs. Leonor Calcagno! and he makes a quick and vaguely circular gesture with which he attempts to encompass the large, rectangular table. The others offer a variety of conventional responses that no one hears because, in being spoken all at once, they annihilate each other. Amalia, who is sitting at the end of the table closest to the house, starts to get up, but Gutiérrez, shaking his head, tells her with a friendly look that it’s not necessary. The two empty chairs are just to the left of Amalia, and Gutiérrez invites Leonor to sit next to her, while he occupies the other empty chair. Marcos and Clara Rosemberg are sitting across from them; Marcos leans over the table, standing up slightly from his chair, and, grabbing Leonor’s free hand, gives it a quick squeeze. Next to Clara is Soldi, who’s sitting next to Gabriela, who’s next to José Carlos, who’s next to Violeta. The opposite end of the table, at the back of the pavilion, is occupied by Tomatis, who’s to the left of Lucía, who’s next to Riera, who’s next to Diana, who’s next to Nula, who’s next to Gutiérrez, who’s next to Leonor. The only one standing is Faustino, next to the grill, tending the meat and the offal that are browning over the fire, and on a tiled side table that extends from the grill, which is separated from the coals and the reserve fire by a short wall, he has a plate already prepared, a dish of salad that Amalia brought him, and a half-full glass of white wine. Suddenly, with a long fork in one hand and a substantial knife in the other, he turns, his face flushed and his graying beard matted with sweat, and, in a solemn and professional tone, whose irony is not lost on any of the guests, he asks:
— Ready, don Willi? Shall we proceed?
Half standing up, with parodic gravity, offering a gesture of consent, Gutiérrez responds:
— You may proceed, don Faustino.
Electrified by the mini-farce they have just attended, the audience breaks into applause. (Diana clinks her metal fork against the edge of her plate and Leonor Calcagno merely hints at a few silent claps with her bony hands that resemble little blackbirds’ feet.) Browning on top of the generously proportioned, and for now, entirely covered grilling surface, are strings of chorizo and blood sausage, equally crisp spirals and tubes of chitterlings and tripe, golden clusters of whole sweetbreads, split kidneys protected by their own grease, and three long and wide strips of ribs, which have already been cooked on low heat on the bone side, display it now while the meat receives its share of the fire in order to reach the proper level of doneness. Given that their passage over the fire is a simple formality, the blood sausage is the first thing served, followed by the chorizos, and Faustino cuts a number of each on a dish, with the number of guests in mind — fifteen including himself — and then passes the dish to them, starting with Violeta, the one closest to the grill, while those sitting nearby take the opportunity to serve themselves as well. One inconsistent detail in the bountiful table calls Soldi’s attention: the asceticism of the salads. Being in love with celery, grated carrots, radishes, and beets, he’s intrigued that at the table of Gutiérrez, with such an imposing cookout, there’re only two kinds of salads that, while certainly of an abundant quantity, are unquestionably monotonous: mixed greens and chicory with a dash of chopped garlic. And suddenly he realizes that it reveals a conservative purism on Gutiérrez’s part, a bookish purism to which even the two classic salads might seem like a concession, because he considers the colorful plethora of complex salads an urban corruption that betrays the original asceticism of the cookout. He seeks an imaginary perfection in everything, not realizing that the myths he yearned for over those thirty years had changed, eroded by contingency, while he was away, Soldi tells himself.
The first minutes of the lunch, with the exception of a few approving comments meant to bolster the satisfaction of the cook, transpire in silence. Gutiérrez, chewing a bite of food, stands up suddenly and walks to the small room attached to the pavilion, where the gardening supplies along with every species of tool and maintenance product are kept. From where he’s sitting, Nula sees through the open door that it also contains a small, supplementary fridge meant to prevent unnecessary trips to the house, from which Gutiérrez removes a few bottles, with which he returns to the table; they’re three bottles of cabernet sauvignon that he himself sold Gutiérrez, and that he put to cool, already uncorked, in the fridge. Gutiérrez distributes them around the table and sits back down between Nula and Leonor.
— Red! Just what I’d been missing! Violeta declaims, adopting a masculine and undeniably vulgar tone, making three or four people laugh or smile, Clara Rosemberg among them, unless her smile has been caused by some intimate stimulus, memory, or association. Violeta matches her words with actions and immediately throws back the rest of the white wine that was in her glass and, grabbing a bottle of red, serves herself generously. Then she puts down the bottle, picks up the glass, and tastes the wine.