(1941: July 6)
He was on his way to the office. The chauffeur drove, and he read the newspaper. Traffic stopped; he raised his eyes. He saw the two ladies enter the shop. Squinting, he watched them, and then the car moved forward, and he went on reading the news about Sidi Barrani and El Alamein, looking at the photos of Rommel and Montgomery. The chauffeur was sweating in the blazing sun and could not turn on the radio to amuse himself; he concluded that going into business with the Colombian coffee growers when the war in Africa began had not been a bad idea, and the ladies walked into the shop and the young woman asked them please to sit down while she went to get the owner (because she knew who the two ladies were, the mother and the daughter, and the owner had ordered her to tell her when they came in). The young woman walked noiselessly on the rug to the back room, where the owner was leaning over her green-leather desk addressing invitations; she dropped the glasses that hung from a silver chain when the young woman walked in to tell her that the lady and her daughter were there. She sighed and side, "Of course, of course, of course, the big day is coming," and she thanked the young woman, neatened her violet-colored hair, pursed her lips, put out her mentholated cigarette. The two women were sitting in the showroom, not saying a word, until the owner appeared, and then the mother, who had strict notions about what was proper, pretended to be in the middle of a conversation which had never begun and said aloud, "…but what about that other style that looks much prettier. I don't know about you, but I'd take that one; really, it's very nice, very, very pretty." The young lady nodded in agreement, because she was used to those conversations her mother intended not for her but for the person who was now entering, who extended her hand to the daughter but not to the mother, whom she greeted with an enormous smile, her violet head cocked to one side. The daughter began to move over on the sofa so there would be room for the owner, but the mother stopped her with her eyes and a finger which she shook close to her bosom; the daughter stopped moving and stared pleasantly at the woman with dyed hair, who remained standing and asked if they had decided which style they preferred. The mother said no, not yet, they hadn't made up their minds, that's why they wanted to see all the styles again, because everything else depended on the style they chose, details like the color of the flowers, the bridesmaids' dresses, all that.
"I'm sorry to be such a bother, I wish I…"
"But, madam, that's why we're here. It's our pleasure to serve you."
"Well, we just want to be sure."
"But of course."
"We wouldn't want to make a mistake, and then at the last minute…"
"You're perfectly right. It's better to choose calmly and carefully, so that later…"
"That's right. We want to be sure."
"I'll just tell the girls to get ready."
Since they were alone again, the daughter stretched out her legs; her mother shot her an alarmed gaze and wiggled all her fingers at the same time because she could see her daughter's garters, and she also gestured for her to put some saliva on her left stocking; the daughter looked for and found the place where the silk was split and moistened her index finger with saliva and daubed the spot. "It's just that I'm a little sleepy," she quickly explained to her mother. The lady smiled and patted her daughter's hand as they sat on the pink-brocade sofa, not speaking until the daughter said she was hungry and the mother told her that afterwards they would go to Sanborn's and have something to eat, although she would only watch, she'd been putting on so much weight lately.
"At least you don't have to worry about that."
"Why not?"
"You've still got the figure of a young girl. But later on, be careful. On my side of the family, all the women have good figures when they're young, but after forty they start putting on weight."