“It makes me feel strange to ask you this, Armida,” said Lucrecia, lowering her voice a great deal. “But I can’t help myself, curiosity is killing me. Do you mean that before you got married there was nothing going on between you?”
Armida burst into laughter, raising her hands to her face.
“After I said yes, there was,” she said, blushing and laughing. “Of course there was. Señor Ismael was still a real man in spite of his age.”
Lucrecia started to laugh too.
“I don’t need you to tell me anything else, Armida,” she said hugging her. “Oh, how funny it is that things happened like this. What a shame he died.”
“I still don’t buy that the hyenas have lost their fangs,” said Rigoberto. “That they’ve become so tame.”
“I don’t believe that either. They’re not fighting because they’re probably plotting something awful,” replied Lucrecia. “Did Dr. Arnillas tell you what Armida’s arrangement with them is?”
Rigoberto shook his head.
“I didn’t ask him,” he answered, shrugging. “But there’s no doubt they surrendered. If not, they wouldn’t have withdrawn all their demands. She must have given them a good amount to subdue them like this. Or maybe not. Maybe that pair of idiots finally were convinced that if they continued fighting, they’d die old men without seeing a cent of the inheritance. The truth is, I don’t give a damn. I don’t want us to talk about those two villains for the next month, Lucrecia. During these four weeks let everything be clean, beautiful, pleasing, stimulating. The hyenas have no place in any of that.”
“I promise I won’t mention them again,” Lucrecia said with a laugh. “Just one last question. Do you know what happened to them?”
“They must have gone to Miami to spend the money they got out of Armida on one long binge, where else,” said Rigoberto. “Ah, but that’s right, they can’t go there because Miki was involved in that hit-and-run. Though maybe the statute of limitations is up on that. And now yes, the twins have vanished, disappeared, never existed. Let’s not talk about them again. Hello, Fonchito!”
The boy was already dressed for the trip, he even had his suit jacket on.
“How elegant, my God,” Doña Lucrecia welcomed him, giving him a kiss. “Your breakfast is all ready. I’ll leave you two, it’s getting late, I’d better hurry if you want to leave at nine sharp.”
“Are you looking forward to our trip?” Don Rigoberto asked his son when they were alone.
“Yes, a lot, Papa. I’ve heard you talk so much about Europe for as long as I can remember that I’ve dreamed about going there for years.”
“It’ll be a nice experience, you’ll see,” said Don Rigoberto. “I’ve planned everything very carefully so you’ll see the best things in old Europe and avoid everything ugly. In a sense, this trip will be my masterpiece. The one I didn’t paint, or compose, or write, Fonchito, but that you’ll live.”
“It’s never too late for that,” the boy replied. “You have plenty of time, you can do what you really like. You’re retired now and have all the freedom in the world.”
Another uncomfortable observation he didn’t know how to elude. He stood up, saying he was going to give his carry-on one final check.
Narciso appeared at nine on the dot, just as Don Rigoberto had asked. The station wagon he was driving, a late-model Toyota, was navy blue, and Ismael Carrera’s old driver had hung a colored picture of the Blessed Melchorita from the rearview mirror. Of course, they had to wait some time for Doña Lucrecia to come out. When she said goodbye to Justiniana it was with unending embraces and kisses, and Don Rigoberto saw with a start that their lips were brushing. But Fonchito and Narciso didn’t notice. When the station wagon drove down Quebrada de Armendáriz and took Costa Verde in the direction of the airport, Don Rigoberto asked Narciso how things were going in his new job at the insurance company.
“Terrific,” said Narciso, showing white teeth as he smiled from ear to ear. “I thought Señora Armida’s recommendation wouldn’t mean much to the new owners, but I was wrong. They’ve been treating me very well. The manager met me in person, can you imagine. A very perfumed Italian gentleman. But I can’t tell you how I felt when I saw him in the office that had been yours, Don Rigoberto.”
“Better him than Escobita or Miki, don’t you think?” Don Rigoberto guffawed.
“That’s right, no doubt about it. You bet!”
“And what’s your job, Narciso? The manager’s driver?”
“Mainly. When he doesn’t need me, I drive people from all over the company, I mean, the bosses.” He looked happy, sure of himself. “Sometimes he also sends me to customs, to the post office, to banks. Hard work, but I can’t complain, they pay me good money. And thanks to Señora Armida, now I have my own car. The truth is, that’s something I never thought I’d have.”
“She gave you a nice present, Narciso,” remarked Doña Lucrecia. “Your station wagon is beautiful.”
“Armida always had a heart of gold,” the driver agreed. “I mean, Señora Armida.”
“It was the least she could do for you,” declared Don Rigoberto. “You behaved very well with her and Ismael. You agreed to be a witness to their marriage, knowing what you were exposing yourself to, and above all, you didn’t let yourself be bought or intimidated by the hyenas. It’s only right that she gave you this gift.”
“This station wagon isn’t a gift, it’s a gift and a half, señor.”
The Jorge Chávez Airport was crowded and the line at Iberia very long. But Rigoberto didn’t become impatient. He’d gone through so much anguish these last few months, what with police and judicial appointments, the blocking of his retirement, the headaches Fonchito had given them with Edilberto Torres, how could he care about waiting in a line for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, or however long it took, if it was all behind him and tomorrow afternoon he’d be in Madrid with his wife and son. Impulsively he put his arms over the shoulders of Lucrecia and Fonchito and announced, brimming over with enthusiasm, “Tomorrow night we’ll eat at the best and nicest restaurant in Madrid. Casa Lucio! Their ham and eggs with fried potatoes is an incomparable delicacy.”
“Eggs and fried potatoes, a delicacy, Papa?” Fonchito said mockingly.
“Go ahead and laugh, but I assure you that no matter how simple it may seem, at Casa Lucio they’ve turned the dish into a work of art, something exquisite that makes your mouth water.”
And at that very moment he saw, a few meters away, a curious couple he thought he knew. They couldn’t have been more mismatched or anomalous. She, a stout, tall woman, with very plump cheeks, submerged in a kind of unbleached tunic that hung down to her ankles, and wrapped in a bulky green sweater. But the strangest thing was the absurd, flat little hat and veil that gave her a cartoonish air. The man, on the other hand, slim, small, feeble-looking, seemed packed into a very tight pearl-gray suit and gaudy, bright blue vest. He too wore a hat, pulled down to the middle of his forehead. They had a provincial air, appeared lost and disconcerted in the midst of the crowd at the airport, and looked at everything with apprehension and suspicion. They seemed to have escaped from an expressionist work painted by Otto Dix or George Grosz of bizarre, mismatched people in 1920s Berlin.
“Ah, you’ve seen them too,” he heard Lucrecia say, indicating the couple. “It seems they’re also traveling to Spain. And in first class, imagine that!”