"I have no idea, dear. I think I'll make some mole and then go to bed early. This isn't exactly a year for celebrations, is it?"
Mrs. Font looked at me and started to laugh. I think the woman isn't quite right in the head. Then the bell rang insistently and Mrs. Font, after standing there waiting for a few seconds, asked me to go see who it was. As I passed the living room I saw Quim and Laura Damián's father, each with a glass in his hand, sitting together on the sofa watching another TV show. The visitor at the door was one of the peasant poets. I think he was drunk. He asked me where Mrs. Font was and then he went straight out to the courtyard, where she stood amid her wreaths and little paper Mexican flags, avoiding the sad spectacle presented by Quim and Laura Damián's father. I went up to Jorgito's room and from there I saw the peasant poet clapping his hands to his head.
And yet there were many phone calls. First some woman named Lorena, an ex-visceral realist, called to invite María and Angélica to a New Year's Eve party. Then a poet from the Paz camp called. Then a dancer named Rodolfo called wanting to speak to María, but she refused to come to the phone and begged me to tell him that she wasn't home, which I did mechanically, taking no pleasure in it, as if I were beyond jealousy now (which if true would be amazing, since jealousy does no one any good). Then the head architect from Quim's studio called. Surprisingly, after talking to Quim, he wanted to speak to Angélica. When Quim asked me to call Angélica to the phone there were tears in his eyes and as Angélica talked, or rather listened, he told me that writing poetry was the most beautiful thing anyone could do on this godforsaken earth. Those were his exact words. Not wanting to contradict him, I agreed (I think I said "right on, Quim," a moronic reply any way you look at it). Then I spent a while at the girls' little house, talking to María and Lupe or rather listening to them talk as I wondered when and how the pimp's siege would end.
As for fucking Lupe last night, the whole thing's still shrouded in mystery, although I can honestly say it's been forever since I had such a great time. At one in the afternoon there was a semblance of lunch: first Jorgito, María, Lupe, and I ate, then at one-thirty Mrs. Font, Quim, Laura Damián's father, the peasant poet, and Angélica ate. As I was washing dishes I heard the peasant poet threatening to go out and confront Alberto, only to be warned against it by Mrs. Font, who said: Julio, don't be a fool. Then we all gathered for dessert in the living room.
That afternoon I showered.
My body was covered in bruises but I didn't know who'd given them to me, whether it was Rosario or Lupe. In any case it hadn't been María, and strangely enough that hurt, although the pain was far from unbearable, as it had been when I first met her. On my chest, just under my left nipple, I have a bruise the size of a plum. On my collarbone there are scratches like tiny comet trails. I discovered some marks on my shoulders too.
When I came out everyone was having coffee in the kitchen, some sitting and others standing. María had asked Lupe to tell the story of the whore Alberto almost choked to death with his cock. Every once in a while someone would interrupt Lupe's story and say my God, or what animals, and a female voice (Mrs. Font's or Angélica's) even said can you believe it, as Quim was saying to Laura Damián's father: you see the kind of person we have to deal with.
At four the peasant poet left, and soon afterward Mrs. Font's sister appeared. Dinner preparations shifted into high gear.
Between five and six there was a flurry of phone calls from people saying they couldn't make it to dinner and at six-thirty Mrs. Font said that she'd had enough, started to cry, and went upstairs to her bedroom, closing the door.
At seven Mrs. Font's sister, with María and Lupe's help, set the table and put the finishing touches on the dinner. But a few ingredients were missing and she went out to get them. Before she left Quim called her into his study for a few seconds. When she came out she had an envelope in her hand, with money in it, I guess, and from inside the study I heard Mr. Font tell her that she should put the envelope in her bag, because otherwise there was a risk it would be stolen by the occupants of the Camaro, a suggestion Mrs. Font's sister seemed to ignore at first, but as she opened the front door and left, she followed his advice. As an additional safety measure, Jorgito and I walked her to the gate. The Camaro was still there, but the occupants didn't even move when Mrs. Font's sister went by, heading toward Calle Cuernavaca.
At nine we sat down to dinner. Most of the guests had made their excuses and the only people who showed up were an older lady, a cousin of Quim's, I think; a tall, thin man who was introduced as an architect, or ex-architect, as he himself hastened to point out; and two painters who had no idea what was going on. Mrs. Font emerged from her room dressed to the nines and accompanied by her sister, who after returning had spent the final moments helping her dress, as if taking charge of dinner hadn't been enough. Lupe, who was becoming increasingly prickly as the new year approached, said that she had no right to have dinner with us and would eat in the kitchen, but María firmly refused to let her and finally (after an argument that to be honest I didn't understand) she ended up sitting at the table with everyone else.
Dinner got off to an unusual start.
Quim rose and said that he wanted to give a toast. I guessed that it would be a toast to his wife, who under the circumstances had demonstrated incredible fortitude, but it was a toast to me! He spoke of my youth and my poems, he recalled my friendship with his daughters (when he said this he stared at Laura Damián's father, who nodded) and my friendship with him, our conversations, our unexpected encounters on the streets of Mexico City, and bringing his speech to a close-it was actually short but to me it seemed to go on forever-he asked me, now addressing me directly, not to judge him too harshly when I grew up and became a responsible adult citizen. When he stopped talking, I was red with embarrassment. María, Angélica, and Lupe clapped. The clueless painters clapped too. Jorgito crawled under the table and no one seemed to notice. When I snuck a glance at Mrs. Font, she looked as mortified as I was.
Despite this lively beginning, the New Year's Eve dinner was sad and silent. Mrs. Font and her sister busied themselves with serving; María hardly touched her food; Angélica sank into a silence more languid than sullen; Quim and Laura Damián's father generally kept to themselves, though they paid some attention to the architect, who spent the evening gently scolding Quim; the two painters only talked to each other and every once in a while to Laura Damián's father (it seemed he also collected art); and María and Lupe, who at the beginning of dinner had seemed the most inclined to have a good time, got up to help serve and finally disappeared into the kitchen. Sic transit gloria mundi, Quim said to me from the other end of the table.
Then someone rang the doorbell and we all jumped. María and Lupe looked in from the kitchen.
"Someone get the door," said Quim, but no one moved.
I was the one to get up.
The garden was dark and through the gate I could see two figures. I thought it must be Alberto and his policeman friend. I felt an irrational desire to fight and I headed purposefully toward them. When I got a little closer, however, I realized that it was Ulises Lima and Arturo Belano. They didn't say why they'd come. They weren't surprised to see me. I remember thinking: we're saved!
There was more than enough food, and Ulises and Arturo were seated at the table and Mrs. Font served them dinner while the rest of us had dessert or talked. When they were done eating, Quim took them into his study. Laura Damián's father soon followed.
A little while later Quim looked out the half-open door and called for Lupe. Those of us in the living room looked as if we were at a funeral. María asked me to come with her to the courtyard. She talked to me for what seemed like a long time but couldn't have been more than five minutes. This is a trap, she said. Then the two of us went into her father's study.