Each family takes the opportunity to share lies that the other will then enthusiastically pretend to believe. The Almadas complain of the vices of servants they no longer have, discuss the rents of properties they’ve already sold, and laboriously reestablish businesses that have long since fallen into ruin or oblivion. They also mention, in passing, the prospect of a trip to Europe. A summer in seaside towns and jaunts down the Crimean coast, which is as far removed from their financial possibilities as the European continent is from Peru. As for the Rodríguezes, they speak at length of their illustrious dead — that is, they spin lies as fast as they can. They choose a few sonorous names, dole out a few honors and achievements among them, and then describe them with an affection and generosity that transcend the centuries. Did you know that Carlos’s great-grandfather’s grandfather’s great-great-grandfather — on the maternal side — was a count in a city you’ve no doubt never heard of? Or that he is descended from a particular Frenchman who was a general during the revolutions? The Almadas have not heard all that. Or yes, actually, now that she thinks about it, Señora Almada seems to recall having heard of the Marquis Rodríguez y Rodríguez, decorated by Emperor Charles V himself after the Battle of Mühlberg.
At some point the conversation returns to reality — that is, to the front page of the newspapers. Don Augusto mentions the end of the dockworkers’ strike, and Señor Almada nods and says that the problem in the United States of America is the workers. Those anarchists need to be taught a lesson, shown a firm hand, but most certainly not condemned to death, he adds, because as everyone knows, the gallows creates martyrs — take the strikers in Chicago, for instance — and they even created a Labor Day, as if they didn’t already have all those Sundays for resting. For her part, Señora Almada agrees with her husband on the fundamentals and confesses that while some of them are no doubt good people, she wouldn’t say otherwise, nevertheless one might prefer to cross the street when encountering a laborer on the sidewalk. As for Señora Rodríguez, she finds it ludicrous to compromise the health of one’s soul in a quest for earthly riches, which are ultimately fleeting, when everyone knows that when Judgment Day comes, rich and poor will be equal, God willing, which He will be. Finally, Don Augusto smooths his mustache and notes that the matter bears careful consideration, which is what he always says to resolve any debate in which he’s not quite sure what his interlocutor wants to hear.
Carlos suddenly interrupts. He has not spoken yet, which may be why his words sound unexpectedly brusque. He does not know, he says, whether the gallows creates martyrs or not; whether laborers are better people when viewed from the opposite sidewalk; whether it is or is not God’s will for His creatures to be able to eat. But there is no doubt that the dockworkers are first and foremost human beings, that at least they bleed as if they were — because he has seen that blood, their blood, pooling on the ground under their heads — and as far as he knows they eat too. Although, given that they earn about two soles a day, they certainly don’t eat very much. Because does anyone know how much it costs to buy a piece of bread? Well, according to his calculations it’s half a sol, which means four pieces of bread a day per family; four crusts of bread and not even a sip of that delicious hot chocolate they’re drinking, which by the way costs three soles an ounce.
Carlos breaks off, panting. He’s not quite sure why he’s said all that. The words don’t even sound like his own; it is as if Sandoval has spoken through his mouth for a moment. His first thought is that the books Sandoval lent him might be to blame, though to be honest he hasn’t understood much of them, and so in that sense Marx’s Das Kapital isn’t all that different from Carlos’s textbook on canon law. Nor is it due to the memory of the workers and their wives collapsing on the paving stones in the port, however tempting it is to believe otherwise. No, if he’s honest with himself, he has to admit that he simply wants to irritate the guests. To shred the fabric of the wedding that will never be celebrated, not if he has anything to do with it, even if the Almadas will have to go beg at the door of the San Juan Bautista Church, even if the Rodríguezes are obliged to do without coats of arms and continue to stink of rubber and paraffin.
For a moment, the Almadas do not react. His mother breaks in to dispel the severity of the commentary; she smiles and says that her son must still be somewhat agitated after a certain unpleasant incident at the port from which he still has a number of visible wounds, look, look, there on the poor boy’s face. Don Augusto clears his throat and says that of course that position too bears quite careful consideration. And then there’s Señor Almada, who, rather than being offended, bursts out laughing.
“You sound just like my daughter,” he says, oddly jovial. “You know, dear Elizabeth has her head crammed full of these fashionable ideas about workers’ rights and aid for the needy. It’s clear from a mile off that you share those noble views, my dear Carlos. Maybe you’ve even been influenced by those Russian and German philosophers that young people are so wild about these days. Ah, we’re getting old, Augusto, don’t you think? We’re all dried up and no longer understand the passions of our children — and they in turn do not understand that time and God always settle everything back into its proper place, always. But they have good hearts, I say, first-rate hearts. My daughter is such a kind soul that she even helps out at the orphanages and with the Public Beneficence Society — don’t pull that face, my dear, I’m only telling these gentlemen the purest truth. In fact, on some afternoons we hold gatherings at our home to discuss politics with family friends, and Elizabeth uses those occasions to take up collections for the needy. You should bring a friend and come along to one of those meetings, Carlos — it’s not often that one meets a young person so passionate about social justice.”
It is perhaps peculiar to see Señor Almada, a sworn enemy of workers’ demands, applauding words like the ones Carlos has just uttered. Yet in his way he is just as Marxist as the revolutionaries, and so there is really no contradiction. After all, only a true materialist would sacrifice his convictions — which cannot be measured or weighed and therefore are not real — to promote an advantageous marriage. And so, in praising a young man’s tirade that he in fact despises, he rises, in terms of praxis, to the level of Karl Marx himself.
Everyone looks at Carlos expectantly. His parents, the Almadas, the maid who has come in to gather up the wineglasses. Even the plump younger sister who doesn’t understand a word of Spanish. But the most intent gaze is Elizabeth’s. Carlos turns to her, and their eyes meet for the first time. Elizabeth, who for some reason doesn’t seem interested in the drapes, or the etchings, or the silverware. Elizabeth looking at him — only at him.
It would be a pleasure, of course. And everybody smiles, and celebrates, and says my, how late it’s gotten, how time does fly. Thank you for everything, I’ve had a lovely afternoon, Madeleine will say as she leaves.
~ ~ ~
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His problem is women — or, rather, the lack of them. At least that’s José’s opinion on the matter, which he makes sure to reiterate at every opportunity. Carlos should forget all those fantasies about Georgina and her poems for a while and think a little about his own life. About those women all around him who are beautiful, and young, and exist outside of books, and yet do not interest him in the slightest. He doesn’t even talk about them, much less touch them. Yes — that’s the real problem, the only one; José knew it the first time he went to visit Carlos in his room during his long convalescence, when he sat down on the bed and the springs didn’t make any noise. What the hell is this, Carlota — a bed that doesn’t groan is one where there’s no screwing going on, and a body that doesn’t screw must inevitably house an ailing mind. Make your bed creak, and you’ll see how quickly it’ll pass, this obsession of yours with port-marooned letters. Mine screeches like a freight train or a factory sabotaged by Luddites. The servants don’t get any sleep even when I’m alone in bed; imagine what it’s like when I’ve got company.