The Góngoras started chatting to him. Everything entered Varamo’s consciousness with a liquid fluency: some pieces of information were absorbed in a linear and orderly fashion, while others were twisted, folded, knobbled, but they all slipped in with the same baroque lubrication, which made him suspect that they would slip out just as easily. There were only two Góngoras, it turned out, two sisters in their sixties: solidly built, well-preserved, dark-skinned Creole ladies. They laughed in response to his discreet inquiry: No, their mothers or grandmothers had never lived there, just them. And they didn’t have daughters either. “We didn’t get married because we were quite happy together, just the two of us,” said one. The other nodded, and the one who had spoken glanced at her, then said to Varamo: “My sister lost a leg in an accident,” which might have been another reason why they hadn’t married; and perhaps it explained their reclusive life, and all the ambiguous rumors about them. “It’s not that we never see anyone else,” pointed out the one-legged sister. And together they praised the fidelity of numerous old friends who continued to visit them: “Why, just last night we had a little gathering; we were chatting and listening to music till dawn.” And sure enough, there were many signs of a lengthy party: ashtrays overflowing with butts, dirty glasses, and the remains of sandwiches on plates. “Do you do all the housework on your own?” asked Varamo. They had a maid, they said, but she was more like a member of the family, a daughter: Carmen Luna. “But you’d know her by her nickname: Caricias.” No, the name meant nothing to Varamo. They were surprised but said he’d recognize her when she came back. “We got her out of bed, poor thing,” one of the sisters added, tilting her head in the direction of the dining room, “to go and bring in all those people.” The other one insisted, looking intently at Varamo: “You used to play with her when you were children.” “I don’t remember. Are you sure you’re not getting me mixed up with someone else?” “No! Truly!” they exclaimed in unison. “You’re the son of that nice Chinese lady.” “We knew your father, Tuñon de Varamo, and your aunt Ilolay.” To complete these revelations, they added: “We thought you’d have kept up with Carmen’s news, because she’s engaged to your friend Cigarro.” At this point Varamo did remember something, though probably not what the Góngoras had in mind. Although Cigarro wasn’t really his friend, they used to exchange a few words outside the Ministry, and on a number of occasions the driver had referred to a woman who was, so he said, “the last woman,” and he had mentioned the name Caricias. Varamo had never given any serious thought to what he might have meant. The expression seemed rather derogatory (if it meant the last one he’d picked up), but perhaps it could also mean “the last real woman”; and in a way her nickname, Caricias, Caresses, supported that interpretation.
The interest the sisters were taking in him, and the conversation as a whole, began to make sense in the light of his supposed friendship with the driver. After expressing their concern for the future well-being of their maid and adopted daughter, they got to the point. Cigarro’s job, was it secure? Wouldn’t it be affected by the current political unrest? Varamo said that he wasn’t aware of any unrest, but whatever happened, he didn’t think that the fiancé’s position would be affected by changes of that kind. “When there’s a revolution, it’s the senior public servants who are replaced, not the drivers.” That’s what the Góngoras had thought as well, but they were worried for another reason, which they proceeded to explain, choosing their words with care. What they couldn’t understand was how there could be ministries in the city of Colón, although it wasn’t the national capital. Maybe they were provincial or municipal or regional ministries? “No, they’re national,” said Varamo without hesitation. They nodded. That was what they had always thought, what they had always assumed: the ministries were the ministries of Panama. But who had ever heard of an executive government with its ministries based outside the national capital? They weren’t talking about a satellite city that was bound to be swallowed up by urban sprawl eventually and become part of the same agglomeration. No, Colón was on the opposite coast, separated from the capital by the full width of the isthmus. They were speaking with an effusive fervor; they had clearly pondered this question at length. Varamo was at a loss for words; it had never occurred to him that there was anything odd about the situation. But he saw what they meant. Once again he was struck by how the inexplicable can lie hidden within what we have always taken for granted. Noting his ignorance and his interest, the two ladies set out the hypothesis that they had developed in the course of their cogitations: Colón must have been a capital of sorts twenty years earlier, before independence, or even before the establishment of the Colombian Republic. In any case, it must have possessed a ministerial system that would have been onerous and inconvenient to transfer to the new capital; but, of course, having the ministries so far away was even more inconvenient, so there must be a plan afoot to move them to their natural place. It was hardly surprising that nothing had been done to implement the plan in two long decades, given the country’s general inefficiency. But sooner or later it would happen; in fact, these long-delayed initiatives provided an easy way for politicians to boost their popularity and appear to be dynamic men of action. The opening of the linked highways from one coast to the other, which was to be celebrated in the coming days, could be a logical first step. They looked at him again, expectantly. He didn’t know what to say: the problem seemed both very far away and very near. Far away like all those things we have never really stopped to think about; near like the very same things as soon as we begin to consider them and realize how they affect us. If there was a relocation, he might be obliged to choose between moving and resigning. He had never left Colón, the city of his birth, and moving away was out of the question, for his mother if not for him. But he couldn’t survive for long without a job. In any case, faced with the sisters, he could only confess his ignorance and promise to look into it. They nodded and said they would stay in touch: “After all, we’re neighbors.” Their interest in the matter was purely altruistic or maternaclass="underline" they wanted to make sure that their ward’s future husband had a good, steady income. They didn’t mind that he was black. And they couldn’t have been aware (oddly, for ladies who seemed so worldly-wise) that he had a number of lucrative sidelines.
In the ensuing conversation, which was more relaxed, it became clear that the sisters were practical women, with sound business sense. This emerged in a rather indirect way. There were noises outside, and the Góngoras reacted: they went to their rooms, first one, then the other (they took turns so as not to leave Varamo unaccompanied), and came back with powdered faces, brushed hair, and wearing jewelry. “Well, it looks like we have a little get-together on our hands,” they remarked, then added, with the smiling poise of true sophisticates, “Unplanned parties are always the most fun.” For them, to spend the night entertaining was the most natural thing in the world. Their only complaint was that they had been caught with “everything in a mess.” Varamo reassured them politely, but a second look around revealed that the place really was a shambles. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was giving him that impression of chaos. . But then, all of a sudden, he realized: it was the golf clubs all around the room, in expensive leather bags that were propped against the walls and the furniture, or just lying around. In fact, there was one under the table, and Varamo picked it up out of idle curiosity (he had never handled a golf club before). The sisters sighed: “When Carmencita comes back, we’ll get her to tidy up a bit.” Showing them the club, Varamo said: “Do you. . play?” No, they had never played and had no intention of doing so. They didn’t even know the rules of the game, although the terminology had rubbed off on them over years of dealing with golf enthusiasts. They sold the clubs. Apparently they had decided to confide in him; they told him the whole story, but perhaps they would have told anyone who happened to visit them. Or maybe they wanted to show that the malicious rumors were unfounded: they were business women, who earned their living respectably (although they did admit, in an aside, that the name of one kind of club — putter, which sounded unfortunately like whore in Spanish — might have accounted for some of the slurs).