Leopoldo Marechal - Adam Buenosayres

Gertrudis was about to push her line of argument further, when someone began to wail in the next room. So heart-rending was the lament that even the Crones stopped praying for a moment to exchange a significant gaze. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law sharpened their ears.

— It’s Márgara, whispered Dolores after a bit. She’s having another fit.

— Must be about the fifth one, Gertrudis groused malevolently.

— Pure histrionics, said Leonor.

The three listened again, for a hoarse voice could now be heard in the adjoining room.

— Not Doña Tecla? asked Dolores apprehensively.

— Who else? said Gertrudis. The old witch wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

— Shhh! warned Leonor, fearful.

Dolores and Gertrudis heeded her invitation to prudence.

— She’s latched onto Márgara like a bedbug, Dolores observed in a low voice.

— It’s her own fault, murmured Gertrudis. Who the heck sent her out to the old crone’s shack? What was she doing there, anyways?

— I don’t know, Dolores insinuated. Probably looking for some herb or potion. If you know what I mean. She was dying to get married, don’t you know?

— Hmm! assented Gertrudis with some reserve. I wouldn’t stake my life on it.

But Leonor knew the score, and she announced in a wisp of a voice:

— Márgara went to Doña Tecla’s shack for a cure to get her old man off the booze.

— Tell that to my tea kettle! exclaimed Gertrudis, patting herself on the behind.

— She told me so herself, Leonor insisted. She was supposed to put it in his wine, some disgusting thing or other that came from a mouse. Márgara couldn’t go through with it.

Dolores and Gertrudis displayed withering skepticism.

— So how come the old crone won her over? asked Dolores. Everybody knows they’re thick as thieves now.

— Doña Tecla is curing Márgara, said Leonor, hesitant now. Her chest pains…

— Tell that to my tea kettle! Gertrudis exclaimed again.

— And what a treatment! Dolores observed. Cutting open a live pigeon and applying it to her breast like a poultice, imagine that!

— And that’s not all, Leonor hinted.

— What else? asked Dolores and Gertrudis, feigning indifference.

— The crone had three toads fetched. She told Márgara to spit in their mouths, then hang them from the fig tree. If they died after three nights, she’d be cured.

— Did they die? inquired Gertrudis, her interest piqued.

But Leonor had no chance to answer: the groans from the other room intensified abruptly, becoming long and deep like the bellowing of a calf having its throat cut. Immediately, urgent voices resounded and hurried footsteps clattered. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law knew right away that Márgara had embarked on her great scene. A delicious shiver ran down their spines. Then they stood up in unison and, more thoroughly swaddled than ever in their grieving shawls, they made for the door. It opened noiselessly before them. The three old women turned their wonderfully identical faces to watch the sisters-in-law leave. Laid out full length in his coffin, the deceased Juan Robles journeyed on.

At first, the greedy eyes of the Three Necrophile Sisters registered only a scene of confusion dimly illuminated by a bedside lamp, its purple shade blocking more light than it diffused. Toward the margins of the tableau, the semi-darkness left faces and gestures indistinct; closer to the lamp, however, the drama’s central figures were vigorously etched by the indigo light. There, on a dishevelled cot, Márgara was struggling in the arms of the Neighbour Lady in Red and the Neighbour Lady in Blue, while Doña Tecla, phlegmatic, rubbed the girl’s temples with a handkerchief soaked in vinegar. Burly were the arms of the fat ladies in Red and in Blue, but Márgara was resisting furiously, a snarl of snaky curls lashing about her Medusa-like head. As she thrashed around, her face moved in and out of the violet light, revealing enormous pupils and chattering white teeth.

It was the horror of death, for she’d just glimpsed its abyss. It was the perplexity of finding herself at the dramatic centre of all those people’s attention. It was her amazement at her own incredible pain, as well as an inchoate pride at being the object of so many solicitous regards, so many soothing murmurs, so many kind hands reaching out to her. It was all that, and more: an obscure desire to live up to the greatness of that unique moment, to act it out in the fullness of gestures, to offer herself entirely as spectacle.

When Márgara caught sight of the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, she reached out to them with open arms, instantly provoking a sense of general expectancy. The Three Sisters-in-Law understood their cue to enter the stage. Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, they made their way to the cot and occupied the place respectfully vacated for them by the ladies in Red and in Blue.

— Aunty, aunty! sobbed Márgara as Gertrudis hugged her.

— There, there, Gertrudis’s voice purred affectionately. Calm down, my child, calm down.

Dolores and Leonor dabbed their eyes with a hanky. A buzz of excitement rippled through the circle of onlookers hanging back among the shadows as they lapped up every last detail of the scene.

— They are the aunts, intoned the chorus.

— The aunts?

— That’s right, the aunts.

— What aunts?

— Aunts.

The chorus fell silent, for Márgara was once again braiding the thread of her psalmodic lament.

— Poor old man! she chanted quietly. How come he left us, aunty? How come? And what a way to go! Suffering right up till the end. What did he do in this world that God had to punish him so? Poor dear man, poor dear!

— Patience, Márgara, murmured the Neighbour Lady in Red.

But Márgara didn’t even hear her.

— All night long he was moaning in misery, she chanted. I’ll never be able to forget it. Never! Those cries of distress will be in my ears forever and ever!

She beat her ears with both fists and shook the snakes of her Gorgonian head. The Three Sisters-in-Law again made use of their grieving hankies; meanwhile, the chorus rustled in the shadows, not speaking, but now tense as a bowstring. The Neighbour Lady in Red caressed Márgara’s hair and insisted:

— Patience, Márgara. You’ll find peace eventually. This too shall pass. It’s all a matter of time.

Márgara gave her a ferocious look, as though mortally offended by the suggestion that her pain might not be eternal.

— Never! she protested after a bit. Obviously, lady, you’ve never had to suffer like me!

— But my child! exclaimed the Lady in Red. I’ve done my share of grieving, too; I know what it’s like. Don’t kid yourself, Márgara. You’ll get over it.

— No, I won’t! shouted Márgara, totally obstinate.

— Yes, you will! screeched the Neighbour Lady in Red. She was getting right ticked off now. Did the stupid little twit think she was only one in the world to ever have somebody die on her? And if it was a question of tallying up the deaths in one’s family, why, the Neighbour Lady in Red was ready to lay a whole cemetery’s worth on the table.

Márgara, however, began to kick and thrash like crazy. The chorus made noises of protest.

— Don’t contradict her.

— Let her get it out of her system.

— The one in Red is handling this wrong.

— No, she’s right, she’s talking reason.

— The girl’s in no state to hear reason right now!

— That’s right! Of course!

Márgara didn’t kick and thrash for long. In the purple lamplight, her tense face began to relax until she seemed subdued and thoughtful. Suddenly, an irrepressible smile came to her lips. Ooh, aah! The neighbour ladies smiled in amazement, and the chorus smiled in the shadows. Ooh, aah! What was this? Márgara, smiling and sobbing, told them: just before he died, the great Robles, referring to the young doctor in attendance who happened to be in the other room, had winked at Márgara and said: “Looks like that lad finds you attractive. Make the most of it, sweetie!”