Carlos Fuentes - Happy Families

Did Genara engage in this mental construct in order to acquit Augusta of an unhappy fate? She glanced at the oldest sister, and behind the hard facade, she guessed at a weakness disguised by the abrupt way Augusta had of distancing herself from emotion. Which was why it surprised and moved Genara when her sister emitted the echo of a sob. What do we expect of the unexpected? Are these actions sincere or calculated? Genara reflected: Augusta didn’t allow herself to be carried away because of emotion or love for their father but because of absence of faith. Have faith, have faith. It was the chorus of a single voice. If Julia’s modesty was pure hypocrisy, then Augusta’s bitter will was a weak comedy put on to defy the father and, paradoxically, refuse to assume the authority that was hers as firstborn. An excuse. An evasion. Telling the father that at least one of his daughters was rebellious, obstinate, and wicked. As if the father didn’t know how to see through filial farces and humiliate Augusta with the punishment of pity.

That is why Genara is languid and patient. That is why she persists in dressing in an old-fashioned way, with her hair rolled high like a dark tower and makeup typical of Joan Crawford in the 1940s. Mouth very wide and very red. Eyes very open. Brows somewhat skeptical. And an expression very etcetera, as their father would say. She would say “imposed,” because it was true. Genara felt like a caricature of another time and knew it was because her fiction had become her reality. Joan Crawford in the 1940s. Mildred Pierce. Despite the modesty of its owner, her black silk one-piece dress turned out to be provocative, striking. Genara wanted to provoke only sorrow and consolation.

It’s true: In the annual reunions, there was a latent desire for consolation. Let the three, so different among themselves, remember that in the end, they were sisters. Perhaps they were brought together, with dissimilar masks, by the unconfessed pride of being daughters of a man so original and so involved in their origins, their powerful and eternal father. They were proud. The proof was in their reluctance to offer consolation to one another. That was why Genara was patient. In the depths of her soul, she believed that at some point mercy would flower, the three would embrace — as in that fleeting instant when Augusta, so unlike herself, made an echo of her sorrow.

“Save us from all responsibility,” murmured Genara.

“What did you say?” Augusta was tense.

“Nothing, sister. It just occurred to me that since he isn’t with us, in reality we can do whatever we want.”

“You know very well why we can’t do what we want.”

“Why?”

“You know very well. It’s in the will. It’s our duty.”

“It’s greed.”

“Or risk.” Julia intervened for the first time. “Do you realize our lives would be at risk if we disobey? I mean, we don’t know the cost of disobedience—”

“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Genara interrupted. “We’ve done our duty for nine years.”

“That’s why it would be foolish to avoid it now without knowing what would have happened if—”

Augusta interrupted in a tone comparable to Julia’s: “Don’t be stupid. We’ve done what we had to do. Let’s not speculate on what would have happened if we had disobeyed Papa.”

“We still can disobey him,” Genara said slyly.

“Be quiet,” Augusta continued. “It no longer makes sense, since we did obey him. We’ve come to the point he asked us to reach.”

“And if we disobey him?” Genara insisted with childish perversity. “Just once?”

Julia did not hide her horror. She did not have to say anything to indicate the fear caused in her by the idea of having done their duty for nine years of obedience only to stop at the finish line, violate the promise, and be left forever without knowing the truth. She would have liked to scratch Genara, knock down her soaring hairdo of a film noir diva. Since that didn’t correspond to her personality — a personality constructed so meticulously — Julia cried instead, her head leaning against the coffin. Mercy was safer than the passivity of the modest Genara or the authoritarian hardness of the proud Augusta, both pale imitations of their father. Perhaps similar to what their mother was in life. She didn’t know. She hadn’t known Mama.

Still, when she thought this, Julia felt she was better than her sisters. Superior to them. And along with pride, there beat in Julia a kind of loss or personal mourning for having been condemned, when Papa died, to always wear mourning, unnecessary for those people — members of the orchestra, the conductor, the stagehands — who did not know who the violinist‘s father was and what obligations he had imposed on her. Julia had auditioned for the orchestra under a false name. Only she knew the rule imposed by Papa, which was why she could have worn her youthful clothes, the springtime prints, the low necklines, the daring two-piece bathing suits when she was invited to Agua Azul to swim.

And she didn’t. Why? Did she want to create mystery? Her colleagues in the orchestra did not dare to ask “Why do you always wear black?” and since black eventually became fashionable for women during those nine years and stopped being only a sign of mourning, no one said anything, and Julia let it be known that for her, even morning rehearsals were gala occasions. But she soon realized that her orchestra colleagues knew nothing about the existence of Julia’s papa, that she could be named Julia without attracting anyone’s attention.

Julia smiled sweetly at her sisters. “I’ve never doubted. Have you?”

Genara and Augusta observed her with indifference. Julia did not back down.

“Do you know something? I have faith. I’m not referring to the circumstances that bring us together today. Do you know what faith is? It’s believing without condition, independent of circumstances. Faith is understanding that facts don’t change the world. Faith moves everything. Faith is true even if it’s absurd.”

“Do you need to believe to live?” said Genara, suddenly enthralled by the primitive beauty, straight blond hair, blue eyes, bows on her head, clean hands, of the youngest sister. How well she trimmed her nails. How well she repeated the catechism. She seemed to be a saint.

“We can’t be good if we don’t believe,” replied Julia. “Without faith, we’d be cynics.”

“Faith can become blindness,” Augusta scoffed in all seriousness. “Cynicism is better.”

“No, no,” Julia pleaded. “It’s better for us to be credulous than cynical.” And resting her hand on Augusta’s shoulder: “Don’t be afraid.”

Augusta looked at her sister with contempt.

Genara looked at them with involuntary complicity.

“Don’t you think that Papa was basically a simple man and that we’re the complicated ones? Because if you think about it, Papa was something as simple as his smell of cologne.”

“He smelled of incense,” said an insolent Augusta.

“Tobacco,” Julia said with a smile.

“Sweat,” Augusta insisted. “He smelled of sour sweat.”

“He was a courteous, ceremonious man.” Julia blinked.

“Rigid, pretentious.” Augusta grimaced.

“Very hardworking?” Julia inquired.

“He made other people work and took advantage of them,” said a disagreeable Augusta.

“Just like you.” Genara simulated a joking little smile.

“Genara, don’t accuse your sister. It isn’t nice,” Julia intervened.

“Don’t worry.” Genara rested a hand on Julia’s shoulder, like a comrade. Julia moved away from Genara.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like—”

“You don’t like what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. What were you going to say?”