Evelio Rosero - Feast of the Innocents

“See you at my house this Friday, seven o’clock,” Doctor Proceso said, rounding off his invitation.

“The day after tomorrow, December thirtieth? Let’s wait one more day and we can bring in New Year together on the thirty-first.”

“Our New Year hug can be brought forward.”

So he fixed a meeting with Arcaín Chivo, better known as “the Philanthropist” thanks to his notorious stinginess, emeritus educator at the University of Nariño — friend or acquaintance? Whichever he was, the doctor needed a deputy he could count on for the whole fast-approaching carnival firestorm.

And he also considered the involvement of Monsignor Pedro Nel Montúfar, Bishop of Pasto, the “Wasp,” who despite being a priest was — he thought — an intelligent one at least, representative of ecclesiastical power, plus the involvement of Mayor Matías Serrano, the “One-Armed Man of Pasto”—not actually missing either arm — representative of civil power; both acquaintances of his since school — although that might not mean much, but he could rely on them, unlike Governor Nino Cántaro, the “Toad,” who had also been at the same school but might yet turn out to be an enemy, he thought, due not so much to his intelligence, but his irrational idiocy.

He called the mayor and the bishop and they accepted the invitation, more intrigued than happy about it: it was unusual that Doctor Justo Pastor Proceso López, gynaecologist-historian, should remember a living soul — what was he up to?

And he arrived at his finca in Sandoná after a tortuous journey along the unpaved road; he arrived after nightfall, making plans like dreams are made, battling with himself. He parked the Land Rover beside the other vehicles belonging to the guests; he could not see Primavera’s Volks-wagen, and this bothered him. He smelled the damp earth, the wet bark of the trees. As he approached the house, hands in pockets, absorbed expression, his shadow stooping between bushes and sheaves of wheat, hearing dogs barking without really listening to them, he seemed like a sombre stranger.

Primavera was not at the finca .

Genoveva Sinfín told him so, surrounded by a tumult of clowns and kids, among whom his daughter Floridita stood out, riding her Shetland pony.

“The señora went back to Pasto,” Sinfín explained. “She left word that she wanted to be alone and that you would look after things here till tomorrow.”

They were talking about fifty metres from the main entrance to the house, in the middle of a wood of eucalyptus trees. The windows were shining with a yellow light. Floridita did not even acknowledge him: when he wanted to say hello, she turned her head, irritated. He did not try going up to her, sensing only too keenly that she would run from him — but why? He did not know. What had he done? His seven-year-old daughter loathed him, possibly instructed by her mother; she was going back and forth on her pony, followed the whole time by the boy Chanchán and the gang of admiring children; when all was said and done, it was her birthday: she could do and not do whatever she liked.

“And Luz de Luna?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen her for ages,” answered the cook, after a guarded silence. “She must be around somewhere.”

She scratched her greying head; did she want to change the subject?

“I’m here, obliged to serve, as is right and proper,” she said. “I’ve got six girls helping me, but they’re on their knees. And to think this goes on till tomorrow, señor .”

The doctor greeted the steward, old and aloof, who was no doubt waiting his turn to put in his complaints. The strumming of various guitars could be heard in the house: twelve-string tiples , a mandolin. A woman was singing off key. Applause. Stamping on the wooden floor. It was Primavera’s family, the Pinzóns — the doctor sighed — who never missed a christening or wake in Pasto.

He paused halfway between the eucalyptus wood and the front door. More parked cars warned of a sizable gathering. He asked Sinfín to bring him a cup of coffee and headed for the opposite side of the house, where the swimming pool was, closely followed by the steward. He did not listen in detail to his complaints: he was asking for money to pay the farm labourers; the tractor needed a spare part that was impossible to get in Pasto, they would have to order it from Bogotá; somebody was stealing the fence posts; the sheep pen was empty of sheep one morning; some-one set fire to the pine trees, señor.

“Never mind, Seráfico, we’re going to sell all this,” the doctor said, coming to a halt. The old steward studied him in astonishment and stalked off to his cabin without saying goodbye: he was not just cursing, but also seemed to be sobbing — however, the doctor did not think it had anything to do with him.

He went to the swimming pool because the water liberated him; the pool was missing tiles and the water looked black: it was a black mirror he would lean out over before splintering it with his naked body. He wanted to take a dip, and then think about life. But now near the pool he heard voices and laughter. He drew back, hiding himself in the shrubbery, and saw how Matilde Pinzón, her husband, and various unknown couples amused themselves, lounging around the pool in bathing suits. They were smoking and drinking by the flickering glow of the fireflies. One of them dropped a bottle of aguardiente into the water. The doctor went back the way he came.

This business of the birthday party was a turnaround, he thought. He and Primavera agreed that just he and his daughters would sleep at the finca after the party. Had they really agreed that? And now, by the look of things, the party guests would stay the night, people he could not stand. Primavera should take care of her family, he thought, but he tried to understand her: perhaps she could not bear them either, and had fled to Pasto. He was the one who would have to look after them, by rights. No, no, he could not. He would go back to Pasto too, and make the most of it to get down on paper the relevant scenarios from the Independence, which the sculptor Arbeláez would have to bring to life in wood. The prospect of a peaceful night, working on his own interests, cheered Doctor Proceso up. He took his coffee from Sinfín.

“I’m going back to Pasto too,” he said. “Look after the girls, see they get to bed early, and you along with them. And if you want to throw these people out, do so, you have my permission, tell them I ordered you to.”

“What, Doctor? You’re not going in to greet the guests? You’re leaving just like that? Aren’t you taking the girls?”

“You know very well they won’t want to come with me.”

Sinfín’s mouth twisted in annoyance, but she quickly resigned herself: it was not the first time the doctor and his wife had let the responsibility for a party fall on her shoulders.

The doctor finished his coffee in one gulp. He turned down the steaming cuts of roast pork Sinfín offered him on a tray, and repeated that he would not go in to greet the guests. The starry sky glowed above their heads. While they were walking along the winding path, amidst the chirring of crickets and the leafy darkness of the finca , Sinfín advised the doctor to come back early the next day to pick up the girls, thus avoiding the guests staying right through until lunch.

“They’ve eaten the lot,” she confided. “And they’re good and drunk: they sent for Don Seráfico’s three piglets to be killed, and then when they’d been roasted and eaten, nobody wanted to pay up. That’s why Don Seráfico got angry.”

The doctor no longer wanted to respond.

He was about to get into his jeep when Sinfín interjected again: