Evelio Rosero - Feast of the Innocents

“I can’t believe that,” snorted Chivo, and confronted the doctor with a wicked look.

“Come to think of it,” the doctor said, straight-faced, not looking at Primavera, but watching her, “I can’t remember having bitten you in such a distant place.”

Discreet chuckles were heard coming from the mayor and the professor. The bishop did not join in.

“I shall rectify that mistake,” the doctor went on coolly.

Primavera struck a capricious pose, which might have meant pity or defiance.

Primavera Pinzón, stood with arms akimbo, one leg slightly out in front of the other, irremediably beautiful, turned yellow by the firelight, then suddenly red, a standing sphinx, the doctor thought, inflamed by men, unseasonably shivery in the midst of all those eyes, not knowing what to do or say — you allowed yourself to be adored dressed as a ñapanga : the skirt of coloured, woollen cloth, trimmed with a velvet border; velvet too around the edges of the huge pocket; again the skirt, pleated from the waist, somewhat shorter than the petticoat, of which they could see the crocheted edging; the white, shiny satin blouse revealing her pert, medium-sized breasts, deliberately badly covered up with a fringed, embroidered black shawl; on her head she wore a tortoiseshell comb, and ribbon bows finished off the plaits; against the whiteness of her throat the glass beads, the necklaces virtually tinkled, a gold filigree crucifix glittered; she wore large earrings; both hands played nervously with a felt hat that she remained undecided about putting on; her rope-soled alpargatas showed off her tiny feet, the toenails of which she had not neglected to paint a vivid pink: it was that detail Professor Arcaín Chivo observantly fixed upon:

“My dear señora ,” he said, “like a good ñapanga you did not forget to paint your nails pink; I bet you don’t know why ñapangas do that.”

Primavera looked at him for a moment with genuine curiosity. She tossed her head as she said:

“So you don’t bite us, señor .”

The mayor congratulated her:

“So you did know,” he said. “Painting the toes pink wards off bites from snakes and academics. You are farsighted, Primavera.”

Chivo opened his arms.

“You’ve beaten me,” he said.

And he turned back to Primavera; he could not take his eyes off her.

“Nonetheless,” he advised, “wearing alpargatas is incorrect; ñapanga , my lovely lady, is a corruption of the original word llapanga , which is Quechua for ‘barefoot.’”

“Come off it, Arcaín,” the mayor continued. “You’re not suggesting our Primavera go through the streets barefoot on January the sixth.”

“Heaven forbid,” Arcaín Chivo protested hammily. “I just want…”

But Primavera was no longer paying him any attention.

“Your Grace,” she said, making for the bishop, and seeming frankly astonished, almost shocked at herself, but only for a second, “forgive my intrusion. I did not know you were among my husband’s guests. You’ll understand my delight in the carnival — which is why you see me in my costume,” she said, gesturing at herself from head to foot.

“I understand, Primavera, I understand. Don’t worry,” the bishop said, and allowed the radiant woman to kiss the episcopal ring on his finger.

“I’ve brought you empanadas de pipián and anisette,” she went on, once more in control of her words. “Genoveva, Conchita, what’s taking so long?”

Genoveva Sinfín and the maid emerged from the shadows, both holding vast trays, over the tops of which peeped the dainty peanut and potato empanadas and endless glasses of aguardiente .

“Do the señores need us, or can we go?” Sinfín asked unceremoniously, while setting down the trays in a bad mood.

The bishop felt embarrassed, and took pity on them.

“Go in peace, ladies,” he said. “We’ll look after ourselves.”

Sinfín and the girl recognized him. They both crossed themselves; it looked as though they were going to fall to their knees.

“Most Reverend Father, we didn’t see you,” Sinfín said.

“Go in peace,” the bishop repeated, blessing them.

Genoveva Sinfín and the girl needed no persuading. They vanished as if they were fleeing.

“I’ll be back in two minutes,” Primavera said. “But without this ñapanga costume, so as not to cause a stir. I just want to sit with you, señores , and listen.”

So Primavera left the living room, taking the party with her, and the guests took a further, long minute to recover themselves; no-one looked at anyone else, there were no words; all converged on the trace of perfumed air that the costumed Primavera had left in her wake.

“You should feel proud of a woman like that,” the professor said. “She’s left us stunned. Who was expecting her? I wasn’t.”

And he began tucking in to the steaming empanadas . They all followed suit. No-one drank the aguardiente .

Doctor Proceso did not respond straight away. He came round with difficulty.

Yes, he said to himself, why would one not feel proud of an unpredictable woman.

Matías Serrano extracted him from the sticky situation:

“Confess that all this business with the ñapanga costume is designed to draw attention to Nariño’s history, to your Bolívar float, isn’t that so? I admit you’ve got us on tenterhooks: maybe we’re being hasty to criticize it without first hearing your motives.”

“That’s right,” the doctor exhaled. “That was just the beginning.”

“A magnificent beginning,” the professor ribbed him. “Worthy of you, Justo Pastor.”

“I don’t know whether to wait for Primavera to come back,” the doctor said.

“So, she really is coming?” Chivo said in surprise.

“She should hear this,” the doctor replied. And he called to her: “Shall we wait for you, Primavera?”

There was silence.

“Coming!” They heard her voice clearly, and immediately saw her arrive, no longer in her ñapanga costume — just the rope-soled alpargatas —but in a comfortable outfit — wool sweater, mid-length print skirt — she arrived as though walking on tiptoe, bathing them all in her habitual splendour, all the more splendid as she sat on the sofa, letting herself fall onto the cushions like a great flower opening and closing, stirring a breeze from her own self, from deep in her bones, next to the Bishop of Pasto no less — who shifted uneasily, as if afraid of her.

“Tell them, Doctor Donkey,” Primavera said, and met the doctor’s eyes just for an instant, because afterwards she just looked into space, “tell them about your float for January: you’ll give them a lot more to talk about than my ñapanga costume.”

There was a silence no-one wanted to break, because they could not. Did Primavera just say Doctor Donkey ? Did we hear right? Doctor Proceso ignored the nickname. His voice sounded beyond natural: indifferent.

“That’s the mystery,” he said, “how you came to hear about the float, when it was only yesterday the artisans started working on it. What to put that down to? The city I live in? Little town, living hell; walls have ears in Pasto. But I’m not going to give you each the third degree to find out how you heard about it. I want to get people talking about the float, let’s hope much more than about my wife’s ñapanga miniskirt; I want to display snippets of our memory, on a carnival float.”

And he described as best he could, summoning strength from where he had none, the carriage in which the so-called Liberator would ride, the emperor’s crown on his head, the twelve girls like stooping nymphs, and Cangrejito’s reliefs around the edges — Bolívar fleeing as if the Devil were on his heels, the sculptures, the models, the masks, the history of the south in fragments.