of two or three hours, would still be a delay: and: no way could they attend the wedding filthy. Don’t worry, that won’t happen. A terrible hostess, this Zulema. An old maid, and bitter to boot, a sweet face despite the wrinkles, obvious right away she wasn’t used to having guests; at the house, to be precise, because in her grocery store … but that’s another story altogether … Her obstinacy triumphed against the two clamors for cleanliness. The contingency plan: conversation! But mother and son remained silent. Even Telma’s eyelids drooped at the onslaught of words hurled their way. Silence as revenge and sleep as revenge. The three of them sat in the salon. The suitcases on the floor. The hostess still had not assigned her guests a bed or beds because she was summarizing her entire life, bringing them up-to-date. Unstoppable, incorrigible. A bother. If the dear lady had not had such a pretty face, Demetrio would have strangled her, in fact he felt quite like doing so, as he looked at his own large, bony hands, which he began to raise above his head as if he were learning flamenco, while the other continued with her verbal grist. Playing the fool, she made an awkward mention of the number of suitors who, shall we say, had sniffed her out: and: all rejected! any excuse would do, the premise being her pride (without adjectives) of feeling herself desired. A bit later it was she who took the initiative and said she had neither beds nor rooms available (liar, two closed doors in plain view, how odd!), that all three of them would sleep in the only bed she had: hers, quite creaky. If the dear lady hadn’t had a pretty face, Demetrio would have chosen to sleep on the floor, but the proximity of mature beauty: come on!: she was but a distant aunt. What if he brushed against those hanging breasts. I’d like to sleep in the middle. May I? The mother said nothing, she was already nodding off. But Zulema said: Yes! Of course, then calmed down, finally.
She didn’t even offer them something to eat. Didn’t even mention the subject.
Could Demetrio’s bony hands with their flamenco flourishes have soothed her?
No!
His aunt then embarked on a second discursive romp. She began talking about the family tree. Recounting those who had died and those whose whereabouts were unknown.
And bathing? It was getting late. Pressure. A brief lapse getting briefer whereby each minute became a stigma with meaning, not to mention the squeezed seconds: ticking: throbbing, a range of rudeness, more than one raised eyebrow between the guests. And the filth? More, then. And the redolence of the threads of their garments. And what about the wedding? A calamity, the only option was to wash in cold water. Alas, mention has already been made of the unseasonably chilly air. A shivering bath … The last to wash was the agronomist. Anyway, they were late and wouldn’t arrive in time for the service, better, at least. Such a predictable ritual … Let’s go straight away to the party outdoors, the mother, aunt, and son together … He, proudly wearing a fairly wrinkled gray suit, though of high quality … There simply hadn’t been time to press it. We have to take into account the jammed suitcase, packed with such haste in Oaxaca. The same goes for the mother and her pink dress—flamboyant: due to her haste in Parras: let’s proceed, it doesn’t matter anyway; the aunt was another story, with her well-pressed deep blue dress … The bride was a niece in her twenties, her belly six months gone and showing. The party would be held in the playground of the local primary school.
Dust …
As long as there’s dancing …
A dusty orchestra, and dusty beauties.
A crush of crinoline: encountered upon arrival. For Demetrio the sight of such concealing garments was regrettable. Harshly corseted women. Exasperating uniformity. Only the beauties’ waspish waists could be seen. No asses or legs—quite a pity! because, where’s the excitement? Busts, yes: though: no striking cleavage. Faces, yes: and what faces they were! Green eyes aplenty, enormous: most of the women were like cats: though a few dogs with brown eyes; a donkey or two, not even worth mentioning; one or another fox … let’s see … plenty of these in most milieus: and: now, yes: delight for the sake of diversity. So many women for so few men. And they kept arriving: in droves, really!