of third parties in a conflict are always valuable to the degree that they exercise a calming influence, but … let’s see … Doña Luisa did not acknowledge the accusation: no! what for?! never!; hence the coarse words an uncle spoke, words that came nowise as a surprise: The problem is that you don’t want Renata to get married. You are afraid of being alone, isn’t that so? Her mother had to admit that said uncle was correct. He had so much harm stored inside him that were we to follow him we would easily predict him saying something like this: that old age is a symptom of inevitable frustration, however it comes about, and from there even more malice so why even mention it … Solutions, therefore—conscientious ones?: which ones?: one, at least, that would seep in deep. It was a supreme comfort for Doña Luisa to hear that her relatives would not leave her alone. Several of them offered her their homes and a few swore they’d be willing to live with her in her house. Hence her freedom of choice should Renata get married continued to be reaffirmed and spelled out—though would she get married? Let it be known that she remained silent throughout these emotionally strained meetings. If someone inquired about the kiss on her hand (for this was the core of the commotion and the crux of the gossip), she had recourse to her viral reasoning: the kiss yes, but the lick no. Upon hearing for the first time that nasty conclusion, the mother exploded: He licked your hand, didn’t he? He’s a scoundrel! Then: a further increase of indignation: from her alone. Inductive tyranny, emanating from disgust, nothing more, as far as Renata was concerned, who, in this particular case, had ceased to let herself be influenced by those maternal allocutions. The tyranny of her rigorous decorum, which, after being made public, became doubly painful. The tyranny of the rupture. The tyranny of disrepute, even though her mother’s insult still hovered, heard by—whom? That “Get out of here, you scoundrel!” sensed in the bewilderment that still echoed throughout the plaza. So, their discussions included the issue of who was more guilty: 40 percent to the daughter and 60 percent to the mother … the arithmetic wasn’t precise, but it didn’t matter, after all … Now, as far as regrets were concerned—who had more? Renata began to consider writing Demetrio a letter: five pages of—fastidious?—exonerations, but her mother stayed her: Wait, dear, it’s not for you to ask for forgiveness … You can be absolutely certain of that. It was that salacious smacker who should be struggling. For if not, what was the point of trying to change the course of an affection. Be that as it may, Renata began to write in secret. Her theme: her helplessness, in the wake of that stupid interpretation of a kiss that was perhaps legitimate, but—why the lick? What was the goal? Oppressive slowness, so slow due to the lack of even one convincing, or at least persuasive, notion. In fact, all words seemed hostile: and: the writing was awful because she didn’t know what was underneath, how deep it went, how, that’s it: how to justify such a violent rejection, which her mother, in turn, had amplified. The amorous collapse was insurmountable—or was it? and how to help it arise from … Hence her attempts to write, and the immediate and complete erasures. Days and nights of darkness and again playing with words and again nothing, only disconnecting and coarse calamities continuing to accumulate, whereby one wrong word distorted all the others, whereby: better wait for later: when feelings and intuitions grew clearer: Renata, the more she faced this ambiguity, the more paralyzed she became. Patience, therefore, and natural vision and yearning: hopefully soon!
Many of her relatives told her that her duty was to get her sweetheart back; the question was how. Others, much like her mother, recommended waiting, caution, in order to establish an effectual new arrangement, in the sense of her acknowledging how much she was willing to compromise. Others, fewer in number, suggested she forget the whole thing; at which point Renata would express herself in stentorian fashion: It’s not so easy to destroy what I have built. Ah. Fortunately chance provided a counterpoint, just when it was most essential: the incentive to make a hefty profit out of the stationery store. With the beginning of the academic year upon them, the sales of