Renata kept recalling Doña Zulema’s words: thorns, splinters, twists, and with dismay and displeasure she kept returning to the first: This puritanical town horrifies me! The town is to blame and not—so there!—only Renata and her mother. Therefore, a misunderstanding, which to be understood as it should required a ton of conjectures and explanations in the minutest of detail to be poured into that letter, the only way to avoid defeat by an unfortunate trifle … Explanations, and more explanations: to sum things up, and … Renata did not know how to face the enigmatic blank page. In fact, she let a long time pass, because she also found it unbearable to hold a fountain pen: weeks: three, four, five: November: torturous cold: beginning of December: almost there: almost Christmas Eve; that year of misfortunes was coming to an end and the letter: the beginning: oh, to wish Demetrio all the best for the New Year: that’s it! already written in the green-eyed gal’s head were the message’s opening sentences, but first she wished to inform Doña Luisa of her decision:
“I want to write to Demetrio.”
“What are you going to say?”
“I just want to wish him a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.”
“Don’t even think of making the dumb mistake of asking him for forgiveness; he’s the one who disrespected you.”
“It will be a very short letter.”
“Are you really still interested in that good-for-nothing? Remember, he licked your hand. That’s really disgusting.”
“I don’t think he’s a good-for-nothing. Remember, he returned the next day and said he was sorry and I didn’t come out, I didn’t forgive him … Now I do want to forgive him in writing.”
“I don’t think it’s right … Maybe if he came here, or wrote you, but he hasn’t.”
“So, I’ll only wish him a merry Christmas and …”
“My advice is not to write him, better to wait until he makes a move … If he really loves you he will.”
“How long do I have to wait? A year? Five years? How many?”
“One year, maybe a bit more.”
“That’s too long for me.”
“A lot can happen in a year, both good and bad.”
“Well, I want to write him and, as I said, I’m just going to say hello. I’ll remain cool, I promise … It will be my last attempt at a reconciliation.”
“You are stubborn, Renata. You’d be much better off if you had more dignity. You should follow your sisters’ example.”
“This will be my last attempt …”
“Okay, I’ll try to understand how you feel … I only ask you to show me the letter before you send it. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Hurrah! All Doña Luisa had to do was show a tad of flexibility for Renata to flesh out her scheme. Her idea at first was to fashion a benign narrative of their relationship up till then, the romantic policies, prudently expressed, or with a slow dotting of all the i’s and a crossing of all the t’s, in the guise of outlining a feeling she would then have to describe in detail (so much explaining, how would she ever), but—careful!—, in the meantime such a fastidiously elaborated rational discourse, how many ideas would be worthwhile and how many futile: would they be compressed or expanded, or how to remove fibs but retain feelings … Anyway, now Renata had two tasks: to write the laconic letter with good wishes that—bad news—her mother would read with loads of prejudice: we can take for granted the scruples that would arise during revision—an ungrateful task, the whole thing to be shredded after the maternal review, indeed, let’s admit it once and for all; whereas the other composition: profuse and secretive: a long (the original) letter that Renata would stash in her panties on her way to the post office, which had to be the good one, the only one, the one with stamps and seals, the one she would have to write with lyricism, even if without great calligraphic care or adequate segues between the ideas. It’s just that if she took too much time (prolix verbiage covering the length of both sides of five or six sheets) she would awaken her mother’s suspicions, too long this undue delay; hence one afternoon’s work, full steam ahead, for two hours, or less, a letter that she would hide under the mattress: there to be (indirectly) stashed … Ugh! and, that said, let us now turn to the phony letter, which had to be exemplary: three or four sentences, five at the most, and