— Who was she? I asked.
— The daughter of the ogre you see in front of you, who as usual has just nodded off again. Her name was Nora. Imagine braided hair of bronze, willow-green eyes, the bust of Minerva, the thighs of Atalanta…
— My brethren! the priestly figure interrupted again, unable to bring himself to cover his scandalized ears.
— … and a sensibility, concluded Schultz, that is unique to the girls of the Flores barrio. Because, as you are surely aware, girls from Flores are made from the wood of Stradivarius violins…
Quite alarmed by his madrigalesque exaltation, I gave him a few pats on the shoulder:
— Easy does it! I said. And for Pete’s sake, talk normal.
But the astrologer ignored me and pointed his index finger at the sleeping Don Celso.
— There you have the scourge of my first dreams, he growled. Ah, monster! I can still see him at the festive board on that unforgettable noonday.
Once again the homunculus opened his small sleep-filled eyes:
— Good afternoon, Schultz, young man! he gurgled. Where were we? Ah, yes! We were talking about three nuptial orchids and a poor, inconsolable bride. Don’t imagine, however, that you were the only good-for-nothing. And believe me, if they hadn’t dragged me away from the famous dining room in the nick of time, all my girls would have ended up as old maids. Do you remember the details?
— It was a glorious noontide, said Schultz in an evocative tone. We had just sat down to table, and everyone’s face was beaming with joy, for I had slipped a little gold ring on her dainty ivory finger. “I love you, yes, I love you!”
— Coo, coo! rejoined Don Celso in a sing-song voice. “Oh, forever and ever!” And three orchids on the buffet. Coo, coo!
— On my right, continued the astrologer, Nora was silent and smiling, smiling and silent. Oh, springtime! O youth! Farewell, farewell! On my left, her three sisters burned and sizzled and consumed themselves like three wedding torches. In front of me, their sweet mother (ancient jewellery, antique lace) looked me over with darkened brow, like someone wondering what the future might hold: her mother dear, burdened with years, jewellery, lace, and smugness (begging Don Celso’s pardon, he being here among us). And at her side, Don Celso himself, here among us, with his napkin tied round his neck and playing the gruffly good-natured father-in-law (ah, the monster!). And the gay sounds in the house, the festive smells wafting from the kitchen. Who was that couple walking in the garden? Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Abelard and Heloise! Romance has died. A tombstone! Place a tombstone on the grave of romance! With the epitaph: “Wayfarer, here lies a love affair.”
Caught between anger and embarrassment, I shook Schultz by the shoulder:
— Take it easy! I said. And speak naturally! Can’t you spare us that ghastly language of melodrama?
— Not to worry, he responded. Romance has died: now it has its tombstone and epitaph. Now comes the shameful part.
— Go ahead and say it, if you’re man enough! the homunculus challenged him.
— It isn’t easy, Schultz admitted. We had just sat down to table in profoundly sentimental circumstances, when they brought in the first course. Keep in mind my emotional state: Tristan and Isolde, Hungarian violins, and so on. Suddenly, I see how this gentleman drops his harmless demeanour and brutally attacks the serving platters, empties them, licks them clean. Around me I hear voices, throats being cleared; everyone was trying to distract me from that astonishing spectacle. In vain. Fascinated, my attention is rivetted on Don Celso, who chews and devours, sucks bones and slurps up sauces, displaying a gluttony I haven’t seen in even the worst beasts. And quaffing libations whose generosity and frequency were enough to make a Knight Templar blush.
— Gentle souls! whined the priestly figure at this point.
The dapper old fop, who had been disdainfully holding his peace, clapped utterly incredulous eyes on Don Celso.
— Him? he asked.
— You’ve got it, Schultz affirmed. And just think, if he climbed down off his pot, he wouldn’t stand two feet off the ground. Well, when there were no more delicacies to wolf down and no more platters to lick clean, I see how this gentleman closes his eyes, saws off a few snores punctuated by gaseous belches, and sinks at last into the lethargy of a boa constrictor.
Don Celso seemed to have been measuring and judging each and every one of Schultz’s words as if they had nothing to do with him. Now he gestured approvingly:
— Not bad, he opined. A certain Homeric influence in the style, which will no doubt become more acute when this narrator tries to depict me as a modern-day Polyphemous. But please go on, Schultz, young man. I’ll admit your gift for comedy is irresistible.
The astrologer continued:
— That first revelation of the monster was not long in making its effects felt. It was as if a deep chill had fallen over the dining room, freezing the laughter and wilting the voices. I looked at Nora and saw her shrivel up beside me like a dry leaf. The sisters sizzled no longer (three extinguished torches). Mother dear had closed her eyes and was slowly crumbling beneath mournfully opaque jewels and faded lace. But listen up, now! Just at that moment the second course was brought to table!
Schultz opened a well-calculated parenthesis of silence. I waited for the end of the story as one awaits punishment. The water-closeted personages held their breath, and Don Celso’s forehead was already inclined, as if anticipating an ovation.
— I won’t describe, Schultz went on, the variety and nature of the delicacies of the second service. I’ll just say that as soon as he caught a whiff of food, this gentleman, whom we left apparently sunk in the deepest Nirvana, instantly stopped snoring and swaying like a pendulum. His nostrils flared with delight, and he cautiously opened two incredulous eyes. Convinced at last that neither smell nor sight was deceiving him, he smiled at the serving dishes, at the commensals, at the room, at the world. Right away the monster attacked again, as voraciously as before, but this time shouting enthusiastically, inviting us with fervent harangues — the oaf! — to imitate him. Whether the second course lasted an instant or a century, I don’t know. All I remember is that finally the monster, wineglass in hand, struggled laboriously to his feet, as though about to make a toast. But alas! No speech issued from his greasy lips, but rather the first bars of an operatic romance. And all of sudden, without warning, the fool collapsed on the table, knocking over glasses and smashing plates. His stiffened fingers clutched at the tablecloth, and his mouth chucked up intermittent jets of grunt, vomit, and laughter.
— Merciful God! wept the priestly figure. Lord, your own image and likeness!
— Bravo! Bravo! applauded the homunculus.
— I got up from the table, concluded Schultz, ran out of the dining room and away from the house. I never went back!
Don Celso looked at him now with ineffable sadness.
— Yes, he said. And to sum up: three withered orchids in a vase. And a poor girl dead from a broken heart…
— Dead? cried Schultz. Dead?
— Dead from a broken heart for exactly eight days, Don Celso clarified. Until my friend Tosto, the pasta manufacturer, opened his heart and his chequebook.
The astrologer sighed with relief:
— Ah, that’s so much like her! he said. In her hands, life was like a music box.
— I’d say more like a strongbox, gurgled the homunculus as he dozed off.
The absurd conversation with the toilet-bowl types seemed to be over. The astrologer Schultz was just signalling that he wanted to get a move on, when the priestly figure addressed us elegiacally:
— My beloved brethren in Christ, should the pressing demands of your excursion allow you sufficient time to hear another story, close not your ears to the one I wish to relate to you now, motivated not by literary vanity, but rather by the desire that its lessons may instruct and edify you, and render you fruitful in the virtue I lacked there above. Peccavi tibi, Domine! Mea culpa!