Who may tell of the wonderment that fell over the tertulia and of the respect inspired by Marta’s risky advance? Naturally, the serpent’s gaze that fascinates the little bird was the image on everyone’s mind. And who shall speak of the anguish of a mother who, forgetting even the wisdom of Doctor Aguilera, watched the fruit of her womb walk slowly toward the abyss? Señora Ruiz cried out once in protest:
— No, Marta! I don’t like these games!
But Marta Ruiz was already there; the engineer Valdez was stroking her sensitive wrists. Coughs, shifting chairs, whispers: the tertulia nervously readied itself to look deep into the darkness of the unknown. Señor Johansen had joined the group of matrons now trying to console Señora Ruiz, whose eyes bored holes in the presumed hypnotizer. On the sky-blue divan, the three Amundsen girls, Ruty Johansen, Schultz, and Lucio Negri formed a single block. All of them looked very excited, except for the astrologer, who was ostentatiously stifling yawns. In a front-row seat, Franky Amundsen swore like a trooper, announcing to his sidekicks that he’d learn the noble art of hypnotism if only to put his numerous creditors to sleep. Faithful to the metaphysical corner, Samuel Tesler and Adam Buenosayres waited, the former entrenched in hostile silence, the latter seemingly absent from the tertulia. Mister Chisholm — who after his battle had taken refuge in the Buenos Aires Herald40 — folded his favourite newspaper, curious to see what silliness the “colonials” were up to now. All was ready: stage, actors, and spectators.
The beginning was nothing sensational. Impervious to the general sense of expectancy, Valdez ordered the lights dimmed and began to chat with Marta in way that most took for quite offhand. But those versed in the hypnotic arts weren’t fooled; they knew he was using that soothing, mellifluous voice with consummate mastery to spin a subtle web for his prey. Little by little, Marta’s responses began to trail off. Her eyelids fluttered as an irresistible drowsiness overwhelmed her. Then the engineer touched her pulse with one hand, at the same time using the thumb of his other hand to stroke her temples. Marta went rigid.
— You are sleeping, he said. Are you asleep?
— Yes, came Marta’s barely audible response.
— Sleep, then. But calmly, in a state of perfect calm.
Only now did everyone realize the enormity of what had just happened; astonishment was expressed in barely contained whispers. But Señora Ruiz had turned the colour of autumn leaves.
— Let’s see, said the hypnotist to the sleeping girl. What’s your favourite piece of music?
— The overture to Tannhäuser, she replied without hesitation.
— Fine. Now listen! A distant orchestra is playing the overture. Do you hear it?
Marta seemed to strain her ears.
— Yes, she stammered. A distant orchestra.
— But it is drawing nearer. Do you hear the brass instruments getting louder?
— Yes, the brass instruments!
— Now you are in the very midst of the orchestra, said the engineer. You can see the musicians’ faces, the seesaw of the bows, the gleaming brass. And the music is rising, growing stronger, making the room tremble. Do you hear it?
Her nostrils flaring and her face lit up, the sleeping beauty listened to the crescendo of Tannhäuser. The tertulia guests scarcely breathed, so amazed were they. A cold sweat bathed Señora Ruiz’s face. But the engineer calmed the sleeping creature’s agitation by passing his hand a few times over her forehead. When he judged that she was sleeping placidly once again, he told her:
— You are sad. A deep sorrow is engulfing you.
Marta’s face contracted into a pout of sorrow.
— You are weeping, suggested the engineer. Weep!
And Marta began to cry with such gusto that the observers, human after all, felt knots of anguish rise in their throats. Fortunately, Valdez restored the sleeper’s serenity by telling her:
— Your sadness has passed. Now you are feeling great happiness. You feel a desire to laugh completely flooding you.
— Yes, agreed Marta. A great happiness.
— Laugh! ordered the engineer.
A thin little laugh came out of Marta.
— Louder! the hypnotist ordered again.
Marta laughed so uproariously that everyone at the tertulia, in spite of themselves, started to shake with hilarity. Franky Amundsen went so far as to swear he’d seen Mister Chisholm busting a gut — an absurd claim nobody believed, of course. What was beyond discussion was the engineer Valdez’s success. Closing his eyes to the buzz of admiration, he concentrated in preparation for his master stroke.
— You are all no doubt aware, he said to those watching, that people are reluctant to let themselves fall backwards, even when they know someone is there to catch them.
The spectators nodded their agreement.
— Well, then. Watch carefully!
Turning to the sleeping girl, he ordered her:
— Let yourself fall back!
Without a moment’s pause, Marta tipped backward like a felled tree. Señora Ruiz shrieked. Everyone else stood up in unison like so many spring-loaded marionettes. Easy, now, it’s okay! The honourable engineer caught the slumbering creature in his arms and set her back down on the sky-blue divan. Franky and his crew broke into applause, but the others shushed them into silence. The session was over. It was time for Marta to awake.
— Listen, Marta, ordered the engineer. I’m going to start counting. When I get to number five, you will wake up, but in a completely calm state.
A tomb-like silence fell as Valdez counted out loud:
— One, two, three, four, FIVE!
Great God! Instead of coming around, Marta started to squeal and thrash about on the sky-blue divan. The general consternation was indescribable. Without so much as a cry of anguish, Señora Ruiz fell into a dead faint upon the generous bosom of Señora Johansen. An instinctive movement — how adorable! — took Solveig into the arms of Lucio Negri. All faces had turned waxen.
— What’s happened? What’s going on? shouted the men, some rushing to the mother, some to the daughter.
— It’s the “errant influences,” yelled Samuel Tesler. I told you so!
Without letting go of Marta, the engineer turned to the tertulia.
— Don’t get upset, he ordered. There’s some interference.
He manipulated the comatose girl as she went on kicking and screeching. At his side, Franky Amundsen too leaned over Marta, apparently following the operation with great interest.
— Have you checked her carburetor? he asked at last, looking at Valdez with a studious air.
Franky’s question provoked a rumble of indignant protests. But now the hypnotist was regaining control over Marta.
— Are you calm now? he asked her.
— Yes.
— I’m going to clap three times. At the sound of the third clap, you will wake up. And you’ll be happy, all right? Very happy.
At the engineer’s third handclap, his prisoner at last awoke, smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world. What a sigh of collective relief passed through the tertulia, now that Marta had left the gloomy realm of the night! Brows shed their furrows, colour flushed back into pale cheeks. Señora Ruiz recovered from her fainting spell, thanks to Lucio Negri’s potent science, or more likely to the three fingers of no-less-potent whisky that Franky, the blackguard, poured down her throat, heedless of Doctor Aguilera’s existence in this world. And the joy with which mother and daughter embraced is beyond the powers of verbal expression. Valdez wiped the sweat from his bald pate and took a few deep breaths — fatigued, yes, but loaded with laurels.