— Isn’t it always the way! Doña Martina chimed in, her disgust on display. A dog in the manger!
— So, of course, Doña Consuelo ventured to break in, the penpusher got fed up and…
— No, no, interrupted Doña Martina. That wasn’t why!
— So why, then? asked Doña Consuelo, more baffled than ever.
— Let Doña Carmen tell the story, Doña Martina demurred cautiously.
But Doña Carmen was unexpectedly reticent.
— I don’t know if I should say… she whispered at last, with a furtive glance at the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law.
— But Doña Carmen! Doña Martina encouraged. The whole neighbourhood knows!
— How could they not know? Doña Carmen burst out. Yes, yes. María Justa had her trousseau all nicely done up. What lovely sheets! The hems all stitched by her own hand — she was an angel with the needle. Yes, like I was saying, they even had the wedding date fixed. Then all of a sudden, the Other One takes a wrong step…
— The Other One? asked Doña Consuelo, definitely disconcerted. What Other One?
— La Beba, whispered Doña Martina. The Babe, the youngest sister.
Doña Carmen glared at her.
— Don’t even mention her name in front of me, Doña Martina! she censured. Don’t mention her name in front her poor dead father! You know full well that the heartache she caused was what drove him to his grave. His youngest daughter, the apple of his eye!
— Yes, yes, responded Doña Martina, somewhat abashed. But who would have thought…?
— Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth! growled Doña Carmen. Knowing her as well as I did, I always had my suspicions. Good as gold at home, but a vixen once she was out the door. Good at dodging work, but fond of dance halls and luxury. And flighty as all get out — had to have everything she saw. Well, now she’ll have everything she wants.
— They say she’s got a car, furs, and diamonds the size of chickpeas, Doña Martina revealed.
The three old women set their cups on the floor. Doña Carmen and Doña Martina withdrew into themselves, apparently brooding dolefully. But Doña Consuelo still didn’t have a firm grip on the whole story.
— So that was enough to make the penpusher leave María Justa? she inquired.
Doña Carmen opened her half-closed eyes, looked long and hard at Doña Consuelo, and decided the poor thing must be quite gaga.
— The penpusher? she yawned. His parents put him up to it, but he was spineless. When dishonour strikes a family…
— Spineless, echoed Doña Martina.
Satisfied, illuminated now, Doña Consuelo seemed to pick up a thread that had slipped from her grasp up till now.
— The Other One! she said. Let her have her diamonds! I don’t give her very long. When her youth fades and there’s no one around to tell her, “knock ’em dead!”… Then she’ll see. God punishes without stick or whip.
The candlelight was growing dim again. The silence was absolute but for the spluttering wicks. The Three Crones began to nod gently, their eyelids drooping and mouths purring. Suddenly, just as Doña Carmen was dozing off, a high-pitched explosion of flatulence escaped her. Her two neighbours half-opened their eyes.
— Alms for the poor, Doña Martina declared sententiously. But the rich can pay.
— Doña Carmen! reproached Doña Consuelo. Right under the nose of the deceased!
Doña Carmen smiled, half embarrassed, half gleeful.
— It slipped out when I was asleep, she clarified. What does it matter, anyhow? The departed won’t hear it. Nothing matters to him anymore. I washed him myself with aromatic vinegar and dressed him from head to foot. Heck, it’s just a corpse!
— You did? Doña Consuelo whispered admiringly.
— Habit, affirmed the other woman. I’ve dressed the corpses of the whole neighbourhood. I made a promise to the Virgin of Candlemas.
Doña Carmen got to her feet, rubbed her cramped knees, and took a rosary of black beads from her apron pocket.
— The Rosary, she invited her two neighbours.
— Yes, yes, they assented as they stood up as well.
The three old women approached the head of Juan Robles’s coffin and made the sign of the cross.
— Thou, O Lord, wilt open my lips, Doña Carmen began to recite.
— And my tongue shall announce Thy praise, responded her neighbours.
— Incline unto our aid, O God.
— O Lord, make haste to help us.
The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, who seemed to be snoozing beneath their black mourning shawls, suddenly brought their heads together in unison.
— Just take a look at that and drop dead! whispered Dolores, her eyes darting toward the three old women.
— The very picture of piety!2 said Leonor. I’ll bet their wicked tongues have raised blisters on the hide of the deceased himself!
— I wouldn’t stake my life on it, Dolores asserted.
Wrapped both in her shawl and in the gloom that was turning favourable again, Gertrudis eyed the Three Crones, whose yellowed fingers passed the rosary beads one by one.
— Hmm! she squawked at length. High time they started pushing up daisies!
— Them? laughed Dolores, revealing her ravaged gums. Tough old coots! They’ll see us all dead’n buried.
The three Sisters-in-Law looked at each another, nose to nose, eyeball penetrating eyeball, mutually exhaling fetid breath into one another’s face. And they smiled beatifically as they inhaled that delectable atmosphere of death. Harpies guided by their great olfactory acuity, they were immediately on the spot whenever anyone entered his death throes. Fluttering, still invisible, around the dying person, they would gather his last look, final gesture, and ultimate drop of sweat. Then they would promptly materialize in the afflicted home to savour that tumultuous first moment, the shock in the clenched faces that haven’t yet yielded to weeping. And then — oh joy! — the immense night of the wake, the long vigil in the semidarkness beside the inert thing at once there and no longer there in this world; the thick odours of mortuary flowers and melting wax; and that vast silence of the predawn hours, broken once in a while by the terrible groan of someone who has fallen asleep, reawakened, then remembers.
Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law passed a critical eye over the details of the improvised mortuary chapel — the thickness of the casket, the size of the candelabras, the price of the flowers.
— Four tacky little boards, said Leonor, pointing at the coffin.
— The handles are used, Gertrudis added. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I know those thieving undertakers.
— Weeds! complained Dolores as she looked around at the flower bouquets placed here and there.
All at once they stopped talking and pricked up their ears, anxious to catch the slightest sound in the grief-stricken house. By and by, not picking up anything new, they sipped at the dregs of liqueur remaining in their glasses.
— Homemade anisette, Leonor said, not hiding her displeasure.
— Cheap! Gertrudis agreed, licking her lips.
But Dolores beckoned the other two shawled heads and whispered something in their ears.
— What? whistled Gertrudis and Leonor, incredulous.
— Only two horses for the funeral coach, Dolores reaffirmed out loud.
Now that was scandalous. Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law were not about to accept such niggardliness lying down. They had arranged that their dead husbands travel in coaches drawn by six jet-black horses. And they’d lodged them in massive oak caskets, with solid lead covers and finely wrought bronze handles. So what if they’d gone into debt up to their necks? Fine and dandy! After all, you only die once, and the poor fellow couldn’t take anything else to the grave with him. And besides, there were the neighbours to think about! How grand it was when the funeral coach took off, pulled by six foaming horses whose iron-shod hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones! And the coachmen in their fine top hats, rigid as statues as they drove! Next came the line of varnished coupés, the entire spectacle displayed before a multitude slack-jawed in awe and reverence! They could still hear the sweet sounds of the neighbours singing their praises. Each of them had the photographs of the cortège, framed in real English frames, hanging in their bedrooms as souvenirs of those glorious days. Things ought to be done properly, or not at all. But the dearly departed Juan Robles didn’t deserve the disdain shown him by his children. No matter what his faults, at least he’d left them the house mortgage-free.