The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law agreed, nodding their heads in unison to underscore their disapproval. Then, recalling illustrious burials they’d attended in the past, they felt a marvellous exaltation carrying them away to the point of inebriation until Gertrudis recalled with nostalgia the Gringo Mastrovicenzo’s funeral.
— My good Lord! Dolores exclaimed. The way the Gringo’s chapel was all lit up, it looked like a church altar! Stained glass, gorgeous candelabras, expensive flowers, and the Gringo layin’ there pleased as punch in his catafalque. The box alone must’ve cost an arm and a leg.
— Remember the drinks? recalled Gertrudis, ecstatic.
— Nothing but the best, said Leonor. And served up in crystal to die for.
— The Gringo must’ve been rolling in it, Gertrudis observed.
— Him? laughed Dolores. He owned half of Villa Urquiza.3 And to think he arrived in Buenos Aires with only the shirt on his back!
— Yes, yes, said Leonor. Some are born under a lucky star, others ’re born star-struck.
But when Gertrudis extolled the supper they served at midnight in the Gringo Mastrovicenzo’s big dining room, Dolores owned up to a certain doubt about whether it was appropriate to celebrate banquets like that right beside a cadaver. Gertrudis set her straight:
— Listen, sister, she said sententiously. Dead folks are beyond all needs, they’re free from the miseries of this world. But, upon my word, those of us left behind in this vale of tears have a duty to keep on living till our time comes.
Gertrudis, abominable harpy! The real truth was that other people’s deaths aroused in you a voracious hunger, a gloating joy that you’re still here and living at full gallop, inhaling stinks and aromas through nostrils quivering with glee, moving triumphant beside the inert and vanquished. Loathsome Erinyes! I’ve followed you through cemeteries; I’ve seen the rhythm of your steps, the mad mercurial lilt of your dance, though you hide it beneath your eighteen skirts of mourning.
— Till our time comes, repeated Dolores plaintively.
— Our time, echoed Leonor.
Hypocritical Dolores, abominable Gertrudis, toothless Leonor! In reality, they didn’t believe in their own deaths — heavens, not that! Instead, they would slip into a sort of stagnant eternity staged in the form of a wake.
Gertrudis was about to push her line of argument further, when someone began to wail in the next room. So heart-rending was the lament that even the Crones stopped praying for a moment to exchange a significant gaze. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law sharpened their ears.
— It’s Márgara, whispered Dolores after a bit. She’s having another fit.
— Must be about the fifth one, Gertrudis groused malevolently.
— Pure histrionics, said Leonor.
The three listened again, for a hoarse voice could now be heard in the adjoining room.
— Not Doña Tecla? asked Dolores apprehensively.
— Who else? said Gertrudis. The old witch wouldn’t have missed this for the world.
— Shhh! warned Leonor, fearful.
Dolores and Gertrudis heeded her invitation to prudence.
— She’s latched onto Márgara like a bedbug, Dolores observed in a low voice.
— It’s her own fault, murmured Gertrudis. Who the heck sent her out to the old crone’s shack? What was she doing there, anyways?
— I don’t know, Dolores insinuated. Probably looking for some herb or potion. If you know what I mean. She was dying to get married, don’t you know?
— Hmm! assented Gertrudis with some reserve. I wouldn’t stake my life on it.
But Leonor knew the score, and she announced in a wisp of a voice:
— Márgara went to Doña Tecla’s shack for a cure to get her old man off the booze.
— Tell that to my tea kettle! exclaimed Gertrudis, patting herself on the behind.
— She told me so herself, Leonor insisted. She was supposed to put it in his wine, some disgusting thing or other that came from a mouse. Márgara couldn’t go through with it.
Dolores and Gertrudis displayed withering skepticism.
— So how come the old crone won her over? asked Dolores. Everybody knows they’re thick as thieves now.
— Doña Tecla is curing Márgara, said Leonor, hesitant now. Her chest pains…
— Tell that to my tea kettle! Gertrudis exclaimed again.
— And what a treatment! Dolores observed. Cutting open a live pigeon and applying it to her breast like a poultice, imagine that!
— And that’s not all, Leonor hinted.
— What else? asked Dolores and Gertrudis, feigning indifference.
— The crone had three toads fetched. She told Márgara to spit in their mouths, then hang them from the fig tree. If they died after three nights, she’d be cured.
— Did they die? inquired Gertrudis, her interest piqued.
But Leonor had no chance to answer: the groans from the other room intensified abruptly, becoming long and deep like the bellowing of a calf having its throat cut. Immediately, urgent voices resounded and hurried footsteps clattered. The Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law knew right away that Márgara had embarked on her great scene. A delicious shiver ran down their spines. Then they stood up in unison and, more thoroughly swaddled than ever in their grieving shawls, they made for the door. It opened noiselessly before them. The three old women turned their wonderfully identical faces to watch the sisters-in-law leave. Laid out full length in his coffin, the deceased Juan Robles journeyed on.
At first, the greedy eyes of the Three Necrophile Sisters registered only a scene of confusion dimly illuminated by a bedside lamp, its purple shade blocking more light than it diffused. Toward the margins of the tableau, the semi-darkness left faces and gestures indistinct; closer to the lamp, however, the drama’s central figures were vigorously etched by the indigo light. There, on a dishevelled cot, Márgara was struggling in the arms of the Neighbour Lady in Red and the Neighbour Lady in Blue, while Doña Tecla, phlegmatic, rubbed the girl’s temples with a handkerchief soaked in vinegar. Burly were the arms of the fat ladies in Red and in Blue, but Márgara was resisting furiously, a snarl of snaky curls lashing about her Medusa-like head. As she thrashed around, her face moved in and out of the violet light, revealing enormous pupils and chattering white teeth.
It was the horror of death, for she’d just glimpsed its abyss. It was the perplexity of finding herself at the dramatic centre of all those people’s attention. It was her amazement at her own incredible pain, as well as an inchoate pride at being the object of so many solicitous regards, so many soothing murmurs, so many kind hands reaching out to her. It was all that, and more: an obscure desire to live up to the greatness of that unique moment, to act it out in the fullness of gestures, to offer herself entirely as spectacle.