When Márgara caught sight of the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law, she reached out to them with open arms, instantly provoking a sense of general expectancy. The Three Sisters-in-Law understood their cue to enter the stage. Priestesses of an inflexible liturgy, they made their way to the cot and occupied the place respectfully vacated for them by the ladies in Red and in Blue.
— Aunty, aunty! sobbed Márgara as Gertrudis hugged her.
— There, there, Gertrudis’s voice purred affectionately. Calm down, my child, calm down.
Dolores and Leonor dabbed their eyes with a hanky. A buzz of excitement rippled through the circle of onlookers hanging back among the shadows as they lapped up every last detail of the scene.
— They are the aunts, intoned the chorus.
— The aunts?
— That’s right, the aunts.
— What aunts?
— Aunts.
The chorus fell silent, for Márgara was once again braiding the thread of her psalmodic lament.
— Poor old man! she chanted quietly. How come he left us, aunty? How come? And what a way to go! Suffering right up till the end. What did he do in this world that God had to punish him so? Poor dear man, poor dear!
— Patience, Márgara, murmured the Neighbour Lady in Red.
But Márgara didn’t even hear her.
— All night long he was moaning in misery, she chanted. I’ll never be able to forget it. Never! Those cries of distress will be in my ears forever and ever!
She beat her ears with both fists and shook the snakes of her Gorgonian head. The Three Sisters-in-Law again made use of their grieving hankies; meanwhile, the chorus rustled in the shadows, not speaking, but now tense as a bowstring. The Neighbour Lady in Red caressed Márgara’s hair and insisted:
— Patience, Márgara. You’ll find peace eventually. This too shall pass. It’s all a matter of time.
Márgara gave her a ferocious look, as though mortally offended by the suggestion that her pain might not be eternal.
— Never! she protested after a bit. Obviously, lady, you’ve never had to suffer like me!
— But my child! exclaimed the Lady in Red. I’ve done my share of grieving, too; I know what it’s like. Don’t kid yourself, Márgara. You’ll get over it.
— No, I won’t! shouted Márgara, totally obstinate.
— Yes, you will! screeched the Neighbour Lady in Red. She was getting right ticked off now. Did the stupid little twit think she was only one in the world to ever have somebody die on her? And if it was a question of tallying up the deaths in one’s family, why, the Neighbour Lady in Red was ready to lay a whole cemetery’s worth on the table.
Márgara, however, began to kick and thrash like crazy. The chorus made noises of protest.
— Don’t contradict her.
— Let her get it out of her system.
— The one in Red is handling this wrong.
— No, she’s right, she’s talking reason.
— The girl’s in no state to hear reason right now!
— That’s right! Of course!
Márgara didn’t kick and thrash for long. In the purple lamplight, her tense face began to relax until she seemed subdued and thoughtful. Suddenly, an irrepressible smile came to her lips. Ooh, aah! The neighbour ladies smiled in amazement, and the chorus smiled in the shadows. Ooh, aah! What was this? Márgara, smiling and sobbing, told them: just before he died, the great Robles, referring to the young doctor in attendance who happened to be in the other room, had winked at Márgara and said: “Looks like that lad finds you attractive. Make the most of it, sweetie!”
In the telling, Márgara chortled playfully. The neighbour ladies laughed somewhat louder, and chorus was invaded by sympathetic hilarity.
— That Don Juan!
— One heck of a criollo!
— No way! Joking around like that on his deathbed — what a rascal!
— Isn’t that Juan all over!
The chorus got more excited. There was more laughing and talking — ah, good old Juan! Still giggling, Márgara turned to her three necrophile aunts and saw their faces of stone. They hadn’t laughed. With a violent start, Márgara woke up to reality and took to moaning and groaning more pathetically than ever. Doña Tecla, phlegmatic, began again to rub her temples with her handkerchief; the ladies in Red and Blue moved away from the bed; and the chorus lurking in the shadows fell abruptly silent. The lowing trailed off little by little as Márgara entered a deepening torpor, her Gorgonian head swaying back and forth like a pendulum until, with a final roll, it came to rest on the pillows. There was a vast silence, pierced only by the loud tick-tock of the alarm clock on the bedside table. All the figures were motionless; a drizzle of something like ash or tedium seemed to blur the contours of the tableau. Then all of a sudden a belligerent clamour broke out in the other room; the two neighbour ladies exchanged a look of intelligence.
— The kids, muttered the one in Red.
— The little devils! assented the one in Blue.
The women made for the door with maternal haste. Flinging it open, they irrupted into a tumultuous theatre of war.
The room was in total disarray. Furniture and knick-knacks from the other rooms had been stored in here, scattered and stacked any which way. The only stick of furniture still in its usual position was a double bed pushed up against a wall. Four chubby babies, bundled up to the neck, had been laid across it, and they were sleeping blissfully. The neighbour ladies’ maternal gaze did not rest long on the idyllic bed, however. Their eyes quickly swerved to the middle of the room where Pancho and Manuel, two of God’s little angels, were pummelling each other with pillows. The champions shrieked in triumph at each blow given, and shouted an imprecation at every blow received. Absorbed in the fight, they didn’t notice that their arena of single combat had been invaded by mothers. But when the two women advanced menacingly toward them, floor shaking under their massive legs, the heroes, visibly discomfited, dropped their feathery weapons and beat a hasty retreat. Blindly, Pancho ran straight into the arms of the Neighbour Lady in Red, and two ringing slaps, one on each cheek, were the epilogue to his epic story.
— Go outside with your father! the one in Red shouted at him, pointing with her thick index finger toward the door to the patio.
At the same time, with greater skill or better fortune, Manuel had escaped into the labyrinth of piled-up stuff. Safely entrenched between a folding metal cot and a large trunk, he peered out at the woman in Blue.
— Come out of there, bandit! she cried, brandishing a slipper.
“Sure, one of these days,” Manuel thought to himself, eyeing the slipper with an eloquent expression.
The Neighbour Lady in Blue was about to storm the trenches, when one of the babies started crying at the top of its lungs.
— Poor little angel! she exclaimed and flew instead to the bed. She took the caterwauling babe into her arms and planted a gargantuan kiss on each cheek.
— They woke you up, didn’t they, sweetheart. There, there. It was that bandit, that scoundrel Manuel!
But the sweetheart, in no mood for chitchat, just turned up the volume on his wailing. In response, the woman in Blue deftly unbuttoned her blouse, laid bare a breast brimming over in plenitude, and executed the most ancient gesture in the world as she offered it to the squalling mouth. The baby clamped fiercely onto the purple nipple, let go for a moment to gaze at his mother with a beatific smile, then tucked in again, his little eyes half closing. Ensconced in his famous trench, the bandit Manuel saw the storm was blowing over.