— Vanity! he scolded at last, shaking his head from side to side.
Don José was taking a pull on the latest round of mate, which Reynoso had just brewed up bitter-style, unsweetened. He glanced at Zanetti in mild surprise.
— What’d you say? he asked.
— That, over there! said the collector pointing at the mortuary chamber.
— A-hah! Don José replied cautiously.
Old man Reynoso sighed.
— Yes, yes, he murmured. Poor old Juan.
But Zanetti stared hard at him.
— I’m not talking about the dead, he grumbled. What do I care about dead men? I’m talking about the living. There’s the cadaver, starting to rot already, and what do the living do? Tart it up with rags and lights and flowers. What for? Just to satisfy their own vanity. Dead men!
Don José ventured a half smile.
— It’s custom, he said. I wouldn’t get my britches in a twist over it.
— Custom, you say! objected Zanetti. I’ll show you customs! (It was the collector Zanetti’s standing promise that he would ban all traditional customs if ever he was given the presidency of the Argentine Republic for twenty-four hours.)
— But that’s how things are, my friend, laughed Don José. You too will be adorned and saluted when you go off in your funeral coach, just like you adorned and saluted the ones who left this world before you.
Zanetti didn’t conceal the anger these words provoked.
— I don’t take off my hat for funeral coaches! he growled. It’s just bourgeois prejudice! (The collector Zanetti never took off his hat in front of churches or funeral coaches, but he did so unctuously before conventillos, hospitals, and penitentiaries. A bitter enemy of all superstition, Zanetti spilled salt on purpose, broke mirrors, beat black cats, and ate meat on Good Friday.)
— Fine! rejoined Don José, quite amused. But when you’ve become a stiff yourself, they’re gonna fix you all up nice with lights and flowers. And you’ll have nothing to say about it.
For the first time that night, a smile lit up the sour face of the collector Zanetti.
— They’re going to be out of luck! he said with perverse joy.
— How’s that?
— I’ve already made my will, laughed Zanetti. I’m leaving my body to the Society for the Incineration of Cadavers. Oh no, they’re not going get the better of me. I’ve got it all arranged: a van with no cross or flowers or anything. Straight to the crematorium!
Don José and Reynoso stared at him slack-jawed, and Zanetti enjoyed his future triumph in those two living effigies of astonishment. Yep, it was a brilliant move, a direct poke in the jaw to priests, undertakers, the municipality, florists, gravediggers, marble masons, and all the shysters who worked the death racket. Don José, however, quickly recovered his joviality.
— Can’t say I admire your taste, he told the collector. Burning a person like he was an old piece of junk…
— Hmm! assented Reynoso, pensive.
— So what? argued Zanetti. It’s more economical. And more hygienic! (The collector Zanetti didn’t bathe for months on end, but when it came to his corpse he was scrupulously conscious of social hygiene.)7
— Have you ever seen a corpse burn? Don José asked him. They say when it’s in the oven, it stands up and shakes its arms and legs.
— The last dance! said Zanetti, who had never danced in his life.
— Bah! concluded Don José. Give me the good old earth and the birds singing.
Reynoso passed him a mate.
— Good old earth, he echoed sententiously.
The three men fell silent, perhaps following their internal train of thought. With admirable discretion, the Young Neighbour had got to his feet to have a look at the row of geraniums that just happened to end at the door to the street. He was moving further and further away, one geranium at a time, studying the details of flowers and leaves with a highly suspect intensity of interest. Leaning against his dad’s chair, Pancho was nodding between wakefulness and sleep. Zanetti had blown off steam now, and Don José showed no sign of breaking his silence. Reynoso, however, was in the grip of ancient and venerable memories; he kept on sighing and looking over at the chapel. There was something he wanted to say, but didn’t, vacillating between reserve and an emotion welling up inside him.
— Were you very good friends? Don José finally asked him with extraordinary delicacy.
— Almost brothers, answered Reynoso. We were buddies as young bucks. I was best man at his wedding, and I’m godfather to Márgara. Think of it!
— Yes, yes, Don José encouraged him.
— And look at him now, poor guy! concluded the old man with a sigh.
— Everybody’s gotta go some time, Don José said sententiously. Sooner or later…
— That’s right, said Reynoso. But there’s certain things… Aw, what the hell!
The old man passed a hand across his brow, as if wanting to erase some strange notion. But he could see the question forming in Don José’s affable eyes and he took the plunge:
— Have you seen the deceased?
— Yes, answered Don José. You’d think he was asleep.
— Did you see the suit they dressed him in? insisted Reynoso in a low voice.
Don José looked at him a bit anxiously.
— Yes, he said. A dark suit. What about it?
— It’s the suit he got married in, Reynoso declared. Thirty-two years ago, on a night like this, I helped him into it myself, before we left for the church. The very same suit!
— Hmm! agreed Don José. Now I get it. Well, if you stop to think what a man’s life is…
— Life! Zanetti growled bitterly.
— Bah, life’s a dream, Don José concluded.
Adrift on the gentle current of memory, Reynoso smiled, more at his reminiscences, however, than at his pensive partners in conversation.
— I can still see him! he said. Out on the patio, people calling for him: “The groom, the groom!” And me, trying to get that goddam stiff collar to fit him! Old Juan, he could hardly move in those trousers, he was so used to his baggy gaucho pants.
— Good man on a horse, murmured Don José pensively.
— Who, Juan? Reynoso considered. He was every inch a horseman.
He stroked his mustache with a sunbaked hand.
— Yep, he said. A night just like tonight, must be thirty-two years gone by…
Ah, what a night it was! Guitar, violin, and flute… To the inner rhythmn of a lost mazurka, now recovered in memory, old man Reynoso is replaying the scene: the grand patio with its carpet and tent, and the wedding procession opulent as an Independence Day celebration on the Twenty-Fifth of May, no expenses spared. The two coupés arrive from the church, amid a swarm of kids shrieking “Godfather! Penniless godfather!” He, Reynoso, responds to the ritual challenge by throwing handfuls of pennies; sprays of tinkling metal hit the cobblestones, and the kids swarm after them, snatching coins from beneath the horses’ hooves. Later, the dance begins — guitar, violin, and flute — “Square dance! Choose your partners!” The groom takes the bride, the best man and future godfather takes the godmother, and the young people pair up laughing, hand in hand, eyes looking into eyes. Bravo! The old folks look on from the sidelines and raise glasses filled to the brim. The kids buzz avidly around the tray loaded with a tall tower of sugar, as well as two figurines of barley sugar, a bride and a groom. The musicians are playing like demons — guitar, violin, and flute. Midnight strikes! Yes, the bride must be spirited away! Discreetly. Who by? Reynoso! While Juan waits outside on the street, standing beside a rented horse-and-buggy, Reynoso gives the signal to the musicians, and they play “Waltz Over the Waves”: