At that moment, a typical Argentinean beauty walked past: broad weight-lifter’s shoulders, pumped-up breasts, narrow hips (viewed from the front, because side-on she was markedly steatopygous), dark skin, almost like an African, indigenous features with certain oriental characteristics, thick protuberant lips, black hair dyed a reddish color, a very short denim skirt showing off her long, strong, lustrous legs, sandals, which she was dragging along languorously, and a key-ring dangling from her hand. Inés and Patri, petite and delicate, slipped past her like two ants beside an elephant. The Argentinean woman didn’t even look at them; her big, dark Japanese eyes were half closed, and she wore an expression of disdain. That’s what they’re like, said Inés Viñas when they were certain distance away. What do they do if they can’t get a real man, smack his head off or something? Patri didn’t reply, but the image of a real man without a head remained with her for a few steps. Inés added: We don’t have that athletic determination…. and, besides, we can’t dress like that, there aren’t any clothes that suit us that well. Then Patri said softly: It’s because we’re different. We’re Chilean.
Before going in, Inés pointed out an old red and white van covered with mud, parked on the opposite pavement, a certain distance away. Isn’t that Javier’s? she asked. Yes, it was. What a wreck! Then both of them thought: They’ve arrived. A pretty straightforward deduction, really.
Any doubts they might have had disappeared when they went in: an unusual racket of children’s voices was echoing down from the top floors. Not that Javier and his wife Carmen had lots of children (they had two and were expecting a third); it was because of the multiplying effect that children produce when they get together. Right now, said Inés, I’d appreciate an elevator. Each of them was carrying a bag of ice. Patri glanced at the electric clock hanging from the beam on the ground floor: it was seven twenty-five. Two ghosts were floating in the air, in line with each of the clock’s hands: because of the time, they were both head down, like the branches of a Christmas tree. Come on, or it’ll all melt, said Inés. What’s the hurry? It’s going to melt anyway.
As they climbed the stairs, Patri, who had been thinking about what they had said when the Argentinean woman went past, asked: Don’t you think they’re more vulgar? Inés Viñas didn’t want to be categorical, although it was perfectly obvious what Patri was thinking: Well, my girl, they’re different, just like you said. To us they seem primitive, savage, like those tribes…. For example, they have codes of appearance: you can always tell at a glance whether an Argentinean woman is married or single; it’s as if they put a bone through their nose when they got married, or shaved their heads, or something like that. But with us…. we all seem married, or all single, if you like. We’re always the same. Patri agreed as they climbed the stairs.
The situation on the terrace had changed substantially. The assembly of women had become a general meeting, buzzing with attention, tacit family understandings, news, the roughness of men, and a good quantity of joy. For a start, they had taken some chairs from the dining room to a part of the terrace shaded by the neighboring building. It was even possible to imagine that a cooler breeze was beginning to stir, but that was just the impression naturally created by open air and altitude combined. Here’s the ice! cried Raúl Viñas. Javier Viñas stood up to greet the women. He was thinner than his brother, and taller too, although still short, more reserved, more distinguished-looking, but he also smiled more and had a more affectionate manner, although he was not so mysterious; perhaps, all in all, he was more ordinary. He hugged his sister and then addressed an elaborate greeting to Patri, with whom all the family were especially polite. Raúl Viñas had risen to his feet to greet his sister and apologized for having been asleep when she arrived. Carmen Larraín, Javier’s wife, also exchanged salutations with her sister-in-law and Patri, while her children, Pablo and Enrique, paragons of politeness, patiently waited their turn. What about Roberto? Carmen asked Inés Viñas. He’ll be right along. They proceeded to talk about him in his absence. Unlike the hosts, Carmen and Javier had met Roberto. They lavished praise upon him, while the interested party expressed prudent reservations. Roberto was a Chilean-Argentinean, a traveling salesman for a small cigarette paper manufacturer. The engagement had been formalized only a few weeks before; they were planning to get married at the end of the coming year, which would begin in a few hours’ time. The Viñas brothers (Inés was the youngest child, by a fair margin; Raúl and Javier were twins) were observing the developments with interest. A man’s entry into the family was apparently more important than a woman’s; they had each brought a woman in already, and in Raúl’s case, a prior daughter as welclass="underline" Patri, that enigmatic supplement. In fact the opposite was true, but the apparent was more important that the real. They considered the prospect at leisure, in a gentle, affectionate, futile way, since it was one of those things that is only a matter of time (which are the things that make time matter). With all the chatting it got quite noisy up there, thirty yards above street level. The presence of the men made a difference: it was more international, not as strictly Chilean as when the women had been talking amongst themselves, less of an artificial enclave, not so much a gathering of exiles, and yet at the same time more Chilean too, in a certain way. Differences like that made the women feel that the men were irreplaceable.
Elisa took the bags into the kitchen, and Carmen Larraín went with her, asking the usual question: Did she need any help? It was customary to reply in the negative. Raúl Viñas had suggested that they bring glasses for the first toast. Your husband’s eyes are so red, dear, said Carmen, they’re like slices of raw ham. Elisa laughed uproariously. Her sister-in-law was renowned for her witticisms. In case it wasn’t obvious, she explained that he had been celebrating with his workmates at lunchtime. Ah, well, it’s understandable then. Of course it is! A transition: Tell me, what are you cooking? Oh, nothing special, chicken, and the salads there, see what I bought. Perfect, perfect, said Carmen Larraín without even looking. Who’s hungry in this weather? Hey, what do your kids like? Everything, but they don’t eat much; don’t make anything special for them. You’ve brought them up so well, your kids, said Elisa Vicuña. Mine just refuse to eat. Wait till they grow a bit, dear. I guess that’s all I can do: wait. They laughed. Patri came in, like a shadow. Her mother asked her to take out cups for all the children and put an ice cube in each one. The girl counted out six orange plastic cups and placed them on a tray of gold-colored cardboard. The mothers started talking about Carmen’s pregnancy. The experience of pregnancy was always interesting; though repeated often enough to be envisaged by all women, it still retained an exceptional character, which set it apart from, and above, normal repetitions. Outside, the men were talking about oceanography: the return of the catastrophic El Niño current. The children rushed for the cups, and were disappointed to find that they contained only little ice cubes, and nothing to drink. Reluctant to waste the opportunity to do something, they started shaking the cups to make a noise, and naturally some ice came out and fell on the floor. Inés Viñas called them to order and took them all to a tap so they could rinse off the cubes, which were covered with dust. Even those who hadn’t dropped their ice wanted to rinse it. I’m bringing the Coke, said Patri. Hey, Patricita, bring our glasses, don’t forget, will you, said Raúl Viñas. She smiled: Mom brought them already. What a good girl, remarked Javier. The heat seemed to have diminished with the approach of night. Perhaps it hadn’t really, but at least the light was not so harsh. Elongated shadows hung in the air above them, and the sun was sinking toward their homeland.