The grown-ups helped themselves to two or three ice cubes each, which they put into the good glasses. They were abundantly served with soft drinks and wine, and began to drink immediately. What about the toast? asked Inés Viñas. The first drink’s for thirst, said her brother Raúl. Anyway, remarked Elisa, Roberto still hasn’t arrived. Well, said Raúl, accommodatingly, what about we drink an interim toast? Let’s just wait for the sweat to break out. His joke was a great success, because they had all noticed that almost as soon as the drink went down their throats, they were wet from head to foot. Apparently it was hotter than they had thought. Or perhaps their bodies had dehydrated without them realizing, and now had to go through a phase of re-adaptation. For a moment all of them, even the children, remained still, dripping with perspiration. The climate of Buenos Aires was different; it still had surprises like this in store, although they had been living in it for years. Elisa went back to the kitchen to start preparing the chicken. The children broke the spell, and began to shout and run around again. A big white piece of paper came floating through the still air from somewhere and fell onto the men. Javier Viñas shook it off, and then examined it. With a few precise movements he folded it into a boat; it was a skill he had perfected. He gave it to the children, who had never played with such a big paper boat and immediately wanted some water to float it in. How could we get enough water? asked Carmen. Put it in the pool, suggested Javier, and when they fill it up, it’ll float. So they did, for a bit of fun, and since fun always finds a way to go on, the older cousins climbed down the metal ladder into the pool, although they had been forbidden to do so, on the pretext that the boat had fallen on its side, and they wanted to leave it upright, waiting for the flood. Rock music emerged from a neighboring house.
When Elisa looked out from the kitchen, Raúl Viñas seized the opportunity to propose a first toast. He called his wife, and since there was a general desire to formalize the little ceremony, everyone, including the children, picked up their refilled cups and glasses. All eyes converged on the host, who had lifted his glass and was gazing absently at the wine. We’re waiting, said Javier. Raúl Viñas raised his eyebrows, as if he were about to speak, yet a few seconds of silence ensued. Could he have been thinking? Possibly, because when he finally uttered the toast, they were struck by its aptness. He said simply, “To the year.” And they all approved. If it had been a year of happiness, it was worth drinking to. And if not, it didn’t matter, because the three words had a deeper or higher meaning: the prodigious gift of a year’s time, loved and respected by all. But it had been a year of happiness, thought Patri, and in that sense the toast concealed a secret, not shared by the others, known only to them, Elisa, Raúl and Patri (the children didn’t count, although they were an essential component of the happiness). The others were left out, but they didn’t know. It was immediately suggested that the children should also propose toasts, and Patri was invited to open the proceedings, as the oldest member of the next generation, so, without much thought, she said: To my mom and dad. Then, thinking that the last word of the sentence might lead to confusion between her progenitor, “the best man in the world,” and Raúl Viñas, she added: “That is, Raúl Viñas.” This was considered very fitting; the grown-ups smiled. The children followed her example, each proposing a toast, “To my mom and dad, that is Raúl (or Javier) Viñas,” even baby Jacqueline, who babbled it out, parroting the words of her siblings and cousins. The adults listened seriously right to the end, smiling a little as well. Then they knocked back the wine. The conversations began again, with an extra degree of joy and liveliness.
But Patri went on worrying that she had put her foot in it. She hadn’t; on the contrary, if she had been able to read the adults’ thoughts, she would have seen that she had their full approval. But it wasn’t what she had said that was worrying her so much as a familiar yet troubling anxiety, which had been mounting for a few minutes. It was like approaching the void. She left her glass on the ground and walked over to the edge of the pool, on the bottom of which the giant paper boat was lying, forgotten now, right in the middle, on the dry cement. She walked all the way around the pool until she came to the rear of the building. From there, the sunset was visible, becoming intensely yellow and red. The sun was setting, and the year was setting. The “Year of Happiness,” as Raúl Viñas had suggested. They had drunk the sun in one gulp, and the originator of the toast had a special reason for doing so: it wasn’t just that he had spent the year drinking, or even that he was going to continue from now until midnight; the reason was that drinking allowed him to stretch time, without in any way altering its punctuality and precision. Also, by virtue of a curious linguistic habit, “New Year” was an instant, twelve midnight, the minute when the sirens went off. And happiness was, precisely, an instant, not a year.
When Patri lowered her eyes, still dazzled from looking directly at the sun, she thought she saw human-shaped shadows flying through the air and into the sixth floor, just below her feet. Who could they be? Her anxiety gave way naturally to a feeling of curiosity, and she could see no reason to suppress it. So she continued her circuit of the pool, walking along the other side now, more quickly, heading for the stairwell. To get there she had to pass in front of the others, who were chatting away noisily, but no one noticed her. She went down the stairs. Although the sixth floor was empty, it seemed different. In the several minutes or half-hour since she had come up with Inés, the configuration of light had changed. The shadows had thickened toward the front, and an intense yellow light was coming in from the back, through the passageways. The perfection of the silence was accentuated by the faint, far-sounding noise of conversation and laughter coming from the terrace above. Paradoxically, a frightening intimation of the unknown was creeping in from the bright side.