presence the least uneasiness or give the least sign of a troubled conscience. “Things can’t be this simple, nor everything turn out this well,” she said to herself. And yet, thus far, they were just that simple, and everything was turning out exactly right. How much longer would this fantasy of perfect harmony last? She told herself once more that if she went about things intelligently and cautiously, nothing would intervene to shatter the dream-come-true that life had turned out to be for her. She was certain, moreover, that if this complicated situation went on, Don Rigoberto would be the fortunate beneficiary of her happiness. But, as always when she thought about this, a presentiment cast its shadow over the Utopia: things turn out this way only in novels and in the movies, woman. Be realistic: sooner or later, the whole thing will end badly. Reality is never as perfect as fiction, Lucrecia.
“No, we still have time enough, my love. It’s more than two hours still before the plane from Piura is due in. Provided it’s on schedule.”
“Well then, I’m going to sleep for a while. I feel so lazy.” The youngster yawned. Leaning to one side, he sought the heat of Doña Lucrecia’s body and lay his head on her shoulder. A moment later, he purred in a muffled voice: “Do you think if I get highest honors over everyone at the end of the school year, my papa will buy me the motorcycle I asked him for?”
“Yes, he’ll buy it for you,” she answered, hugging him gently, cooing to him as to a newborn babe. “If he doesn’t, don’t worry. I’ll buy it for you.”
As Fonchito slept, breathing slowly—she could feel, like echoes in her body, his symmetrical heartbeats—Doña Lucrecia, immersed in a peaceful drowsiness, stayed still so as not to awaken him. Half dissolved in dreams, her mind wandered amid a parade of images, but every so often one of them swam into focus in her consciousness, surrounded by a suggestive halo: the painting in the living room. What the boy had told her worried her a little and filled her with a mysterious malaise, for in that childish fantasy were hints of unsuspected depths and a morbid acuteness of insight.
Later, after getting up and eating breakfast, while Alfonsito took a shower, she went down to the living room and stood contemplating the Szyszlo for a long time. It was as if she had never seen it before, as if the painting, like a serpent or a butterfly, had changed appearance and nature. That little boy is something to be taken seriously, she thought, troubled. What other surprises might lie hidden in that little head of a Hellenic demigod? That night, after picking Don Rigoberto up at the airport and listening to his account of the trip, they opened the presents he had brought back for her and the boy (as he did on every trip), and told him how pleased they were with them: cream custard, whistles, and two finely woven straw hats from Catacaos. Then the three of them had dinner together, like a happy family.
The couple retired to their bedroom at an early hour. Don Rigoberto’s ablutions were briefer than usual. On joining each other in bed once more, husband and wife embraced passionately, as after a prolonged separation (in reality, just three days and two nights). That was how it had always been, ever since they’d been married. But after the initial caracoles in the darkness, when, faithful to the nightly liturgy, Don Rigoberto expectantly murmured: “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?” he heard this time an answer that broke the tacit pact: “No. You ask me, instead.” There was an astonished pause, like a freeze frame in a film. But a few seconds later Don Rigoberto, a respecter of ritual, caught on and inquired eagerly: “Who, then, are you, darling?” “The woman in the painting in the living room, the abstract painting,” she replied. There was another pause, a little laugh, half annoyed and half disappointed, a long electric silence. “This is
“No, we still have time enough, my love. It’s more than two hours still before the plane from Piura is due in. Provided it’s on schedule.”
“Well then, I’m going to sleep for a while. I feel so lazy.” The youngster yawned. Leaning to one side, he sought the heat of Doña Lucrecia’s body and lay his head on her shoulder. A moment later, he purred in a muffled voice: “Do you think if I get highest honors over everyone at the end of the school year, my papa will buy me the motorcycle I asked him for?”
“Yes, he’ll buy it for you,” she answered, hugging him gently, cooing to him as to a newborn babe. “If he doesn’t, don’t worry. I’ll buy it for you.”
As Fonchito slept, breathing slowly—she could feel, like echoes in her body, his symmetrical heartbeats—Doña Lucrecia, immersed in a peaceful drowsiness, stayed still so as not to awaken him. Half dissolved in dreams, her mind wandered amid a parade of images, but every so often one of them swam into focus in her consciousness, surrounded by a suggestive halo: the painting in the living room. What the boy had told her worried her a little and filled her with a mysterious malaise, for in that childish fantasy were hints of unsuspected depths and a morbid acuteness of insight.
Later, after getting up and eating breakfast, while Alfonsito took a shower, she went down to the living room and stood contemplating the Szyszlo for a long time. It was as if she had never seen it before, as if the painting, like a serpent or a butterfly, had changed appearance and nature. That little boy is something to be taken seriously, she thought, troubled. What other surprises might lie hidden in that little head of a Hellenic demigod? That night, after picking Don Rigoberto up at the airport and listening to his account of the trip, they opened the presents he had brought back for her and the boy (as he did on every trip), and told him how pleased they were with them: cream custard, whistles, and two finely woven straw hats from Catacaos. Then the three of them had dinner together, like a happy family.
The couple retired to their bedroom at an early hour. Don Rigoberto’s ablutions were briefer than usual. On joining each other in bed once more, husband and wife embraced passionately, as after a prolonged separation (in reality, just three days and two nights). That was how it had always been, ever since they’d been married. But after the initial caracoles in the darkness, when, faithful to the nightly liturgy, Don Rigoberto expectantly murmured: “Aren’t you going to ask me who I am?” he heard this time an answer that broke the tacit pact: “No. You ask me, instead.” There was an astonished pause, like a freeze frame in a film. But a few seconds later Don Rigoberto, a respecter of ritual, caught on and inquired eagerly: “Who, then, are you, darling?” “The woman in the painting in the living room, the abstract painting,” she replied. There was another pause, a little laugh, half annoyed and half disappointed, a long electric silence. “This is
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