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
(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
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