fortunate she happened to come here, because we specialize in cases requiring a firm hand.” Then he warned him about María’s strange obsession with the telephone.
“Humor her,” he said.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Saturno said with a cheerful air. “That’s my specialty.”
The visiting room, a combination of prison cell and confessional, was the former locutory of the convent. Saturno’s entrance was not the explosion of joy they both might have expected. María stood in the middle of the room, next to a small table with two chairs and a vase empty of flowers. It was obvious she was ready to leave, with her lamentable strawberry-colored coat and a pair of disreputable shoes given to her out of charity. Herculina stood in a corner, almost invisible, her arms folded. María did not move when she saw her husband come in, and her face, still marked by the shattered window glass, showed no emotion. They exchanged routine kisses.
“How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Happy you’re here at last, baby,” she said. “This has been death.”
They did not have time to sit down. Drowning in tears, María told him about the miseries of the cloister, thebrutality of the matrons, the food not fit for dogs, the endless nights when terror kept her from closing her eyes.
“I don’t even know how many days I’ve been here, or how many months or years, all I know is that each one has been worse than the last,” and she sighed with all her soul. “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”
“That’s all over now,” he said, caressing the recent scars on her face with his fingertips. “I’ll come every Saturday. More often than that, if the director lets me. You’ll see, everything will turn out just fine.”
She fixed her terrified eyes on his. Saturno tried to use his performer’s charm. He told her, in the puerile tone of all great lies, a sweetened version of the doctor’s prognosis. “It means,” he concluded, “that you still need a few more days to make a complete recovery.” María understood the truth.
“For God’s sake, baby,” she said, stunned. “Don’t tell me you think I’m crazy too!”
“The things you think of!” he said, trying to laugh. “But it really will be much better for everybody if you stay here a while. Under better conditions, of course.”
“But I’ve already told you I only came to use the phone!” said María.
He did not know how to react to her dreadful obsession. He looked at Herculina. She took advantage of the opportunity to point at her wristwatch as a sign that it was time to end the visit. María intercepted the signal, glanced behind her, and saw Herculina tensing for an imminent attack. Then she clung to her husband’s neck, screaming like a real madwoman. He freed himself with as much love as he could muster, and left her to themercies of Herculina, who jumped her from behind. Without giving María time to react, she applied an armlock with her left hand, put her other iron arm around her throat, and shouted at Saturno the Magician:
“Leave!”
Saturno fled in terror.
But on the following Saturday, when he had recovered from the shock of the visit, he returned to the sanatorium with the cat, which he had dressed in an outfit identical to his: the red-and-yellow tights of the great Leotardo, a top hat, and a swirling cape that seemed made for flying. He drove the circus van into the courtyard of the cloister, and there he put on a prodigious show lasting almost three hours, which the inmates enjoyed from the balconies with discordant shouts and inopportune applause. They were all there except María, who not only refused to receive her husband but would not even watch him from the balconies. Saturno felt wounded to the quick.
“It is a typical reaction,” the director consoled him. “It will pass.”
But it never passed. After attempting many times to see María again, Saturno did all he could to have her accept a letter from him, but to
“Humor her,” he said.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Saturno said with a cheerful air. “That’s my specialty.”
The visiting room, a combination of prison cell and confessional, was the former locutory of the convent. Saturno’s entrance was not the explosion of joy they both might have expected. María stood in the middle of the room, next to a small table with two chairs and a vase empty of flowers. It was obvious she was ready to leave, with her lamentable strawberry-colored coat and a pair of disreputable shoes given to her out of charity. Herculina stood in a corner, almost invisible, her arms folded. María did not move when she saw her husband come in, and her face, still marked by the shattered window glass, showed no emotion. They exchanged routine kisses.
“How do you feel?” he asked her.
“Happy you’re here at last, baby,” she said. “This has been death.”
They did not have time to sit down. Drowning in tears, María told him about the miseries of the cloister, thebrutality of the matrons, the food not fit for dogs, the endless nights when terror kept her from closing her eyes.
“I don’t even know how many days I’ve been here, or how many months or years, all I know is that each one has been worse than the last,” and she sighed with all her soul. “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”
“That’s all over now,” he said, caressing the recent scars on her face with his fingertips. “I’ll come every Saturday. More often than that, if the director lets me. You’ll see, everything will turn out just fine.”
She fixed her terrified eyes on his. Saturno tried to use his performer’s charm. He told her, in the puerile tone of all great lies, a sweetened version of the doctor’s prognosis. “It means,” he concluded, “that you still need a few more days to make a complete recovery.” María understood the truth.
“For God’s sake, baby,” she said, stunned. “Don’t tell me you think I’m crazy too!”
“The things you think of!” he said, trying to laugh. “But it really will be much better for everybody if you stay here a while. Under better conditions, of course.”
“But I’ve already told you I only came to use the phone!” said María.
He did not know how to react to her dreadful obsession. He looked at Herculina. She took advantage of the opportunity to point at her wristwatch as a sign that it was time to end the visit. María intercepted the signal, glanced behind her, and saw Herculina tensing for an imminent attack. Then she clung to her husband’s neck, screaming like a real madwoman. He freed himself with as much love as he could muster, and left her to themercies of Herculina, who jumped her from behind. Without giving María time to react, she applied an armlock with her left hand, put her other iron arm around her throat, and shouted at Saturno the Magician:
“Leave!”
Saturno fled in terror.
But on the following Saturday, when he had recovered from the shock of the visit, he returned to the sanatorium with the cat, which he had dressed in an outfit identical to his: the red-and-yellow tights of the great Leotardo, a top hat, and a swirling cape that seemed made for flying. He drove the circus van into the courtyard of the cloister, and there he put on a prodigious show lasting almost three hours, which the inmates enjoyed from the balconies with discordant shouts and inopportune applause. They were all there except María, who not only refused to receive her husband but would not even watch him from the balconies. Saturno felt wounded to the quick.
“It is a typical reaction,” the director consoled him. “It will pass.”
But it never passed. After attempting many times to see María again, Saturno did all he could to have her accept a letter from him, but to
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