penchant for high-society gossip (she had demonstrated as much a few days earlier); and I had a restless, horribly frivolous finger that was completely unconcerned about the high price of international phone calls from hotel rooms. And, quite frankly, there weren’t many other things to do in that heavenly African oasis. Heavenly, silent, and perfect. Like an Egyptian tomb.
At L’Hirondelle d’Or, you see, indulgence is the name of the game: exquisitely appointed tables piled high with delicacies, exotic fruits, and all those beautiful flowers that some invisible hand replaces constantly so that they are always new, always fresh. And we, the guests, were here together, but we kept to ourselves. Bored but smiling, we moved about the place like shadows. Here, everything is always all right, even when nothing at all is all right. It’s true: The worst things often happen precisely when it seems that everything is totally copacetic. Mama, for example. And once again I recall the day of Bertie Molinet’s funeral. Apparently, nothing at all was unusual, for those are the benefits of good breeding: Everything is always all right. During the funeral service, there were neither tears nor heartrending scenes, but that was to be expected: Good breeding means not revealing your pain. Falling to pieces and breaking down in sobs like a Sicilian mourner has always been thought of as extremely low-class, although . . . although now that I think back, there was a little drama at my father’s funeral. But there was an explanation for that, as strange as it may sound. And that is because among this type of people, outward demonstrations of grief are often inversely proportional to the fondness they feel (or felt) for the dead person in question. Now, nobody felt terrifically fond of my father. And when nobody feels anything, when the people who
should
care about the dead person actually feel nothing, a bit of acting is required, because that is what seems appropriate and right. But what happens is that when people start acting, they inevitably get a little carried away. And that is why, very frequently, the funerals of the most despised people can often be real tear-jerkers. Ah, the paradox of good breeding . . .
Even so, Mama, the lady of the lilac eyes, was never once seen crying, nor was she ever spotted averting anyone’s gaze. Not even when her Spanish relatives approached her one by one, the same ones who gossiped in low voices about her life during those last few years before Providence, merciful lady Providence, made her a widow. “Elisa?” they said, not caring if I heard them. “Elisita? Yes, she always lived abroad somewhere, in Paris or London for many years, and in the early days it was first-class all the way. Oh, did they know how to spend money before the war, those rich South Americans—and that’s exactly what Elisa was married to, you know. A Uruguayan, the kind that live all their lives in France and send their children to Swiss boarding schools until one day they suddenly go bankrupt. And then they become a terrible burden to their wives. They come home again and again after who knows how many extramarital affairs. Oh, but what were you saying? You really don’t know how Bertie Molinet died? Well, let me fill you in a little first about the macho man of the River Plate who just passed away in his home in Montevideo, to everyone’s relief . . .” Those were the things they said after my father died.
It is very possible that all this jumping about is confusing to you, but this is exactly how the story began to unfold in my mind. This was precisely the train of thought that led me to think that perhaps I would tell the little widow on the lounge chair that I was half-Spanish—remarks like that always help to break the ice a bit—half-Spanish, half-Uruguayan; or half-Hungarian and half-French. This type of thing was always very useful for fraternizing. Fortunately, I decided against it and chose instead to
At L’Hirondelle d’Or, you see, indulgence is the name of the game: exquisitely appointed tables piled high with delicacies, exotic fruits, and all those beautiful flowers that some invisible hand replaces constantly so that they are always new, always fresh. And we, the guests, were here together, but we kept to ourselves. Bored but smiling, we moved about the place like shadows. Here, everything is always all right, even when nothing at all is all right. It’s true: The worst things often happen precisely when it seems that everything is totally copacetic. Mama, for example. And once again I recall the day of Bertie Molinet’s funeral. Apparently, nothing at all was unusual, for those are the benefits of good breeding: Everything is always all right. During the funeral service, there were neither tears nor heartrending scenes, but that was to be expected: Good breeding means not revealing your pain. Falling to pieces and breaking down in sobs like a Sicilian mourner has always been thought of as extremely low-class, although . . . although now that I think back, there was a little drama at my father’s funeral. But there was an explanation for that, as strange as it may sound. And that is because among this type of people, outward demonstrations of grief are often inversely proportional to the fondness they feel (or felt) for the dead person in question. Now, nobody felt terrifically fond of my father. And when nobody feels anything, when the people who
should
care about the dead person actually feel nothing, a bit of acting is required, because that is what seems appropriate and right. But what happens is that when people start acting, they inevitably get a little carried away. And that is why, very frequently, the funerals of the most despised people can often be real tear-jerkers. Ah, the paradox of good breeding . . .
Even so, Mama, the lady of the lilac eyes, was never once seen crying, nor was she ever spotted averting anyone’s gaze. Not even when her Spanish relatives approached her one by one, the same ones who gossiped in low voices about her life during those last few years before Providence, merciful lady Providence, made her a widow. “Elisa?” they said, not caring if I heard them. “Elisita? Yes, she always lived abroad somewhere, in Paris or London for many years, and in the early days it was first-class all the way. Oh, did they know how to spend money before the war, those rich South Americans—and that’s exactly what Elisa was married to, you know. A Uruguayan, the kind that live all their lives in France and send their children to Swiss boarding schools until one day they suddenly go bankrupt. And then they become a terrible burden to their wives. They come home again and again after who knows how many extramarital affairs. Oh, but what were you saying? You really don’t know how Bertie Molinet died? Well, let me fill you in a little first about the macho man of the River Plate who just passed away in his home in Montevideo, to everyone’s relief . . .” Those were the things they said after my father died.
It is very possible that all this jumping about is confusing to you, but this is exactly how the story began to unfold in my mind. This was precisely the train of thought that led me to think that perhaps I would tell the little widow on the lounge chair that I was half-Spanish—remarks like that always help to break the ice a bit—half-Spanish, half-Uruguayan; or half-Hungarian and half-French. This type of thing was always very useful for fraternizing. Fortunately, I decided against it and chose instead to
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