observe the prevailing vow of silence, at least until I could ascertain a few basic facts about the woman through Fernanda, who knows everything that goes on in Madrid and is so very up-do-date on these sorts of trivialities. And I definitely did not harbor the least bit of suspicion that the lovely lady lying by the pool had anything to do with the story my niece had told me in London. No, no, I just wanted to know a bit more about her tastes, her habits—one needs a few basic facts, after all, to embark on a proper conversation: “Good afternoon, how are you? There isn’t much to do here, is there? I don’t suppose I could tempt you with a game of backgammon?” That was what I thought of saying to her, and there was no doubt in my mind that this could be the start of a very . . . let’s say
fruitful
relationship.
Now, I am not a writer, nor am I a psychologist, nor am I a playboy in the strict sense of the word, but at that moment I did get the feeling that it would be very much worth my while to keep my eyes and ears open. And I am happy to say that I was not mistaken. Everything I am about to tell you happened as if Providence herself had wished to stage, for my exclusive viewing pleasure, one of those incredible stories that always befall the very best of families—a story complete with dirty laundry, subterfuge, betrayals . . . oh yes, this story had everything. Naturally, I am not going to describe it exactly as it unfolded before my eyes, for then my story would be far too erratic and confusing. Insofar as it is possible, I will try my best to leave out the little details and I will intersperse the various situations, combining more recent ones with older ones, mixing in Fernanda’s information with some of my own conclusions . . . after all, isn’t that what writers do? They are so very devilish. And I can do it just as well as they do. The writer always has the upper hand, after all, because he knows the ending of his story. And I too know how this story ends, which makes it easy for me to make all the pieces fit, every last one, unlike the way things happen in real life. Real life, after all, is nothing but a succession of random stories that never really come to a close until you die. And then, of course, you aren’t around to tell how the stories end, and who really gives a damn about them, anyway? But enough with all this mystery. Let us now go back to our starting point, so that we may begin the story in a logical fashion. As I was saying just before, on the morning of October thirteenth, Mercedes Algorta and I were alone by the pool, and my dog—a very sociable dog, I must say—approached the lady with the most innocent air.
“Viens ici, chou chou,”
I immediately called out to him. This did not seem an appropriate moment for introductions. I wanted to wait, so that I could speak with Fernanda first.
It was in this tone, with a sophisticated sort of detachment that seemed quite appropriate to the situation, that Rafael Molinet Rojas began to tell the story of all that happened during his stay at L’Hirondelle d’Or. And it went more or less as follows . . .
The Dinner
The primary circumstances under which a woman mayappear in public are the following: city errands (shopping, attending mass, etc.), strolls, social visits, dinners, receptions, and entertainment events. Unless she is absolutely alone (in other words, only when she is in her own home), the elegant woman must always take special care with regard to her appearance, so as not to suffer the indignity of being caught by surprise in a situation of extreme
déshabillé.
—Countess Drillard,
On Being Elegant, On Being Lovely
(from the nineteenth-century French edition)
October 14: The First Dinner
She had decided to dress for the occasion: black pants, white silk shirt with three pleats in the middle, very little jewelry aside from two small pearl bobby pins that were far more valuable than they appeared, and a
fruitful
relationship.
Now, I am not a writer, nor am I a psychologist, nor am I a playboy in the strict sense of the word, but at that moment I did get the feeling that it would be very much worth my while to keep my eyes and ears open. And I am happy to say that I was not mistaken. Everything I am about to tell you happened as if Providence herself had wished to stage, for my exclusive viewing pleasure, one of those incredible stories that always befall the very best of families—a story complete with dirty laundry, subterfuge, betrayals . . . oh yes, this story had everything. Naturally, I am not going to describe it exactly as it unfolded before my eyes, for then my story would be far too erratic and confusing. Insofar as it is possible, I will try my best to leave out the little details and I will intersperse the various situations, combining more recent ones with older ones, mixing in Fernanda’s information with some of my own conclusions . . . after all, isn’t that what writers do? They are so very devilish. And I can do it just as well as they do. The writer always has the upper hand, after all, because he knows the ending of his story. And I too know how this story ends, which makes it easy for me to make all the pieces fit, every last one, unlike the way things happen in real life. Real life, after all, is nothing but a succession of random stories that never really come to a close until you die. And then, of course, you aren’t around to tell how the stories end, and who really gives a damn about them, anyway? But enough with all this mystery. Let us now go back to our starting point, so that we may begin the story in a logical fashion. As I was saying just before, on the morning of October thirteenth, Mercedes Algorta and I were alone by the pool, and my dog—a very sociable dog, I must say—approached the lady with the most innocent air.
“Viens ici, chou chou,”
I immediately called out to him. This did not seem an appropriate moment for introductions. I wanted to wait, so that I could speak with Fernanda first.
It was in this tone, with a sophisticated sort of detachment that seemed quite appropriate to the situation, that Rafael Molinet Rojas began to tell the story of all that happened during his stay at L’Hirondelle d’Or. And it went more or less as follows . . .
The Dinner
The primary circumstances under which a woman mayappear in public are the following: city errands (shopping, attending mass, etc.), strolls, social visits, dinners, receptions, and entertainment events. Unless she is absolutely alone (in other words, only when she is in her own home), the elegant woman must always take special care with regard to her appearance, so as not to suffer the indignity of being caught by surprise in a situation of extreme
déshabillé.
—Countess Drillard,
On Being Elegant, On Being Lovely
(from the nineteenth-century French edition)
October 14: The First Dinner
She had decided to dress for the occasion: black pants, white silk shirt with three pleats in the middle, very little jewelry aside from two small pearl bobby pins that were far more valuable than they appeared, and a
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