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Authors: Mario Vargas Llosa
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the Costanera. “Doesn’t it seem like a game, a play, a masquerade? Well, I don’t know what, but not something that actually happens in real life.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” her husband agreed. “This morning’s show seemed unreal to me. Well, now Ismael and Armida are leaving to have a good time. And be free of what’s coming, what’s going to happen to those of us who stay here, I mean. The best thing would be if we left soon for Europe. Why not move up our trip, Lucrecia?”
“No, we can’t, not while we have this problem with Fonchito,” said Lucrecia. “Wouldn’t you feel bad about going away now, leaving him alone, when his mind’s so confused?”
“Of course I would,” Don Rigoberto corrected himself. “If it weren’t for those damn appearances, I’d have bought our tickets by now. You don’t know how I’m looking forward to this trip, Lucrecia. I’ve studied the itinerary with a magnifying glass down to the smallest detail. You’re going to love it, you’ll see.”
“The twins won’t find out until tomorrow, when they see the notice,” Lucrecia calculated. “When they learn the lovebirds have flown, the first person they’ll ask for an explanation is you, I’m positive.”
“Of course they’ll ask me,” Rigoberto agreed. “But since that won’t happen until tomorrow, let’s have a day of total peace and tranquility today. Let’s not talk about the hyenas again, please.”
They tried. They didn’t mention Ismael Carrera’s sons at all at lunch, or that afternoon, or at dinner. When Fonchito came home from school, they told him about the wedding. The boy, who since his encounters with Edilberto Torres always seemed distracted, absorbed in his own thoughts, didn’t seem to think the news was so important. He listened to them, smiled to be polite, and went to his room because, he said, he had a lot of homework to do. But even though Rigoberto and Lucrecia didn’t mention the twins for the rest of the day, they both knew that no matter what they did, or what they talked about, that uneasiness at the back of their minds remained: How would the twins react when they found out about their father’s wedding? It wouldn’t be a civilized, rational reaction, of course, because the brothers weren’t civilized or rational; there was a reason they were called hyenas, a perfect nickname given to them in their neighborhood when they were still in short pants.
After dinner, Rigoberto went to his study and prepared, once again, to make one of the comparisons he loved so much because they absorbed his attention and made him forget everything else. This time he listened to two recordings of one of his favorite pieces of music, the Brahms Concerto No. 2 for Piano and Orchestra, op. 83, played by the Berlin Philharmonic, conducted in the first instance by Claudio Abbado, with Maurizio Pollini as soloist, and in the second with Sir Simon Rattle as conductor and Yefim Bronfman at the piano. Both versions were superb. He’d never been able to decide unequivocally for one or the other; each time he’d find that both, being different, were equally excellent. But tonight something happened to him with Bronfman’s interpretation at the beginning of the second movement—Allegro appassionato—that settled it: He felt his eyes fill with tears. He’d rarely wept listening to a concerto: Was it Brahms, or the pianist, or the emotion caused in him by the day’s events?
When it was time for bed, he felt as he’d wished to: very tired and totally serene. Ismael, Armida, the hyenas, Edilberto Torres seemed distant, far behind him, banished. Would he fall asleep, then, right away? What a hope. After spending some time tossing and turning in bed, in the room that was almost dark except for the lamp on Lucrecia’s night table, he was still wide awake, and then, seized by a sudden inspiration, he asked his wife in a very quiet voice, “Sweetheart, haven’t you wondered about Ismael and
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” her husband agreed. “This morning’s show seemed unreal to me. Well, now Ismael and Armida are leaving to have a good time. And be free of what’s coming, what’s going to happen to those of us who stay here, I mean. The best thing would be if we left soon for Europe. Why not move up our trip, Lucrecia?”
“No, we can’t, not while we have this problem with Fonchito,” said Lucrecia. “Wouldn’t you feel bad about going away now, leaving him alone, when his mind’s so confused?”
“Of course I would,” Don Rigoberto corrected himself. “If it weren’t for those damn appearances, I’d have bought our tickets by now. You don’t know how I’m looking forward to this trip, Lucrecia. I’ve studied the itinerary with a magnifying glass down to the smallest detail. You’re going to love it, you’ll see.”
“The twins won’t find out until tomorrow, when they see the notice,” Lucrecia calculated. “When they learn the lovebirds have flown, the first person they’ll ask for an explanation is you, I’m positive.”
“Of course they’ll ask me,” Rigoberto agreed. “But since that won’t happen until tomorrow, let’s have a day of total peace and tranquility today. Let’s not talk about the hyenas again, please.”
They tried. They didn’t mention Ismael Carrera’s sons at all at lunch, or that afternoon, or at dinner. When Fonchito came home from school, they told him about the wedding. The boy, who since his encounters with Edilberto Torres always seemed distracted, absorbed in his own thoughts, didn’t seem to think the news was so important. He listened to them, smiled to be polite, and went to his room because, he said, he had a lot of homework to do. But even though Rigoberto and Lucrecia didn’t mention the twins for the rest of the day, they both knew that no matter what they did, or what they talked about, that uneasiness at the back of their minds remained: How would the twins react when they found out about their father’s wedding? It wouldn’t be a civilized, rational reaction, of course, because the brothers weren’t civilized or rational; there was a reason they were called hyenas, a perfect nickname given to them in their neighborhood when they were still in short pants.
After dinner, Rigoberto went to his study and prepared, once again, to make one of the comparisons he loved so much because they absorbed his attention and made him forget everything else. This time he listened to two recordings of one of his favorite pieces of music, the Brahms Concerto No. 2 for Piano and Orchestra, op. 83, played by the Berlin Philharmonic, conducted in the first instance by Claudio Abbado, with Maurizio Pollini as soloist, and in the second with Sir Simon Rattle as conductor and Yefim Bronfman at the piano. Both versions were superb. He’d never been able to decide unequivocally for one or the other; each time he’d find that both, being different, were equally excellent. But tonight something happened to him with Bronfman’s interpretation at the beginning of the second movement—Allegro appassionato—that settled it: He felt his eyes fill with tears. He’d rarely wept listening to a concerto: Was it Brahms, or the pianist, or the emotion caused in him by the day’s events?
When it was time for bed, he felt as he’d wished to: very tired and totally serene. Ismael, Armida, the hyenas, Edilberto Torres seemed distant, far behind him, banished. Would he fall asleep, then, right away? What a hope. After spending some time tossing and turning in bed, in the room that was almost dark except for the lamp on Lucrecia’s night table, he was still wide awake, and then, seized by a sudden inspiration, he asked his wife in a very quiet voice, “Sweetheart, haven’t you wondered about Ismael and
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