“Ernesto, Ernesto, come here,” said the director of the newspaper’s voice.
The child approached, the man seated on the armchair reached the edge, encircled the thin waist of the boy who was still smiling. The thick and hairy hand of the man was making pleats of silk on Ernesto’s bent body, everyone seated was doing nothing in the green room, smiling, watching. Everyone was waiting to say something funny and didn’t know what, they were waiting seated.
“Ernesto,” the director of the newspaper said at last leisurely, “do you know about the importance of being Ernesto?”
The boy was smiling vaguely in reply looking at the wall behind the man, everyone laughed discreetly, a few closed their eyes, quaking. Irene was wanting somehow to thank him, was laughing louder; afraid the newspaper director would think he hadn’t been understood, she said disappointed at the end of a fake and tender laugh:
“Oscar Wilde. . .”
The director of the newspaper fell silent but his eyes still resting on Ernesto transformed imperceptibly, froze in order to reveal nothing. Ernesto was smiling. The room was suddenly decaying like face powder toasting the skin, eyesight tiring, the lamp losing strength — Irene had a hurried movement:
“Say good night to everyone, Ernesto!”
Without pleasure everyone squeezed Ernesto’s warm little hand as he was smiling and stopping in the middle of the room without knowing what to do next. His wide eyes were blinking, serious by now.
“So?” asked Irene laughing with irritation.
The boy looked at her, said inexplicably, out loud:
“Yes . . .” — a kind of red splotch arose around one eye, Irene slightly defenseless observed the dark stain; she was seeming to seek the most humble guest in search of support, said with a difficult smile to Virgínia:
“He’s sometimes so sensitive.”
“Yes, yes,” said Virgínia laughing too much.
“Say good night to everyone now!” repeated Irene feeling that everything had been lost. The abandoned boy was insisting on looking at them waiting. So funny, said the fattest woman. His father, between the director of the newspaper and Vicente, tall, was watching the scene with quick and anguished eyes, Irene was looking for him for a second, the family was coming undone in front of the guests. Irene pushed the child sweetly out of the room. When Ernesto disappeared she turned around, straightened herself up by smoothing the dress over her thin and suddenly inelegant body; everyone was seeming to demand the conclusion, she laughed, said loudly in an appeal: he was tired . . . Ah, yes, of course, naturally, some voices said quickly. The drinks were preventing her from letting the events connect to one another by visible paths but made them follow one another in soft, oblivious, tepidly doomed jumps. She shouldn’t drink, she’d fainted today, it could happen again — and as if fainting had a secret meaning, she couldn’t stand passing out if she wasn’t alone; and returning from the dizziness opening her eyes and not understanding. And so, all of a sudden there they were in the dining room near the ridiculous table, entirely square atop fat bow legs. And one of the women, astute, daringly alive, threw a quick arrow in her direction:
“And your brother? your nice Daniel?”
But before she could finish opening her mouth in a smile, someone replied for her and her mouth once again closed in a smile. Someone was adding: he got married so long ago, my God! with a girl from a fine family. She wasn’t needing to talk much, she’d only been invited because of Vicente. Nobody was expecting anything from her body except for it to eat discreetly using the napkin, smiling. Nice Daniel. So the way she liked him surpassed her powers with difficulty and pain. What she desired with her uniform, ardent, and martyred heart was to die before he did, never to witness him losing the world, never, never, my God — she was looking at a spot on the wall with glassy and luminous eyes. And suddenly she felt frozen and brutish: and if he were dying now? why not, idiot?! can’t anything happen? it can, yes it can, idiot! she stopped short stiff, squeezed her heart with both hands looking toward any spot with care and delicateness. Hearing the sounds around her she was aware that if she started suffering they would all dangerously take their distance running, eating and laughing, forever far in a warm hallucination, intangible. She was waiting. From the soft noise itself was coming a dizzy and confused feeling that present life was greater than death and each instant that went by without bringing it was laughing out of fear — almost pacified, afraid, she was drinking a bit of wine: he was alive. He was alive. And he was so brave. He wouldn’t do anything but he was brave like a demon, like a conqueror. He would never bother to save, maybe, even a child but he was generous just as she would live even without bothering. And so proud . . . there was not one thing he didn’t think he could do but by some mysterious force he wouldn’t do anything. She saw across from her one of the faces of such rich vulgarity, loud lipstick on pale skin, a sensual and quick understanding. Everyone had already known one another for a long time and was talking without interruption at
