Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [119]
On receiving the unexpected amorous visit from the young man, Señora Margarita Bergua realized that something very serious was happening. She was a realistic woman and had no illusions as to her charms. “Even in my dreams, nobody tried to rape me, so I knew immediately that that stark-naked man was either utterly mad or a criminal,” she declared. And so she defended herself like an enraged lioness: in her testimony she swore by the Virgin Mary that the impetuous intruder had been incapable of inflicting so much as a kiss upon her—and in addition to keeping her honor from being outraged, she had saved her husband’s life. For as she fought off the pervert with tooth and nail, elbow and knee, she let out screams and shouts (real ones, in her case) that awoke her daughter and the other boarders. Rosa, the judge from Ancachs, the parish priest from Cajatambo, and the student nurses from Huanuco managed between them to overpower the exhibitionist and tie him up, and then all of them ran to look for Don Sebastián: was he still alive?
It took them nearly an hour to get an ambulance to take him to Arzobispo Loayza Hospital, and it was nearly three hours before the police arrived to rescue Lucho Abril Marroquín from the clutches of the young pianist, who, beside herself with fury (because of the wounds inflicted upon her father? because of the offense to her mother’s honor? because perhaps—a human soul with turbid flesh and poisonous secret recesses—of the affront to herself?), was trying to scratch his eyes out and drink his blood. At the police station, the young medical detail man, recovering his usual gentle manner and soft-spoken voice, blushing out of sheer timidity as he spoke, roundly denied the evidence. The Berguas and the boarders were slandering him: he had never attacked anyone, he had never attempted to rape any woman, certainly not a cripple like Margarita Bergua, a lady who, because of her many kindnesses and thoughtful attentions, was—after, naturally, his own wife, that young woman with Italian eyes and musical knees and elbows who came from the country of love and song—the person whom he loved and respected more than anyone else in this world. His serenity, his courtesy, his meekness, the splendid character references given him by his superiors and co-workers at the Bayer Laboratories, the lily-whiteness of his police record, made the guardians of law and order hesitate. Could it be that (fathomless magic spell of deceptive appearances) all this was a plot cooked up by the wife and daughter of the victim and the other boarders against this sensitive young man? The fourth power of the state looked upon this hypothesis with favor and ordered the record to