Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [13]
He walked over to the Church of Santa María, on the Óvalo Gutiérrez. It was still early and the guests were just beginning to arrive. He sat down in one of the front rows and whiled away the time looking at the altar, decorated with lilies and white roses, and the stained-glass windows that looked like bishop’s miters. Once again he realized that he didn’t like this church at all: its combination of stucco and bricks was unaesthetic and its ogee arches pretentious. Every so often, he greeted an acquaintance with a smile. Naturally, since everybody he’d ever known was arriving little by little: very distant relatives, friends he hadn’t seen for ages, and the crème de la crème of the city, of course, bankers, ambassadors, industrialists, politicians. Ah, that Roberto, that Margarita, such social butterflies, Dr. Quinteros thought, without acrimony, full of indulgence toward the weaknesses of his brother and sister-in-law. The wedding luncheon was bound to be a lavish affair.
He felt a rush of emotion on seeing the bride enter, just as the first bars of the Wedding March pealed out. She was really stunningly beautiful, in her filmy white dress, and her little face, in profile beneath the veil, had something extraordinarily graceful, ethereal, spiritual about it as she walked toward the altar, with lowered eyes, on Roberto’s arm; corpulent and august, her father was hiding his emotion by assuming the air of a grand seigneur. Red Antúnez seemed less homely than usual in his brand-new cutaway coat, his face radiant with happiness, and even his mother—an ungainly Englishwoman who despite having lived in Peru for a quarter of a century still got her Spanish prepositions mixed up—looked attractive in her long dark dress and her hairdo two stories high. It’s quite true, Dr. Quinteros thought: patience pays off. Because poor Red Antúnez had pursued Elianita ever since the two had been children, and had besieged her with thoughtful and attentive gestures that she had invariably greeted with Olympian disdain. But he had put up with all of Elianita’s cutting remarks and snubs and the dreadful jokes of the youngsters in the neighborhood poking fun at his resignation. A persistent young man, Dr. Quinteros reflected, whose determination had been rewarded, and now here he was, pale with emotion, slipping the wedding band on the ring finger of the prettiest girl in Lima. The ceremony had ended, and as Dr. Quinteros was making his way toward the church reception rooms, amid a buzzing throng, nodding his head right and left, he suddenly spied Richard, standing by himself next to a column, as though he were disgustedly keeping his distance from everyone.
As he waited in line to congratulate the bride and groom, Dr. Quinteros was obliged to laugh at a dozen jokes about the government told to him by the Febre brothers, a pair of twins who looked so much alike that it was said that even their own wives couldn’t tell them apart. The reception room was so jam-packed it seemed about to collapse; many of the guests were still outside in the gardens, waiting their turn to come inside. A swarm of waiters circled about, offering champagne. Laughter, jokes, toasts could be heard on every hand, and everyone agreed that the bride was absolutely beautiful. When Dr. Quinteros finally reached her, he saw that Elianita still looked serene and elegant despite the heat and the crush of people. “A thousand years of happiness, sweetheart,” he said to her, embracing her, and she said in his ear: “Charito called me this morning from Rome to congratulate me, and I talked with Aunt Mercedes, too.