Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [167]
“You really must be sozzled if you’ve forgotten, cousin.” Pascual laughed in an equally drunken voice. “Especially since you were the one who asked us to leave them with you.”
“Well, the secretary must have them, then,” the mayor muttered in embarrassment. Giving Pascual a dirty look, he called out: “Secretary!”
It took the skinny little man with enormous glasses several minutes to find the birth certificates and Aunt Julia’s divorce decree. We waited in silence as the mayor smoked a cigarette, yawned, and impatiently looked at his watch. The secretary finally brought them in, scrutinizing them with a disgusted look on his face. As he laid them down on the desk, he murmured in a slightly officious tone of voice: “Here they are, sir. There’s a problem on account of the young man’s age, as I’ve already told you.”
“Did anybody ask you?” Pascual said, taking a step in his direction as though he were about to strangle him.
“I’m only doing my duty,” the secretary said. And then, turning to the mayor, he insisted acidly, pointing to me: “He’s only eighteen and he hasn’t presented a document proving he has official court permission to marry.”
“How come you’ve got such an imbecile for an assistant, cousin?” Pascual burst out. “What’s keeping you from booting him out and bringing in somebody with a few more brains?”
“Be quiet. The alcohol you’ve consumed has gone to your head and you’re getting nasty,” the mayor said. He cleared his throat to give himself a little time, crossed his arms, and looked at Aunt Julia and me gravely. “I’m prepared to allow you to dispense with posting banns, in order to do you a favor. But this other is a more serious matter. I’m very sorry.”
“What!” I said to him, completely taken aback. “Haven’t you known since Friday that I’m a minor?”
“What’s this whole stupid farce all about, anyway?” Javier chimed in. “You and I had an understanding that you’d marry them without any problem.”
“Are you asking me to commit a crime?” the mayor huffed. He too was indignant now. And with an air of injured dignity he added: “Furthermore, don’t raise your voice like that when you speak to me. People with manners settle misunderstandings by talking things over, not by shouting.”
“But you’ve gone mad, cousin,” Pascual said in a fury, pounding on the desk. “You agreed, you knew there was an age problem, you said it didn’t matter. Don’t pull this amnesiac bit on me or start splitting legal hairs. Marry them once and for all and stop screwing around!”
“Don’t use dirty words in front of a lady, and don’t drink any more, because you can’t hold your liquor,” the mayor replied serenely. He turned to the secretary and motioned for him to leave the room. Once we were alone, he lowered his voice and gave us a conspiratorial smile. “Can’t you see that that guy is a spy for my enemies? Now that he’s caught on, I can’t marry you. I’d be up to my neck in trouble in no time.”
There was nothing I could say to persuade him: I swore to him that my parents lived in the U.S. and that was the reason I hadn’t presented a court dispensation, that nobody in my family was going to make trouble if he married us, that the minute Aunt Julia and I were man and wife we’d be going off to live abroad for the rest of our lives.
“We were all agreed. You can’t play a dirty trick like this on us,” Javier said.
“Don’t be such a hard-ass, cousin,” Pascual said, taking him by the arm. “Don’t you realize we’ve come all the way from Lima?”
“Quiet down and stop ganging up on me. I think I’ve got an idea. Yes, that’s the solution, all right. Your troubles are over,” the mayor finally said, getting up from his desk and winking at us. “Tambo de Mora! Martín the fisherman! Go down there right now. Tell him I sent you. Martín the fisherman, a sambo, a really nice guy. He’d be delighted to marry you. It’s better that way, a little village, no fuss. Martín, Martín the mayor. Just slip him a little tip and that’ll be it. He can barely read or write—he