Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [169]
“Marry them, you heartless sambo,” the woman said to him, nodding her head pityingly in Aunt Julia’s direction. “Just look at the poor thing, they’ve spirited her away and she can’t get herself married, she must be suffering from all she’s been through. Don’t you even care—or has being mayor turned your head?”
Martín’s big flat feet padded back and forth on the beaten-earth floor of the shack as he fetched glasses and cups, as meanwhile we mounted another attack and offered him everything we could think of: from our eternal gratitude to a fat fee that would bring him as much as he could earn by many a day’s work fishing. But he was adamant, and finally told his wife in no uncertain terms not to stick her nose in affairs that were none of her business. But the next minute he was as affable as ever and shoved a glass or a cup in each of our hands and poured us all a little drink of pisco.
“Just so you won’t have made the trip for nothing, my friends,” he consoled us, without the least hint of sarcasm in his voice, raising his glass. His toast, in view of the circumstances, was one we could all drink to: “Here’s wishing the bride and groom the best of luck.”
As we bade him goodbye, he told us we’d made a mistake by coming to Tambo de Mora, on account of the unfortunate precedent of the girl from Cachiche. But we should go to Chincha Baja, El Carmen, Sunampe, San Pedro, or any of the other little villages round about, where we could be married on the spot.
“The mayors of those villages are all loafers. They don’t have a thing to do, and when they see a marriage ceremony coming their way, they’re drunk with joy,” he shouted after us.
We went back to where the taxi was waiting for us, not saying a word to each other. The driver informed us that we’d have to have another talk about the fee he’d be obliged to charge, since he’d had to wait for us for such a long time. During the trip back to Chincha we agreed that the next day, as soon as it was light, we would make the rounds of all the villages and hamlets in those parts, one by one, offering generous gratuities, till we found a damned mayor who’d marry Aunt Julia and me.
“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” Aunt Julia said all of a sudden. “Do you suppose my sister’s received the message?”
I’d made Big Pablito memorize and repeat ten times what he was to say to my Uncle Lucho or my Aunt Olga, and to make certain that he got it right, I’d written it down on a piece of paper: “Mario and Julia have gotten married. Don’t worry about them. They’re fine, and will be coming back to Lima in just a few days.” He was to call them at 9 p.m. from a public phone booth and hang up immediately after he’d given them the message. I lit a match and looked at my watch: yes, the family had already received it.
“They must be firing one question after another at Nancy,” Aunt Julia said, trying her best to speak in an offhand tone of voice, as though commenting on something in which she was in no way involved. “They know she’s an accomplice. They’re going to give the poor thing a hard time.”
The ancient taxi bounced up and down on the road full of potholes, threatening to turn over at any moment, and every last bolt and panel of its carcass creaked. The moon was shedding its dim light on the dunes, and from time to time we caught sight of silhouettes of palms, fig trees, and acacias. The sky was studded with stars.
“So they’ve doubtless already told your papa the news,” Javier said. “The minute he got off the plane. What a reception!