Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [18]
Venancia had rushed into the bedroom, and Dr. Quinteros saw over his shoulder that Elianita’s old nanny was cooing over her and comforting her. Her father and mother entered the room, too, and Red Antúnez was about to do so as well, but the doctor discreetly took him by the arm, led him down the hall with him to the bathroom, and closed the door.
“In her condition it was imprudent of her to have danced the whole evening like that, Red,” he said in an even tone of voice, as he soaped his hands. “She might have had a miscarriage. Advise her not to wear a girdle—and especially not such a tight one. How long has she been pregnant? Three months, four?”
It was at that moment that the first hint of the awful truth dawned on Dr. Quinteros, as swift and as deadly as a rattlesnake bite. In terror, sensing that the silence in the bathroom had turned electric, he looked in the mirror. Red was standing there, staring at him with incredibly wide-open eyes, his mouth contorted in a grimace that made his face look grotesque, and deathly pale.
“Three months, four?” he heard him stammer in a choked voice. “A miscarriage?”
Dr. Quinteros felt the earth sinking beneath his feet. What a stupid, ignorant fool you are, he thought. He remembered now, of course, with the terrible clarity of hindsight, that the whole thing—Elianita’s getting engaged, the wedding—had taken place within just a few short weeks. He turned his eyes away from Antúnez and stood there, drying his hands too slowly, as he searched desperately in his mind for some lie, some pretext that would rescue this youngster from the hell into which he had just plunged him. He managed only to mutter something that seemed to him to be equally stupid: “Elianita mustn’t find out that I know. I let her think I didn’t. And above all, don’t worry. She’s quite all right.”
He headed quickly for the door, looking at Antúnez out of the corner of his eye as he went past him. He was standing there, rooted to the spot, his eyes staring into empty space, his mouth wide open too now, and his face drenched with sweat. He heard him lock the bathroom door from inside behind him. He’s going to burst into tears, he thought, pound his head against the wall and tear his hair, he’s going to curse me and hate me even more than her, even more than—who? He walked slowly down the stairs, covered with guilt, full of misgivings, as he kept repeating to people, like an automaton, that Elianita was quite all right, that she’d be coming back downstairs in just a few minutes. He went out into the garden, and breathing a bit of fresh air did him