The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [108]
“Worse than you can possibly imagine.” He pointed to the port. “We wanted to have a big turnout, to stage a great public demonstration. Everybody promised to bring people, even from the interior. We were counting on thousands. And you saw how many there were.”
The baron waved to some fish peddlers who had removed their straw hats on seeing the carriage pass by the seminary.
“It’s not polite to talk politics in the presence of ladies. Or don’t you consider Estela a lady?” the baron chided his friend in a mock-serious tone of voice.
The baroness laughed, a tinkling, carefree laugh that made her seem younger. She had chestnut hair and very white skin, and hands with slender fingers that fluttered like birds. She and her maidservant, an amply curved brunette, gazed in rapture at the dark blue sea, the phosphorescent green of the shoreline, the blood-red rooftops.
“The only person whose absence is justified is the governor,” Gumúcio said, as though he hadn’t heard. “We were the ones responsible for that. He wanted to come, along with the Municipal Council. But the situation being what it is, it’s better that he remain au-dessus de la mêlée. Luiz Viana is still a loyal supporter.”
“I brought you an album of horse engravings,” the baron said, to raise his friend’s spirits. “I presume that political troubles haven’t caused you to lose your passion for equines, Adalberto.”
On entering the upper town, on their way to the Nazareth district, the recently arrived couple put on their best smiles and devoted their attention to returning the greetings of people passing by. Several carriages and a fair number of horsemen, some of them having come up from the port and others who had been waiting at the top of the cliff, escorted the baron through the narrow cobblestone streets, amid curious onlookers standing crowded together on the sidewalks or coming out onto the balconies or poking their heads out of the donkey-drawn streetcars to watch them pass. The Canabravas lived in a town house faced with tiles imported from Portugal, a roof of round red Spanish-style tiles, wrought-iron balconies supported by strong-breasted caryatids, and a façade topped by four ornaments in gleaming yellow porcelain: two bushy-maned lions and two pineapples. The lions appeared to be keeping an eye on the boats arriving in the bay and the pineapples to be proclaiming the splendor of the city to seafarers. The luxuriant garden surrounding the mansion was full of coral trees, mangoes, crotons, and ficus sighing in the breeze. The house had been disinfected with vinegar, perfumed with aromatic herbs, and decorated with large vases of flowers to receive its owners. In the doorway, servants in white balloon pants and little black girls in red aprons and kerchiefs stood clapping their hands to greet them. The baroness began to say a few words to them as the baron, taking his place in the entryway, bade those escorting him goodbye. Only Gumúcio and the deputies Eduardo Glicério, Rocha Seabra, Lélis Piedades, and João Seixas de Pondé came inside the house with him. As the baroness went upstairs, followed by her personal maid, the men crossed the foyer, an anteroom with pieces of furniture in wood, and the baron opened the doors of a room lined with shelves full of books, overlooking the garden. Some twenty men fell silent as they saw him enter the room. Those who were seated rose to their feet and all of them applauded.
The first to embrace him was Governor Luiz Viana. “It wasn’t my idea not to appear at the port,” he said. “In any event, you see here before you the governor and each and every member of the Municipal Council, your obedient servants.”
He was a forceful man, with a prominent bald head and an aggressive paunch, who did not trouble to conceal his concern. As the baron greeted those present, Gumúcio closed