Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter by Mario Vargas Llosa Read Free Book Online Page A

Instead of the morning coat, he was now wearing a lightweight brown suit, but sweating nonetheless because he’d been dancing.
    “I can’t believe she’s married, Alberto,” he said, motioning to Elianita.
    “She looks simply adorable,” Dr. Quinteros said with a smile. “And you’ve given her a really lavish wedding, Roberto.”
    “The best in the world is none too good for my daughter,” the brother exclaimed with a touch of sadness in his voice.
    “Where are they going to spend their honeymoon?” the doctor asked.
    “In Brazil and in Europe. The trip’s their wedding present from Red’s parents.” He waved in the direction of the bar and said laughingly: ’They’re supposed to leave early tomorrow morning, but if he keeps on at this rate, my son-in-law’s not going to be in any condition to go off on a honeymoon.”
    A group of Red Antúnez’s pals had surrounded him and were taking turns drinking a toast with him. The groom, his face more flushed than ever, was laughing a bit anxiously and trying to cheat by merely wetting his lips in his glass each time, but his friends were protesting and making him down every last drop. Dr. Quinteros looked around for Richard, but he couldn’t see him either in the bar or dancing or in the part of the garden visible from the windows.
    It was at that moment that it happened. The waltz “Ídolo” was just ending, the couples were preparing to applaud, the musicians were raising their fingers from their guitars, Red was facing up to the twentieth toast, when the bride suddenly raised her right hand to her eyes as though to chase away a mosquito, staggered, and before her partner could catch her, fell to the floor. Her father and Dr. Quinteros stood there motionless, thinking perhaps that she’d slipped and would get to her feet again in a moment, laughing fit to kill, but the commotion in the living room—exclamations, people pushing and shoving to reach her, her mama’s voice shouting “Elianita, Elianita, oh, my poor little darling!”—made them run to help her, too. Red Antúnez had leapt to her side and swooped her up in his arms, and with a group of friends following close behind, was now carrying her upstairs, with Senora Margarita leading the way, saying over and over: “This way, to her room, slowly, watch your step,” and pleading: “A doctor, somebody call a doctor.” Some of the members of the family—Uncle Fernando, Cousin Chabuca, Don Marcelino—were reassuring the guests, ordering the musicians to resume playing. Dr. Quinteros saw his brother Roberto motioning to him from the top of the stairs. How stupid of me, he thought. I’m a doctor, what am I waiting for? He bounded up the stairs two by two as people moved quickly aside to let him past.
    They’d taken Elianita to her bedroom, a room decorated in pink, overlooking the garden. Roberto, Red, Venancia the nanny were standing around the bed, where the girl, still very pale, was beginning to come to and blink her eyes as her mother, sitting beside her, rubbed her forehead with a handkerchief soaked in alcohol. Red had taken one of his bride’s hands in his and was looking at her with mingled rapture and anguish in his eyes.
    “For the moment, you are all to go outside and leave me alone with the bride,” Dr. Quinteros ordered, assuming his professional role. And as he ushered them toward the door: “Don’t worry, I’m sure it isn’t anything. But out you go—I want to have a look at her.”
    The only one who refused to leave was old Venancia; Margarita practically had to drag her out bodily. Dr. Quinteros went back over to the bed and sat down next to Elianita, who looked at him in fear and trembling from between her long black eyelashes. He kissed her on the forehead and smiled at her as he took her temperature: it wasn’t anything, she mustn’t be frightened. Her pulse was a bit unsteady and she was having difficulty breathing. The doctor noticed that her dress was very