The Peacock Emporium(68)

Your father

PS: I am booked in to do a lady who asks to be remembered to you: Sofia Guichane. She is married to that rogue Eduardo Guichane, the one on television. She wanted liposuction and a breast augmentation. I agreed only to the liposuction for now, as she thinks she may get pregnant soon. Plus she had a fantastic pair. Don’t tell your mother I said this.

Baby Boy, My own dear mother (God rest her soul) used to say: “In Argentina, you spit on the ground, and a flower grows and blooms.” Now, I tell Milagros, it packs its cases and disappears. I cry for you every day. Santiago Lozano has managed to get a job with a Swiss bank and sends his father money every month in dollars. Ana Laura, the Duhalde’s girl, is going to the U.S. to live with her father’s sister. I don’t suppose you remember her. Soon I think there will be no young people left.

Milagros’s daughter-in-law is expecting twins. I pray that when you return to Argentina you will make me a grandmother. There is little love left in my life, all I ask is something to make my existence worthwhile.

I will send on some packets of Mate, as you asked (I sent Milagros to the supermarket but she said the shelves were empty). In the meantime, across the oceans that separate us, I send you a precious gift. So that you can remember your family. Be safe. And be wary of English women.

With love

Your mama



Alejandro wondered whether his mother was becoming forgetful. He tried to remember whether there had been any packages in his pigeonhole but, sleep-deprived as he was, he was sure that there had been only this lightweight letter. He half hoped she had forgotten: it made him feel guilty when she sent him gifts, even the cheap packets of his favorite drink. He turned the letter in his hands, and rubbed at gritty eyes. Then he reached for the envelope and opened it again.

There, nestling in the corner, light as a feather, so insubstantial he had missed it. Wrapped around with a tiny thread of pink ribbon. A lock of Estela’s hair.

Alejandro closed the envelope and put it back on the table, his heart racing. His fatigue forgotten, he stood up, sat down, then stood again and walked over to the television, swearing under his breath. He stared at the screen for several minutes, then glanced around the room, as if for signs he might have missed. Then, grabbing his keys, he pushed his way out of the flat.



* * *



—

Vivi shielded her eyes against the sun as the familiar figure loped toward her, becoming larger and more distinct as he came closer, his gait only marginally stiffer than that of the man she had married some thirty years ago.

He paused, as if considering whether to ask permission, then sat down beside her, brushing stray seeds from his trousers.

“Your lunch is in the oven,” she said.

“I know. Thank you. I got the note.”

She was wearing sunglasses. She turned back to the view, pulling her skirt down over her knees as if embarrassed to be caught with her skin exposed.

“Nice day for it. Sitting out, I mean.”

She was squinting at something on the far horizon, then waved away a fly several inches in front of her nose.

Douglas’s voice was upbeat, casual. “Not often we see you out here.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Did you have a picnic or something?”

“No. I just thought I’d sit for a while.”

Douglas digested this for several minutes, gazing up as a bird wheeled overhead. “Look at that sky.” He spoke into silence. “Gets you by surprise every summer, doesn’t it? A sky as blue as that.”

“Douglas, have you walked this far to talk to me about the weather?”

“Er . . . no.”

She sat, waiting.

“I’ve just come from the house . . . Mother wants to know if you’ll be able to take her cat to the vet at some point.”

“Has she made an appointment with them?”

“I think she was rather hoping you would.”

“And is there any reason why she, or indeed you, couldn’t have performed this task?”

He looked at her, wrong-footed by her hard tone, then out at the dun-colored fields below. “I’ve got quite a lot on at the moment . . . darling.”

“So have I, Douglas.”

In the bottom field a huge red agricultural machine traveled steadily up and down, great arms sending up dust clouds from the neat, planted rows. As it turned, its driver caught sight of the seated figures and lifted an arm in salute.

Absentmindedly, Douglas lifted his own in return. As he dropped it again, he sighed. “You know, Vivi, you can’t just dictate how we should all behave.” He lowered his head to check that she had heard. “Vee?”

She lifted the sunglasses onto the top of her head, revealing reddened, tired eyes. “I don’t dictate anything here, Douglas. I don’t dictate to you or Rosemary or Suzanna or even the darned dog.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I just try to keep everything running smoothly. And that’s been fine.”

“But?”

“But it’s not fine now.”

He waited for a few moments. “What do you want me to do?”

She took a deep breath, like someone preparing to recite a long-rehearsed speech. “I want you to accept that your mother is your responsibility too, and make her understand that I cannot cope with her—her issues by myself. I want to be consulted on matters that affect this family, whether you and your mother feel I have an automatic right to be or not. I want to feel—occasionally—as if I’m not just a piece of furniture.” She studied his expression, her eyes searching and fierce, as if daring him to suggest that this was something hormonal.