Chapter 7 #2
Yet she was still her niece. Hers to command and to keep, the same way a wild animal, a jaguar or a wolf, might be kept in a menagerie.
—
A few hours after the sisters’ arrival in the port of Veracruz, they are circling the Plaza de las Armas in the company of their maiden aunt Crésida.
This is the way young people court each other: at a distance, with the eligible young men surveying the ladies as they stroll around the plaza, dainty parasols or fans in hand.
People who have not been introduced cannot speak to each other, and people from the lower classes—easily identified by their clothing or their looks, for dark skin is low and pale indicates a more elevated status—would never dare to even glance too long at the ladies of great lineages.
The Revolution has altered the port. Hoisting cranes that used to be busy all day are rusting, and skeletons of ships float in the harbor.
Business is not what it used to be, yet still the old customs linger, and the plaza is there for the crowds to enjoy, from the skinny beggars stretching out their hands to the gentlemen of note.
Perla feels triumphant in her pale pink gown, with a delightful hat balanced upon her head.
Encarnación looks pretty too, wearing a green dress that contrasts with her curly black hair, for—though the Incláns might deny it, as all fine families deny it—there is a trace of a long-lost African ancestor in their blood, some bold or clever individual who must have escaped the shackles a century before.
There are, too, the telltale eyes inherited from their Totonac grandmother.
The best families speak of bettering the race, of whitening their features, but even Don Porfirio Díaz, who loved all things French, was of Mixtec descent.
Veracruz is where all things mix, the black and the brown and the white, like the coffee with milk served late at night in every town square of the state.
—
It’s the evening, when the streetlights bloom into life and the sticky, humid heat of the day gives way to the welcome respite of the night and all the young men and women are out to play at the game of love.
Perla must do it respectably, of course, hence the presence of the maiden aunt.
Perla and Encarnación are ladies, not indecent servants who have Sunday off and hurry to the plaza to receive the admiring whistles of bakery employees and bricklayers.
Perla walks with the proud carriage of a princess. If things had been different, if the Revolution and bad luck had not wounded her father like they did, she might have debuted at a ball held at the Lonja Mercantil.
Two well-dressed young men who are walking in their direction slow their steps and tip their hats at Crésida, and their aunt in turn acknowledges them with a nod and a murmur.
“The one in blue is Norberto,” she says.
Perla stares at the young man her aunt has pointed out. His appearance pleases her. He is broad of shoulder, with chiseled features and a distinguished air. The man next to him, in a shabby coat, is ordinary, and one could forget his face within seconds.
“Mr. Norberto Bustillo and Mr. Rómulo Mateos, may I present my nieces, Perla and Encarnación Inclán Arnao? They have arrived on the morning train for a short visit.”
“Not too short, I hope, or we’ll be cruelly deprived of the pleasure of your company,” Norberto says, and he takes Perla’s hand and kisses it, though it is more a breath than a kiss, a sigh. Then he looks straight into her eyes.
Her aunt tenders a dinner invitation to the young men, but Perla hardly listens to whatever words are spoken. That brief touch, that look, has overwhelmed her senses.
—
The meal that is to be served is the subject of exquisite planning.
If too much is made of this first meeting, if it is too formal and the setting is too stuffy—with deer meat and a side of chestnuts and Burgundy wine—it may not lead to the light banter and witty conversation necessary to keep the would-be suitor amused.
But if it is too informal, if one serves simply tlacoyos de acuyo, the guests will think the family is coarse and can’t do any better.
Thus, her aunt supervises the preparation of a roasted suckling piglet stuffed with aromatic leaves, generously drenched in a red wine sauce. There are side dishes aplenty—galantines and a delicious salad with prawns—as well as a variety of glistening desserts.
An eternity is dedicated to Perla’s clothing and the combing of her hair. It feels good to be wearing something other than the dark and dull colors of the past year, and she relishes the sight of ethereal white tulle and lace.
I look like a bride, she thinks, and smiles at the mirror.
The guests arrive and new challenges emerge.
Perla must be demure and charming. She must not speak too long, or about tiresome things.
She must not be bold; she must not seem overly eager.
Silence and reservation are a maiden’s natural garments.
When she is married, she might play the role of the witty hostess, receiving company and managing a household, but for now she maintains the limits assigned to a young lady.
She succeeds admirably in smiling pleasantly, nodding with interest, asking a few polite questions about their two guests.
Her sister, who need not worry about courtship rituals, is far more relaxed and chirps like a happy bird.
At one point, Encarnación laughs too loudly at a jest Rómulo makes, and Perla feels herself blushing, embarrassed by such an open display of hilarity.
The evening is nevertheless a triumph, and when the gentlemen bid the ladies goodbye, Norberto once again looks at her with his expressive, beautiful eyes and kisses her hand.
Later, she reproaches Encarnación, once they’re safely in the room they share and readying themselves for the night.
“Did you have to raise your voice so much?” Perla asks while she plaits her hair. “And joke with that silly man? Norberto will think you are crude.”
“You think Rómulo is silly?”
“He is too jolly. Our aunt told me he spends half the year in Veracruz to avoid his wife. I do not approve of men like that, who go gallivanting and leave their spouses behind. What is worse, he has been married for three years. It is much too soon to be running around to other cities. And then there is the fact that he is a nobody.”
“He is Norberto’s friend.”
“Yes, but he has no money. He depends on his father-in-law for all his expenses, and he has no proper occupation.”
“Does Norberto have a proper occupation?”
“Norberto will inherit his father’s company.”
“Then don’t all of his expenses depend on someone else too?” Encarnación replies, peevish.
Perla turns away from the mirror and her fingers still. “Do not be contrarian. You know exactly what I mean. I want Norberto to like me. Please behave,” she says.
The anxious pitch of her voice has an effect on Encarnación, who quickly rises from the bed where she’s been sitting and wraps her arms around Perla. “I will. Don’t worry, I will.”
—
Norberto and Rómulo visit them twice for an informal evening of warm chocolate and sweet breads.
In the port, everyone drinks coffee in the evenings—the question “Did you drink yet?” always implies coffee—but their family believes chocolate is more dignified.
Though there are those stubborn, unsophisticated folk who would rather dole out atole.
And, of course, the riffraff exalts pulque as a beverage fit for breakfast and supper.
Thus, twice Perla sits with her gaze fixed on her hands, smiling demurely, as her aunt distributes the pastries and the gentlemen praise the skills of the cook.
Afterward, they venture for a walk around the plaza.
—
The next time the gentlemen come to the house it is as part of a larger gathering of friends.
The evening is designed to showcase Perla’s talents at the piano.
She does wonderfully with her first and second pieces, and the applause is enthusiastic.
When she plays the third melody, her sister joins her in song.
Encarnación sings with a sweet, lively voice and her vivacious face seems to shine brighter than the chandelier above their heads. When the applause comes, it is thunderous. Perla wonders if the audience is applauding for the both of them, or for Encarnación alone.
The days succeed one another after that, with more visits from Norberto, who usually arrives in the company of Rómulo or another one of his friends.
While they sip their chocolate, Perla smiles demurely, each gesture calculated.
Encarnación has no airs and no arts; each of her gestures is open and vigorous.
Although Encarnación does her best not to laugh too loudly, not to dominate a conversation, more than once Perla must chide her sister after the gentlemen have departed.
But then, Encarnación will not be married, will not have to take up the mantle of wife and hostess of a grand house.
She will tend to their parents, and one day, when they are gone, she will become a maiden aunt, much like Crésida, who will watch over the younger members of the family.
Perla supposes that considering this, it is acceptable to let Encarnación chortle and play at youth a little longer.
Responsibility will soon rest upon her shoulders, just like duties of a different sort will be assigned to Perla.
—
At night, in bed, Perla goes over the events of the day. If Norberto has visited them, she recalls his words, reconstructs his smiles in the dark. If she has not seen him that day, she imagines where he will have gone in the evening, tries to trace his route in her mind.