LEGION II - COMPLEMENTARY TALES

— Hello. — What’s up? — What’s new? — I’m at the corner gas station. Stopped for your smokes. — Which ones? — Red, manly ones. — Sweet! Also, what’s the theme tonight? — Our wives’ last names. Alvarado and García already called me. Ten minutes away. — 10-4. Waiting for you here.

That call kicked off the evening. The last Thursday of the month. Four friends, punctual for poker. One strict rule governed the nights: you were forbidden to call each other by your first names. That Thursday, they had to use their wives’ last names. The host was Melgar. He’d managed to send his wife to spend the night at her mother’s. Fifteen years married, no kids, still in love like teenagers. His relationship with his mother-in-law was harmonious. Pure convenience, so the meetings flowed without complaints.

Ventura walked through the door first. A few minutes later, Alvarado and García entered carrying the goods. Melgar had the table ready in the main living room. Garden wood, round, a meter and a half in diameter. A deck of Spanish cards rested in the center. Four chairs. Only three ashtrays. Clearly, one of them didn’t smoke. The kitchen and the powder room were a stone’s throw away. The stereo was playing a playlist of Spanish rock ballads.

“We should have come earlier,” García complained. “Alvarado drives like an old lady.” “You told me you were ten minutes away,” Melgar shot back. “Since I knew who was driving, I calculated twenty-five.”

Alvarado tossed his keys on the table: “Hey, Melgar. If you knew these two were stopping for beers, why didn’t you ask them for your smokes?” “Because I know it pisses you off. You’re scared someone from church will see you at the gas station.” “Asshole...” Ventura muttered. “At least his friendship with you gets him to do it,” Alvarado reproached. “He’s never bought me a single cigarette.” “You’re going to make me cry. Hey, García, that pitcher of lemonade I brought. Help yourself if you want.”

García shouted from the kitchen: “Nice! But I’m going straight for the dark ones. Some were already ice-cold. Want me to bring the beers already, you pair of orangutans?” “Yeah, man. Bring three. And the glass of lemonade for Ventura. Let’s start early, I feel creative tonight.” “Coming! Either way, tonight we’re winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.” “I came for the money,” Alvarado declared. “I know you brought a lot of quarters for me tonight.”

The four settled in. Three smoked with beer in hand; one drank lemonade.

“Pair opens, bet a quarter,” Alvarado announced. “Ah, like the ladies,” Melgar provoked. “Pair of jacks.” “There goes my quarter then,” García said. “And mine,” Ventura seconded. “Come on, Melgar... give us material. Something good. Something classic.”

“Cards?” Alvarado interrupted. “Three, please,” García asked. “Maybe this flower will bloom.” “Three for me too. Something classic? I like it. How about colonial San Salvador?”

“I’m out!” Alvarado tossed his cards. “Got nothing. I’m folding. The heart of the cards isn’t with me.”

“We’re talking about when downtown streets were for horse carriages,” García contributed. “Adobe and tin houses reigned.” “People on foot, umbrella in hand,” Melgar added. “Flowing dresses, starched cotton shirts. Either way, I’m out. No hand.” “A very young San Salvador,” Ventura sketched. “Educated people greeting each other as they passed. Everyone knew everyone. A time when it was convenient to have everything at hand: the apothecary, the store, the market, the tailor, the bazaar with novelties, the clinic...”

“There weren’t even mayors yet,” García corrected. “I think it was a rectory. The captaincy was in Guatemala. I open with this pair of kings!” “Okay, there goes my quarter,” Alvarado tossed. “The idea is that it’s a young society,” Melgar continued. “Almost all children of Europeans born in America.” “Creoles.” “Exactly. They came to these lands bragging about aristocratic or bourgeois families. But we know they came to found lineages based on property. Europe was chaos. Especially if we talk about the reign of Elizabeth I in England. They and Spain were about to invade each other.”

“Everyone who came believed that somewhere in this land El Dorado was hidden,” García added. “About all that we can say little,” Ventura opined. “My idea is that in this story the main theme should be romantic.” “So romantic I dare say you want the protagonist to be a woman,” Melgar threw out. “Truth is... yes!” “A girl?” “I think so.” “These quarters are coming home with papa,” Alvarado interrupted. “With this full house, sevens.” “Take them...” García conceded. “Well... What do you think of this?” Melgar proposed. “From a family with a noble last name: Gutierrez. With a clearly Spanish and Catholic first name: Carmen.”

“Before you describe her, set the scene first,” García stopped him. “Let’s form the girl’s character.” “What are you thinking?” Ventura asked. “If you want a romantic story, you won’t pull the knot out of thin air. Let’s work it.” “Let’s establish she’s from a well-positioned family economically,” Ventura sketched. “Afraid of what people will say, strict parents. But above all, beautiful, very beautiful.” “She’ll have to be very young,” García added. “In those years, it wasn’t a rule, but they married them as soon as they had their first period.” “I think I already have your story,” Melgar said. “Let me just grab a beer and I’ll start. Meanwhile, Alvarado, that three-of-a-kind looked small next to my straight.”

“I knew those kings would be expensive,” Alvarado grumbled. “Melgar, if you see some bread lying around, bring it. I’m hungry,” Ventura asked. “Should we order pizza?” García proposed. “I second that,” Alvarado seconded. “Are we still in time for delivery to come?” “Yes, here it’s until nine at night,” Melgar replied. “We’re on time, then,” García concluded. “I’ll make the call,” Ventura offered. “Full extras?” “Perfect!” Melgar approved.

— So? What happens to little Carmencita? — Alvarado asked. — Coming! — Melgar shouted from the kitchen. — It should be a dark taboo topic — García suggested. — Not that dark — Ventura tempered. — There was cheese in the fridge, I brought some and toast — Melgar announced returning.

“You leave the sex part to me,” Alvarado asked. “I already visualized Carmencita. It will be a well-done scene, nothing vulgar. Poetic!” “Don’t disappoint us.” “I won’t. I have a pair of fours... what a pity.” “Should I start?” Melgar asked. “Let Ventura go,” García said.

“Here I am!” Ventura announced. “I took advantage and went to the bathroom. Four glasses of lemonade already and you can’t hold it. The pizza comes plain, no promotions for drunks.”

“Alright! Then deal the cards, Alvarado,” Melgar ordered. “Here goes the beginning: To what was already said, Don Hernan Gutierrez is assigned as commander by the Viceroyalty of Mexico to the new and flourishing town of San Salvador. A Creole born in Mexico, based in Guatemala. He travels with his wife and son. The boy’s name is Armando. Inés de Gutierrez becomes pregnant again already in Salvadoran lands. One May, Carmen Gutierrez is born.”

“She’s a Taurus,” García noted. “Land of rains and drastic changes,” Melgar continued. “Don Hernan Gutierrez did a good job in his post. He was talked about in high social circles. He could go further. There were rumors about a position in the Captaincy General in Guatemala. Hernan felt promotion close when the Viceroyalty requested his services at a consular table in said company. Taking advantage of the trip, he took his firstborn with him. The idea was that the child would go to Mexico to a military school. Doña Inés and Carmen, barely two years old, would spend many seasons alone from that date. Although Don Hernan traveled frequently, his stay in San Salvador was only a few days a year.”

“How old is Armando?” Ventura asked. “Ten years old when he stopped seeing his mother and sister,” Melgar answered. “I think I’m starting to understand...” García threaded. “Let’s talk about Doña Inés. A very self-sufficient lady. Capable of running her home and her social status well, which was perhaps the most difficult. She received visits from families like the Arce, Urrutia, Velasquez or Delgado. They sought support or friendship with links to Guatemala, Mexico and even Spain. Very beautiful and strict. Little Carmen, in her childish games, imitated her postures and accents. That would be the basis for her character, her way of being and her way of reacting in life.”

“A carbon copy of her mother,” Ventura pointed. “A little Inés. I’d like to add more about the beautiful Mrs. Gutierrez. She had a gaze of steel, European customs and manners. An exquisite Madrid accent. Gifted with an intelligence she exhibited. She loved reading. She was a fan of Shakespeare. With or without her husband, the same was always done at home. After dinner she organized a family gathering. When alone, she would talk to her about Madrid and Paris, cities she knew. She explained to her what it meant to be Mrs. Gutierrez. The weight of the last name. The sacrifice her father made by separating from them. She repeated that one day Carmen would be asked in marriage, would adopt her husband’s last name and would be the lady of that house. Doña Inés would make sure it was a lineage with history and with a future. She spoke of her brother with pride. He did nothing but excel at school. The letters brought so many achievements that the mother was more proud with each reading. She wrote to him every week. His longed-for visit was always postponed. The excuses were trips to Spain where Armando Gutierrez had already met the royal family. Sometimes the old woman cried remembering the tender child she said goodbye to.”

“Almost alone, keeping each other company and with the rare visits of Hernan,” Melgar continued. “Time passed. Little Carmen grew under the care of Sonia, a local mestiza.”

“She had a nanny. It was to be expected,” Ventura noted. “Near her fourteenth year. One January, when her father had just left back to Guatemala. While having lunch with her mother, fair-skinned Carmen turned pale. She felt a spoonful of soup go down too fast from mouth to throat. From throat to chest. From chest to stomach. Even lower. So low she had to squeeze her legs so it wouldn’t fall to the floor. Inés looked strangely at Carmen, who didn’t know what to do. She called Sonia. She asked her to take the girl to the dressing room and confirm the visit Carmen had just received. Sonia came out of the bathroom with a piece of silk stained with blood. She confirmed to Doña Inés that pretty little Carmencita had ceased to be impuber.”

“White skin, expressive and big eyes,” García described. “Black and thick eyebrows. Jet-black straight hair. Slender. Upturned nose. Naturally red lips, owner of a smile that tames lions.” “I read that somewhere else. In a legend, I think,” Ventura interrupted. “I think I read it there. Many things changed for Carmen. Her wardrobe was the first affected. In a trunk she saw her dresses disappear. All those pastel tones, light blues, pinks and yellows, were changed for blues, greens and reds. Bodices appeared in her bedroom. They were loose; her breasts were barely the size of two lemons. Inés sent a letter to Don Hernan to update him on the situation. As a response, five suitcases full of hats arrived. These occupied the space of her dolls, which never saw the light again, stored in the attic.”

“His little princess. He had her spoiled,” Alvarado commented. “Carmen’s education was imparted by Doña Inés and by nuns from the church,” Melgar followed. “She liked history and geography very much. Her friendships were limited to service people like Sonia, and to sporadic conversations with two young ladies of similar age. She met them on Sundays at church.”

“Laura, fourteen and a half,” Ventura specified. “And Margarita, two months younger than Carmen. Both from families of very good social standing, whose last names we will omit here.”

“Now you made me curious about the last names,” Alvarado confessed. “Their names even sound familiar to me.” “I’m almost sure that data is not relevant,” Ventura cut. “Ok, can I describe them?” “Go ahead!” “Laura was the one blessed by nature,” Alvarado sketched. “Her breasts grew rapidly, as did her hips. Boys spent whole mornings in front of her house just to see her leave with her mother toward church on Sundays. She was very sociable. She returned any smile and greeting. White skin, curly brown hair, green eyes like emeralds, thin lips and pink cheeks. A little more serious was Margarita. Slender, straight hair, flat nose. She had a very coquettish dimple on her right cheek. Light eyes, very lively. Highly feminine and delicate.”

“Doña Inés met with their respective mothers,” Melgar resumed. “In the parochial park they had a gazebo built. Sonia, Carmen’s nanny who was already over sixty, would teach them to knit and embroider. The three pretty girls spent afternoons there, daily. They seemed to be in a shop window. They looked day after day, like in a fashion show, their dresses. In total harmony with their hats and parasols. They brought tea and seemed to have a lot of fun in their conversations. The talks almost always remained halfway, interrupted by the bells calling to five o’clock mass. The three were escorted by their servants to each of their houses. The boys made corridors next to the street to see them pass. Each had its admirers. They tried not to show any gesture when they heard whispers with their names, except Laura, who every now and then gifted them a smile.”

“The gazebo had benches arranged in a circular way,” García added. “They always occupied the same seat. One day, Margarita found a letter from an admirer. In Sonia’s absence, she read it aloud for her companions. It was a poem. Poorly done, but a poem nonetheless. They began to speculate about what the lover would be like. That day Carmen felt she became more friends with Laura and Margarita.”

“But more with the latter,” Melgar completed. “She understood that when talking about the possible lover their tastes coincided, while Laura was a bit more idealistic. At the beginning of March it became public that the Gutierrezes would throw a party for Carmencita’s birthday. They knew things were really serious when Pierre Ducant arrived. A Frenchman sent by Don Hernan Gutierrez in order to teach the triad of pretty girls to dance Viennese waltzes. He was thin, with a fine mustache, exaggerated and effeminate manners. He wore totally matching clothes, white wig, gaiters and cane. He wouldn’t be more than forty years old.”

“He seems timeless. Like taken from the court of Louis XVI,” Alvarado opined. “Eccentric...” Melgar agreed. “They gave him a house near the church. Women flirted with him. They crossed his path and dropped their handkerchiefs. He, very educated, chatted with everyone. Men affirmed he was harmless; they pigeonholed him. Doña Inés didn’t trust him. She felt a flirtation from him toward her. She ordered Sonia not to leave Carmen alone with him for a single second. The obedient mestiza complied.”

“Good for Doña Inés. She has my applause,” Alvarado clapped. “The pianola screeched with Viennese waltzes and Pierre transformed,” Melgar finalized. “He took on a manly attitude to dance. Those were the first hands of a man that touched the hands and waists of Carmen, Laura and Margarita. They couldn’t avoid blushing. In conversations among them, Laura told them that a cousin of hers, when explaining some steps to her, did the same as Pierre. But she didn’t feel the same. With the Frenchman it seemed artistic; with her cousin it was vulgar.”