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I felt an unexpected well-being in Emilia's company, and I venture to
believe that my presence did not displease her. We were in that isolated
ramble of a hotel like those on a ship at sea or, more precisely, in a
submarine which has foundered. I had the impression that the air was
vanishing in a startling fashion. I felt uncomfortable everywhere: it
could not be less so in the dead girl's room. Staying with Emilia was an
act of pity.
 In that edifice even time behaved abnormally. There were
fleeting hours and hours that dragged. When I looked at the clock, just
before entering Mary's room, it was two p.m.; I had imagined it to be
five.
We were alone in the room. Emilia asked me if I knew her
sister well.
"No," I said. "Only in my profession as a doctor. She was
in my office two or three times." I added a benevolent lie. "I believe
that on one occasion she spoke of you."
"We loved each other very
much," she said. "Mary treated me so sweetly. . . When my mother died
she took her place at home. Now she leaves me alone."
"You
still have Atuel," I suggested hypocritically. In spite of myself, I saw
the scene of the night before. I saw Mary kissing him.
"That
poor man will take this almost as hard as I am," Emilia declared. A
brilliant nobility lit her face. "We were great friends, we three."
A profound disquiet invaded me. "But you two are planning
to marry soon?" I asked curiously.
"I think so. But this has been so
unexpected. . . Right now I just want to think about Mary, and hide
myself with her in memories of our childhood, in Tres Arroyos."
Experience had shown me that persons of no culture,
normally incapable of putting a sentence together, will speak truly
heart-rending sentences when spurred by pain. I wondered how Humberto
Huberman, with all his erudition, would acquit himself in similar
circumstances.
Emilia went on, "And now the police are
coming. The worse is that I don't want to know the truth." Her tears ran
down her face. "After all that has happened, I have only a deep
affection for Mary. I cannot accept the fact that they will destroy her
with an autopsy."
This seemed unreasonable to me. I told her,
with utter frankness, "Late or early the process of dissolution would be
the same. But the truth is of interest to all of us, Emilia. Besides,
Mary now lives in our memories. No one can remove her from there."
The typist entered with an arrangement of dying
margaritas. She laid them at the foot of the bed. "These are all the
flowers in the hotel right now," she said.
We
watched her go. Emilia may have murmured, "Thank you." Already we found
it difficult to speak.
In order to break the silence, I asked, "Where
were you last night, when you left?"
"Quite near," she said
nervously. Then she went on in a rush, "Leaning against the hotel walls.
The wind would not let me go far. I came back soon. Andrea let me in.
You all had gone."
The chairs creaked at the least movement,
which we could not help but make. Our corporality had taken on a sudden
heaviness. We sighed, sneezed, coughed.
For the first time in her
life, Andrea appeared opportunely. She showed herself at the threshold
and called to me.
Miguel had returned.
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