“Don’t make me laugh. Throw yourself into the abyss because I’ve got to go to work, this is the most ridiculous proposal you’ve made in a long time.”
“Don’t be boring, Princess. Come right now, we’ll have ourselves a delicious day, and tomorrow we’ll return first thing, so you can get to work early, what’s the problem, my sweet doll, a Tuesday off, how hard can it be, tell me, why not, once a year can’t hurt, and meanwhile I’m dying for us to cuddle, I swear, love, I need it so bad I’m in a fever.”
“Duque wanted to cuddle in Atolaima on a Tuesday?” I ask, enjoying the story.
Deep down I’m glad to hear they’re having trouble; I egg on Malicia, and make fun of my friend. Though I know I’ll feel bad later. For not being loyal, for meddling.
“You know how he is, with his Bogotá-style manners, all proper,” Malicia says. “That’s what he calls making love: cuddling. What an anticlimactic word.”
“So what happened, I bet you caved,” I say, trying to hide my anxiety.
“Of course I caved,” she confesses. “I caved in spite of the hassle of driving two hours downhill on those sharp turns and cliffs all the way to Atolaima, me, I don’t even know how to overtake a truck; I stay stuck behind every truck like an idiot. Even with all that I caved to temptation; what else could I do, Hobbo? For such a long time I hadn’t been spoken to that way, begged for love.”
“Especially with so much fever.”
“I told Duque I’d still need a couple of hours before hitting the road, I lied a little, saying I’d probably have to stop by the office to give a few instructions for my absence. All made up. Instead, I gave the instructions by phone and ran to see Amanda, who does my nails. Hands and feet, I told her, the whole deal. Everything had to be perfectly perfect.”
“So as not to disappoint . . .”
“Try to understand. I had to live up to this sudden enthusiasm. Once my nails were bright red, I flew over to the waxing lady so she could do me from head to toe, literally.”
“Smooth as a mannequin.”
“I asked her to do bikini, armpits, face, and legs—I wasn’t going to show up to my tryst hairy as a gorilla . . . if I’d had another hour I’d have gone for a spray tan, to look like a golden-brown goddess for Duque. But in the end, I couldn’t do everything, plus too much delay might dampen my suitor’s flames.”
“It would have been a crime to waste this unique opportunity.” I shouldn’t have emphasized the word unique, but I did; I suppose it comforts me to imagine an impotent Duque, or at least a Duque with no libido.
“A crime, a real crime. So I stopped by my friend Olga Lucía’s place, she runs her own business designing bikinis and sewing them herself. Just like that, without trying anything on, I took the best she had. Because I couldn’t show up to Duque’s in some old, faded bathing suit, the kind he criticizes me for, he says I look too much like a hippie. You know how he is, all about prim and proper, dressed like he’s the Prince of Wales.”
“Why do you think we call him Nobleza?” I say. “He’s one of those people who thinks land isn’t bought, but inherited. The man won’t buy anything lower than Hugo Boss.”
“Hugo Boss? No way,” Malicia says. “Off-the-rack clothes are too vulgar for Nobleza, an unforgivable kind of slumming. For him, only British threads cut to size by the tailor he’s had all his life, the same one who served his father and even his grandfather, I think.”
Malicia drifts off and stares out the window, gaze roaming over the sky. It’s a clear, sunny day, one of those winter suns we’re so grateful for in this city, and Malicia says something about loving the Bogotá sky for its hydrangea blue. And I, watching her, see that hydrangea blue reflected in her dark eyes.
“So I took off for Atolaima, all dolled up,” she says, breaking her moment of reverie. “I got there around noon . . .”
“All waxed and ready for love.”
“Shut up. As soon as I got out of his Jeep, I saw my lover wasn’t alone, and I understood what little problem he’d been talking about. The reason he was out there on a workday,” says Malicia. “Guess what it was.”
“The roof fell? No, not that, nothing like that would ever happen to Dux. Let’s see. The pool filter broke.”
“No. A team from Country Home magazine had shown up to take photos and do a profile, because his hot-weather country house was going to grace the cover. So there I was. What a commotion. There was some young producer in boots and a vest, all decked out like a guerrilla, and she was the one giving orders. Plus a chipper reporter, also female. And a makeup artist of course—she was so smug and condescending—and an errand guy called . . . wait for it . . . called Wilson Yisus.”
“Stop it. Did you say Wilson Yisus? Let me record, on a napkin, this pinnacle of national nomenclature. And what, pray tell, did this Wilson Yisus do?”
“Wilson Yisus fluttered around. He followed orders. But wait, there’s more. There was also a German photographer, as well as reflectors, silver cloths, and tangles of cords all over the place. It was like a film set. They’d moved the furniture around, everything was different, with those cords twisting all over the house. And worst of all, they’d put their own touches everywhere.”
“I can imagine it. Touches. Like a hat thrown as if randomly on a bed, or a cup in the bathroom holding a single flower. ‘A touch of color here and there,’ as they say.”
“And some sarong thrown just so, as if abandoned. Atmospheric details, you know.”
“And Duque? Wasn’t the intrusion driving him nuts, given how he hates having his minimalism disturbed?”
“Well—not really. Surprising. He seemed happy at the thought that his house would be featured in the magazine. In the middle of all that frenzy, there was my beloved, impeccable as always, wearing white linen and expensive cologne.”
“You know what they say about refined people, that they don’t even wrinkle linen,” I say. “And have you seen the way your boyfriend crosses his legs? He does it with a sleek, exquisite grace, without the tiniest bit of fat or fabric bunching or preventing the perfect landing of one leg over the other, all capped by the softness of Italian moccasins. I’ve always been astonished by the aristocratic way he crosses his legs, as only the very tall and thin can do. A real phenomenon.”
“‘Finally you’re here, Alicita my love,’ said Duque, coming out to welcome me. ‘You took ages, damn it, you really put me through it, I thought you weren’t going to make it after all, but come here, my darling, come, let me introduce you to these people from Country Home magazine, I was just talking to them about you, about your stunning beauty, and they were wondering whether you could sit or stand over here or there . . .’”
“Of course, that here or there is the kicker,” I interrupt again.
“Shut up, Hobbit, let me tell you the story.”
“Nothing premeditated, Princess,” Duque had explained to her. “Something really casual so you can appear in the magazine, they say a presence like that humanizes places, makes them more interesting, and I agree, of course, why wouldn’t I, you’re gorgeous after all, you look divine, girl; how about you put on a stunning bikini and we can get the job done before you know it, so these people can leave and we can be alone, the two of us, and do our thing.”