in, was beginning to make him nervous—him, Doctor Quinteros, who never lost his composure. At that moment, in the incoherent babble that was escaping Richard’s lips, half under his breath, he made out the word “revolver.” He couldn’t help smiling, and ever cheerful in the face of adversity, said, as if to himself, without really expecting Richard to hear him or answer: “And why do you want a revolver, my boy?”
Richard’s reply, as he gazed into space with rolling, murderous eyes, was slow, hoarse, perfectly clear. “To kill Red with.” He had uttered each syllable with icy hatred. He paused, and then added in a voice that suddenly broke: “Or to kill myself with.”
He began mumbling again, and Alberto de Quinteros could no longer make out what he was saying. Just then, a taxi stopped. The doctor shoved Richard inside, gave the driver the address, and got in himself. The moment the taxi started off, Richard burst into tears. He turned to look at him and the boy leaned over, put his head on his chest, and sobbed, his body shaking with a nervous tremor. The doctor put his arm around him, rumpled his hair just as he’d done a little while before with his sister, and reassured the taxi driver, who was looking at him through the rearview mirror, with a gesture that meant “the boy’s had too much to drink.” He let Richard sit there, huddled next to him, weeping and dirtying his blue suit and his silver-gray tie “with his tears and spittle and mucus. He didn’t blink an eye, nor did his heart skip a beat, when in his nephew’s incomprehensible soliloquy, he managed to make out that phrase, repeated two or three times, that horrendous phrase that at the same time sounded beautiful and even chaste: “Because I love her as a man loves a woman and I don’t give a damn about all the rest, Uncle.”
In the garden of the house, Richard vomited, with wrenching spasms that frightened the fox terrier and brought disapproving looks from the butler and the maids. Dr. Quinteros took Richard by the arm and led him to the guest room, made him rinse out his mouth with water, undressed him, put him to bed, made him swallow a strong sleeping pill, and remained at his side, calming him with affectionate words and gestures—that he knew the boy could neither hear nor see—till he felt him fall into the deep sleep of the young.
Then he phoned the clinic and told the doctor on duty that he wouldn’t be coming in until the next day unless some dire emergency came up, instructed the butler to say he wasn’t in no matter who called or came to see him, poured himself a double whiskey, and shut himself up in the music room. He put a pile of Albinoni, Vivaldi, and Scarlatti records on the turntable, because he’d decided that a few superficial, Baroque, Venetian hours would be a good antidote for the dark shadows in his mind, and buried in his soft leather chair, with his Scotch meerschaum pipe smoking between his lips, he closed his eyes and waited for the music to wreak its inevitable miracle. The thought came to him that this was a privileged occasion for putting to the test that moral rule that he had tried to live by since his youth, that axiom that had it that it was better to understand men than to judge them. He did not feel horrified or indignant or unduly surprised. He noted in himself, rather, a hidden emotion, an invincible benevolence, mingled with tenderness and pity, as he said to himself that it was now blindingly clear why such a pretty girl had suddenly decided to marry an idiot, why the king of the Hawaiian surfboard, the handsomest youngster in the neighborhood, had never been known to have a girlfriend he was crazy about and seriously courting, and why he had always fulfilled without protest, with such laudable zeal, his duties as his younger sister’s chaperone. As he savored the aroma of the tobacco and sipped the pleasantly fiery whiskey in his glass, he told himself that there was no reason to
Richard’s reply, as he gazed into space with rolling, murderous eyes, was slow, hoarse, perfectly clear. “To kill Red with.” He had uttered each syllable with icy hatred. He paused, and then added in a voice that suddenly broke: “Or to kill myself with.”
He began mumbling again, and Alberto de Quinteros could no longer make out what he was saying. Just then, a taxi stopped. The doctor shoved Richard inside, gave the driver the address, and got in himself. The moment the taxi started off, Richard burst into tears. He turned to look at him and the boy leaned over, put his head on his chest, and sobbed, his body shaking with a nervous tremor. The doctor put his arm around him, rumpled his hair just as he’d done a little while before with his sister, and reassured the taxi driver, who was looking at him through the rearview mirror, with a gesture that meant “the boy’s had too much to drink.” He let Richard sit there, huddled next to him, weeping and dirtying his blue suit and his silver-gray tie “with his tears and spittle and mucus. He didn’t blink an eye, nor did his heart skip a beat, when in his nephew’s incomprehensible soliloquy, he managed to make out that phrase, repeated two or three times, that horrendous phrase that at the same time sounded beautiful and even chaste: “Because I love her as a man loves a woman and I don’t give a damn about all the rest, Uncle.”
In the garden of the house, Richard vomited, with wrenching spasms that frightened the fox terrier and brought disapproving looks from the butler and the maids. Dr. Quinteros took Richard by the arm and led him to the guest room, made him rinse out his mouth with water, undressed him, put him to bed, made him swallow a strong sleeping pill, and remained at his side, calming him with affectionate words and gestures—that he knew the boy could neither hear nor see—till he felt him fall into the deep sleep of the young.
Then he phoned the clinic and told the doctor on duty that he wouldn’t be coming in until the next day unless some dire emergency came up, instructed the butler to say he wasn’t in no matter who called or came to see him, poured himself a double whiskey, and shut himself up in the music room. He put a pile of Albinoni, Vivaldi, and Scarlatti records on the turntable, because he’d decided that a few superficial, Baroque, Venetian hours would be a good antidote for the dark shadows in his mind, and buried in his soft leather chair, with his Scotch meerschaum pipe smoking between his lips, he closed his eyes and waited for the music to wreak its inevitable miracle. The thought came to him that this was a privileged occasion for putting to the test that moral rule that he had tried to live by since his youth, that axiom that had it that it was better to understand men than to judge them. He did not feel horrified or indignant or unduly surprised. He noted in himself, rather, a hidden emotion, an invincible benevolence, mingled with tenderness and pity, as he said to himself that it was now blindingly clear why such a pretty girl had suddenly decided to marry an idiot, why the king of the Hawaiian surfboard, the handsomest youngster in the neighborhood, had never been known to have a girlfriend he was crazy about and seriously courting, and why he had always fulfilled without protest, with such laudable zeal, his duties as his younger sister’s chaperone. As he savored the aroma of the tobacco and sipped the pleasantly fiery whiskey in his glass, he told himself that there was no reason to
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