The Good Conscience by Carlos Fuentes

more interested in the elaborate adornment of a nougat or an altar than in the efficiency of a liquidizer. And surrounded by these scents the people of Guanajuato gathered in the wide plazas to celebrate the great Christian holiday.
    A holiday greater, perhaps, than Bethlehem night. For it was now that the reward promised by Christmas would be collected. The Savior had died for all, and upon rising from that common death, had promised all salvation from pain and solitude saying that to live for one’s brothers, as He had died, is to secure eternal life. He who knew how to love his brothers could live in them forever, and in their children, and their children’s children. Because this had been promised, Asunción Balcárcel walked down the hill to the church of the Compañía, holding Jaime, still a child to her, by the hand. Because of the promise, the merchant Rodolfo Ceballos trod heavily behind his sister and his son, in his black suit, with his hands piously folded over his chest. And because of the promise, the chorus of boys was singing Handel’s Halleluja when the family entered the church and took their usual seats among the gentry, and the voices that sang Mass were joyful, and Easter candles were blessed, and at the end the Exsultet was cried.
    Jaime remained on his knees. He was wearing his blue Sunday suit and it had become too small for him, and the seams of the trousers had split when he knelt. Beside him his aunt was reading her missal. Rodolfo’s mouth was half open and his gaze was lost in the baroque foliage of the altar. Jaime had eyes for only the enormous candle. He was reflecting, with surprise, that he had attended Holy Saturday ceremonies all his life without ever realizing that that candle was the center of everything, and the whole object was to light it. He understood now and felt full of happiness as he watched big drops of wax melt down and the high flame slowly flatten. The candle was sacrificing itself giving off rejoicing light. Asunción’s voice repeated beside him: “… and in the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting, Amen.”
    They rose, crossed themselves before turning away from the altar, and with difficulty pushed out into the jam-packed aisle. Asunción’s body squeezed against him. The little bells of the acolytes tinkled. It was impossible to advance, almost impossible to breathe. And Asunción’s body pressed against him harder and harder until his goose-pimpling flesh could feel the round softness of her breasts and belly. He turned his head. She lowered hers. At last they reached the noisy exit, the cry of vendors, the chirping of birds, the warm mild scents of the provincial city, the dance of flute-players and Indian feathers that pranced around the plaza.
    That evening the three of them were alone in the house: Balcárcel had departed in the morning for Mexico City to—as he said—attend to some business that had been postponed because of Holy Week. The forty days of silence had ended, and Asunción, recalling how Don Pepe used to have a little chamber orchestra come play Holy Saturdays after dinner, said that she wanted to hear music. Rodolfo and Jaime accompanied her to the bedroom of red velvet curtains and she seated herself before the piano that had been given her as a child. She played, with occasional indecisions. Für Elise. Rodolfo sat on a cane chair with his fat body slumped and his head hanging forward, absorbed in memories. The last of afternoon filtered through the window. Jaime stood near it, his profile silhouetted and his hair fired by the low sun.
    â€œMamá’s favorite piece,” said Asunción, repeating the opening of the work.
    Rodolfo nodded.
    â€œPapá gave me this piano. Do you remember?”
    â€œYes. When you were ten.”
    â€œWe used to have a grand piano, too. It was in the drawing room. You know, I’d forgotten about it. Whatever happened to