The Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa Page A

“Urania, Uranita! Come here, let me look at you, darling. What eyes, my girl! You’re as pretty as your mother, Uranita.” She would stroke her hair with carefully manicured hands, the long nails painted a deep red. Urania would feel so dreamy when those fingers moved through her hair and caressed her scalp. Eugenia? Laura? Did she have a flower name? Magnolia? She’s forgotten. But not her face, her snowy skin, silken eyes, regal figure. She always seemed to be dressed for a party. Urania loved her because she was so affectionate, because she gave her gifts and took her to the Country Club to swim in the pool, and, above all, because she had been her mother’s friend. She imagined that if she hadn’t gone to heaven, her mother would be as beautiful and aristocratic as Don Froilán’s wife. There was nothing attractive about him, however. Short, bald, fat: no woman would have looked at him twice. Was it the need to find a husband or self-interest that made her marry him?
    This is what she asks herself in bewilderment as she opens the box of chocolates, wrapped in metallic paper, that the lady has given her, with a kiss on the cheek, when she came to the door of her house and called her—“Uranita! Come, I have a surprise for you, darling!”—after the girl climbed down from the school bus. Urania goes into her house, kisses the lady—she’s wearing a blue tulle dress, high-heeled shoes, enough makeup to go to a dance, a pearl necklace, jewels on her hands—opens the box wrapped in gift paper and tied with a pink ribbon. She looks at the luxurious chocolates, impatient to try them but not daring to—wouldn’t that be bad manners?—when the car stops on the street, very near the house. The lady gives a start, the strange kind of movement horses make suddenly, as if hearing a mysterious order. She has turned pale and her voice is urgent: “You have to go.” The hand resting on her shoulder twitches, clutches at her, pushes her toward the entrance. When she obediently picks up her book bag and is about to leave, the door opens wide: the overwhelming figure of the gentleman in a dark suit, starched white cuffs and gold cuff links projecting from the sleeves of his jacket, blocks her way. A gentleman who wears dark glasses and is everywhere, including her memory. She stands paralyzed, openmouthed, looking, looking. His Excellency gives her a reassuring smile.
    “And who is this?”
    “Uranita, Agustín Cabral’s daughter,” replies the lady of the house. “She’s just leaving.”
    And, in fact, Urania leaves without even saying goodbye because she is struck dumb. She crosses the street, goes into her house, climbs the stairs, and from her bedroom she peers through the curtains, waiting, waiting for the President to come out of the house across the way.
    “And your daughter was so naive she didn’t even wonder what the Father of the Nation was doing there when Don Froilán wasn’t home.” Her father, calm now, listens, or seems to listen, not taking his eyes off her. “So naive that when you came home from Congress, I ran to tell you about it. I saw the President, Papa! He came to visit Don Froilán’s wife, Papa! What a look you had on your face!”
    As if they had just informed him of the death of someone he loved. As if he had just been diagnosed with cancer. He turned red, turned pale, turned red again. And his eyes, looking into the girl’s face again and again. How could he explain it to her? How could he warn her of the danger the family was in?
    The narrow little eyes of the invalid want to open wide, want to be round.
    “My dear, there are things you can’t know, can’t understand yet. I’m here to know them for you, to protect you. I love you more than anything in the world. Don’t ask me why, but you have to forget about this. You weren’t at Froilán’s house. You didn’t see his wife. And certainly, certainly not the person you dreamed you saw. For your own good, sweetheart. And