46: The Sound of the Reflection

Marta freed herself from Mario, picked up the hospital container and went back into the bathroom.
"I also spoke to Manuel!" she called from inside.
"And what did you tell him?"
"I asked him about the theory of becoming a grandfather." She could be heard perfectly clearly through the door.
"How did he react?"
"He's delighted that you're not a brick wall." She said as she opened the door.
Mario's expression of disbelief was priceless.
"Me — a brick wall?"
"Melisa's words, don't take it personally." She waved her hand as though swatting an invisible fly.
"Right, now I understand your daughter's erratic behaviour — that actually puts my mind at rest." Mario rolled his eyes.
They sat at the table and laid out the three tests, out of their boxes. Marta set the urine container on a little piece of toilet paper on the table.
"Ready?"
He gave a small laugh.
"Are you?"
"For something like this, you can never really be ready."
"I love you."
"And I love you."
Open the container, dip each test one by one, then close or cap each one. The wait felt eternal.
They had pressed their hands together, foreheads resting against each other. They had set a five-minute alarm on the phone for extra certainty.
The chime sounded.
They looked at each other expectantly, then looked at the tests on the table.
All of them were positive.
"Ten days — ten days — ten days!"
"Mario!"
"My life has changed in ten days and I love it!"
He stood up, jumping, laughing, crying. He looked at her.
"I love you."
"Same."
He stopped dead and his gaze shifted for a moment to the easel before returning to her hazel eyes.
"A pottery wheel? That too?"
Mario's mind was in full boil, and it took her half a second longer to catch the reference he was making.
"Oh, absolutely not. The arts one at a time. You are not going to imitate Patrick Swayze with a canvas set up, no, no!"
"Why not?"
"Don't tempt fate!"
He went pale — his mind was still boiling and several facts were crossing in his head at once, including the film's plot, the pottery wheel scene, and even the actor's death years later. He had hit the mark — it was the actor she was thinking of.
"Did you like him? The actor?" He found that incredibly sweet.
She felt slightly put on the spot, shifted her jaw and looked away.
"Hey — I'm flattered!"
She looked at him sideways.
"Why?"
"My mother always said I had the face of the lead in Dirty Dancing with my father's big eyes. That's a good thing."
Marta crossed her arms, sulking like a child caught planning a prank before carrying it out. She stretched out her arm and pointed at the easel.
"Why do you think I put it together?"
He stood up.
"You'll pose for me?"
He took her hands and led her to the sofa.
"Will I be the first?" He preferred to sit in the old armchair.
"Does it matter much if I admit you'd be all of them?" Mario shrugged.
"Shall we start and see how it goes?" She scratched her temple with slight embarrassment.
"As you wish." He gave a small bow — another reference.
"The Princess Bride, seriously?"
"I've watched a lot of nineties films — don't blame me, it's my mother's doing."
Silence took hold of the afternoon. Mario moved the pencil with ease, as though he had been doing it all his life. After about an hour, he stepped back.
"Done. Would you like to see it?"
"May I?"
Marta got up from the armchair and looked at the sketch — a woman sitting in an armchair, turned towards the sofa, her face completely hidden by her hair. On the sofa there was an indistinct figure, small and undefined, as though it had yet to be decided whether it was anyone in particular.
She pointed to it.
"What goes there?"
Mario set the pencil on the easel's ledge and came over with an arm around her shoulders and his hand on her flat stomach.
"Whatever comes."
She began to cry with emotion. She covered her face with her hands, turned, and opened her arms around him.
"Thank you — it's beautiful. I love it."
"Do you mind if we have dinner in Madrid?"
She pulled back.
"In Madrid?"
"We're going to tell the others, aren't we?"
"But the clause..."
"If you're not going to take my father's company from him — what makes you think he'd take it from you?"
She breathed in, kissed him, and shrugged as she answered:
"Well, that's true too — quid pro quo! What are you thinking?"
"Asking my cousin for help." He smiled.
"The orphan?" Marta thought of Bruno.
"The neighbour." And he meant Lope.
"So many cousins, all of a sudden!"
Mario answered with a smile, picked up his phone and tapped in the contact he had noted down the morning before: Lope Estuardo Montenegro.
He heard him sounding downcast, as though trying to focus on one conversation among many while his head was asking for sleep. Even so, he managed to secure a dinner reservation for eight at the restaurant he ran.
"Eight? That's three too many." Marta had three fingers raised on one hand and two on the other.
"I thought it might be — but I'm counting on Felisa, her son and my secretary. Because Liliana is seeing Julián."
He kissed her and let her go.
"We're dressed for a funeral — I don't think that's quite right for news like this."
Mario went into the larger bedroom and brought out a beautiful long knitted dress in chocolate brown, with embroidered autumn leaves forming the bodice and decorating the seams of the halter neck.
"It's gorgeous!" She exclaimed, taking it in her hands.
"Fit for a queen!"
"You're very sweet." She kissed him and sat on the sofa to change. "Will everyone come?"
"They'd better!"
Mario cleared the table, put away the tests and left the digital one in its box. He went to his room and put on a dark brown suit with an ochre shirt. When he came back to the living room, the digital test box was no longer on the table.
"I read your mind and put it in my bag. Shall we go?"
"Let's go!"