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suicide, Doctor.”
    Richard didn’t even smile. He was holding the weights over his head and the expression on his beet-red face, dripping with sweat, the veins standing out, betrayed an exasperation that he appeared to be on the point of taking out on them. The idea flashed through the doctor’s mind that his nephew was about to bash in the heads of all four of them with the weights he was holding in his hands. He said goodbye to the others and murmured to Richard: “I’ll see you at the church in a little while.”
    Once he’d returned home and called the clinic, he was relieved to learn that the mother of the triplets wanted to play bridge with some friends in her room and that the woman who’d had the tumor removed had asked if she could eat some won ton in tamarind sauce today. He authorized the bridge game and the won ton, and with his mind completely at ease now, he changed into a dark blue suit, a white silk shirt, and a silver-gray tie that he fastened down with a pearl stickpin. As he was putting scent on his handkerchief, a letter from his wife arrived, with a P.S. from Charito. They had mailed it from Venice, city number 14 on the tour, and had written: “By the time you receive this letter, we’ll have done at least seven more cities, all gorgeous.” They were happy and Charito was very taken with Italian men: “…as handsome as movie stars, Papa, and you can’t imagine what big flirts they are, but don’t tell Tato, a thousand kisses, ciao.”
    He walked over to the Church of Santa María, on the Óvalo Gutiérrez. It was still early and the guests were just beginning to arrive. He sat down in one of the front rows and whiled away the time looking at the altar, decorated with lilies and white roses, and the stained-glass windows that looked like bishop’s miters. Once again he realized that he didn’t like this church at all: its combination of stucco and bricks was unaesthetic and its ogee arches pretentious. Every so often, he greeted an acquaintance with a smile. Naturally, since everybody he’d ever known was arriving little by little: very distant relatives, friends he hadn’t seen for ages, and the crème de la crème of the city, of course, bankers, ambassadors, industrialists, politicians. Ah, that Roberto, that Margarita, such social butterflies, Dr. Quinteros thought, without acrimony, full of indulgence toward the weaknesses of his brother and sister-in-law. The wedding luncheon was bound to be a lavish affair.
    He felt a rush of emotion on seeing the bride enter, just as the first bars of the Wedding March pealed out. She was really stunningly beautiful, in her filmy white dress, and her little face, in profile beneath the veil, had something extraordinarily graceful, ethereal, spiritual about it as she walked toward the altar, with lowered eyes, on Roberto’s arm; corpulent and august, her father was hiding his emotion by assuming the air of a grand seigneur. Red Antúnez seemed less homely than usual in his brand-new cutaway coat, his face radiant with happiness, and even his mother—an ungainly Englishwoman who despite having lived in Peru for a quarter of a century still got her Spanish prepositions mixed up—looked attractive in her long dark dress and her hairdo two stories high. It’s quite true, Dr. Quinteros thought: patience pays off. Because poor Red Antúnez had pursued Elianita ever since the two had been children, and had besieged her with thoughtful and attentive gestures that she had invariably greeted with Olympian disdain. But he had put up with all of Elianita’s cutting remarks and snubs and the dreadful jokes of the youngsters in the neighborhood poking fun at his resignation. A persistent young man, Dr. Quinteros reflected, whose determination had been rewarded, and now here he was, pale with emotion, slipping the wedding band on the ring finger of the prettiest girl in Lima. The ceremony had ended, and as Dr. Quinteros was making his way toward the church