By that time I had gotten to know the Argentines and to understand them some. They are a proud, handsome people, many of mixed Spanish and Indian blood, hot-tempered, touchy about their honor, quick to take a hurt, but true friends, well-mannered, and loyal to their convictions. They are less given to naive mottos than we are, not as fully betrayed to materialism, and not as insistent in their demands for comforts and gadgets. They are very Latin in their approach to life, very South American in their belief that the center of the world's future is in their continent.
The wedding we attended united the Cervera Torres-Caicedo Semenovnag (three hundred years ago they had come to Argentina) and the de Eslava Sori-ano-Fuertes Tamayo y Moris. The Mori ranch house, fifty miles from the city, was the site of the wedding. The ranch hands were busy beyond the lawn barbecuing whole steers for the poorer guests, and big trucks full of ice were still moving wedding delicacies into the big white rambling house with its red rile roof and its great paved courtyard.
Mollie had driven me and Uncle Willie to the wedding. The guests passed us in Paris couturier fashions, and we heard fragments of Spanish—“Como lo pasa?” “Que de Dios a vos goce” and some voices from Brazil. Uncle Willie bowed left and right.
“What wonderful people!” he exclaimed. “They do these things in a big way. American weddings have become dull and catered, something out of Amy Vanderbilt instead of God and family.”
Big tables had been set up in the yellow-stoned courtyard, with (lowers and vines placed around them in big pots. A small band in close-fitting trousers played “EI Conejo,” and servants in black and red moved like excited ballet dancers among the guests, taking plates and offering trays and glasses with the grace of cardinals blessing close friends.
The bride was a tiny, dark girl with small, sharp teeth and the flashing eyes of a pretty, alert animal of prey. The tall thin bridegroom's half-glazed eyes moved only from his plate to the face of the Bishop, speaking to him of the dignity of the family and the wedded state. The members of the two families leaned forward with great decorum and fed themselves slowly with jeweled fingers, nodding to each other as if they were meeting over a flag of truce, while their diamonds blinked their full value in the light. We three sat halfway down a long table, between the upper civil servants and the lower rank of diplomats from first-rank countries.
Mollie sighed and said, “This is a wedding that stick to the ribs. You know, hey, you married when it done in style, no?”
Uncle Willie nodded. “Poor bridegroom. Fuese por laua y volvio trasquilada—he looks like he went to get wool and got shorn.”
Mollie choked on a full wine glass and fell, laughing, into the orchids decorating our table. We ate porpoise steaks served with pineapple, and sea squid stuffed with rice, shrimp, peppers, and shallots; then we had meat from the pit barbecues and molé of goose sautéed with peppers, almonds, and cloves. For guests who only nibbled, there were empanadas de vigilia, those pastry turnovers filled in this case with fish and oysters, and a pastry like pizza called fugazza, covered with cheese, tomatoes, and anchovies. Then came guavas in rum sauce and melon an vin rosé, so I knew the wedding dinner was coming to a climax.
The wedding cake was brought in by four Gauchos; they staggered under it. It was white and gold and pink, and on top a sugar-candy baby held up a red heart from which fell other babies, all blowing tiny silver horns; candied fruits. scrolls of whipped cream, and great dollops of sugared forms ran wild across it. Someone handed the tiny bride a sword from a crusader's war. and she plunged it deep into the cake, as if seeking its heart. The groom turned pale and wiped his face, and the bride hacked away at the take's interior. We all cheered and the band played on.
A section of the cake was set before me, with two liny babies swimming in the whipped cream, and I tasted it. It was a baba à l'anisette. At that moment fireworks went off, and the bride led the groom in victory into the house, and the new wine was passed around. The Bishop said, “In beato omnia beata.”
Mollie cheered and said, “Ho boy!”
I thought I heard a cry from the groom, but it was only a hound dog coining out of the house with a bone in his mouth. Mollie said, “We better start back to town. Big storm coming.”
A large black man was sitting in her small Italian car as we came up to it. It was Rollo Lobengula Firbank, the diamond man I had met on the plane.
“I beg pardon, but I was hoping you folks could give me a lift back to B. A.,” he said. “The companion I came with is too drunk to move for a few days.”
We drove back to town at a fast pace. Mollie singing about un pobre venadito. “I'm a poor little deer who lives in the mountains. As I'm not so gentle, I don't go down to drink by day. By night little by little I'm in your arms, my love.”
“Watch the road,” said Uncle Willie stiffly.
I turned to Rollo; we were tightly wedged into the back of the tiny car. “How's the diamond business?”
“Poorly, thank you, poorly. I had hoped at the wedding to sell a few good stones, but everyone was having too good a time to look at my samples. Never sell diamonds to a drunk. Bad business.”
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