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Fermín sighed with irritation. “Ah, the army, blight and refuge for the basest simian instincts. All the better, because this way you can cuckold him without feeling guilty.”
“You’re delirious, Fermín. Bea’s getting married when the lieutenant finishes his service.”
Fermín gave me a sneaky smile. “Funny you should say that, because I have a feeling she’s not. I don’t think this pumpkin is going to be tying the knot anytime soon.”
“What do you know?”
“About women and other worldly matters, considerably more than you. As Freud tells us, women want the opposite of what they think or say they want, which, when you consider it, is not so bad, because men, as is more than evident, respond, contrariwise, to the dictates of their genital and digestive organs.”
“Stop lecturing me, Fermín, I can see what you’re getting at. If you have anything to say, say it.”
“Right, then, in a nutshell: this one hasn’t a single bone of obedient-little-wife material in her heavenly body.”
“Hasn’t she? Then what kind of bone does your expertise detect in her?”
Fermín came closer, adopting a confidential tone. “The passionate kind,” he said, raising his eyebrows with an air of mystery. “And you can be sure I mean that as a compliment.”
As usual, Fermín was right. Feeling defeated, I decided that attack was the best form of defense. “Speaking of passion, tell me about Bernarda. Was there or was there not a kiss?”
“Don’t insult me, Daniel. Let me remind you that you are talking to a professional in the craft of seduction, and this business of kissing is for amateurs and little old men in slippers. Real women are won over bit by bit. It’s all a question of psychology, like a goodfaena in the bullring.”
“In other words, she gave you the brush-off.”
“The woman is yet to be born who is capable of giving Fermín Romero de Torres the brush-off.
The trouble is that man, going back to Freud—and excuse the metaphor—heats up like a lightbulb: red hot in the twinkling of an eye and cold again in a flash. The female, on the other hand—and this is pure science—heats up like an iron, if you see what I mean. Slowly, over a low heat, like a tasty stew. But then, once she has heated up, there’s no stopping her. Like the steel furnaces in Vizcaya.”
I weighed up Fermín’s thermodynamic theories. “Is that what you’re doing with Bernarda? Heating up the iron?”
Fermín winked at me. “That woman is a volcano on the point of eruption, with a libido of igneous magma yet the heart of an angel,” he said, licking his lips. “If I had to establish a true parallel, she reminds me of my succulent mulatto girl in Havana, who was very devout and always worshiped her saints. But since, deep down, I’m an old-fashioned gent who doesn’t like to take advantage of women, I contented myself with a chaste kiss on the cheek. I’m not in a hurry, you see? All good things must wait. There are yokels out there who think that if they touch a woman’s behind and she doesn’t complain, they’ve hooked her. Amateurs. The female heart is a labyrinth of subtleties, too challenging for the uncouth mind of the male racketeer. If you really want to possess a woman, you must think like her, and the first thing to do is to win over her soul. The rest, that sweet, soft wrapping that steals away your senses and your virtue, is a bonus.”
I clapped solemnly at his discourse. “You’re a poet, Fermín.”
“No, I’m with Ortega and I’m a pragmatist. Poetry lies, in its adorable wicked way, and what I say is truer than a slice of bread and tomato. That’s just what the master said: show me a Don Juan and I’ll show you a loser in disguise. What I aim for is permanence, durability. Bear witness that I will make Bernarda, if not an honest woman, because that she already is, at least a happy one.”
I smiled as I nodded. His enthusiasm was contagious, and his diction beyond improvement. “Take good care of her, Fermín. Do it for me. Bernarda has a heart of gold, and she has already suffered too many disappointments.”
“Do you think I can’t see that? It’s written all over her, like a stamp from the society of war widows. Trust me: I wrote the book on taking shit from everybody and his mother. I’m going to make this woman blissfully happy even if it’s the last thing I ever do in this world.”
“Do I have your word?”
He stretched out his hand with the composure of a Knight Templar. I shook it.
“Yes, the word of Fermín Romero de Torres.”
BUSINESS WAS SLOW IN THE SHOP THAT AFTERNOON, WITH BARELY A couple of browsers. In view of the situation, I suggested Fermín take the rest of the day off.
“Go on, go and find Bernarda and take her to the cinema or go window shopping with her on Calle Puertaferrissa, walking arm in arm, she loves that.”
Fermín did not hesitate to take me up on my offer and rushed off to smarten himself up in the back room, where he always kept a change of clothes and all kinds of eau de colognes and ointments in a toilet bag that would have been the envy of Veronica Lake. When he emerged, he looked like a screen idol, only fifty pounds lighter. He wore a suit that had belonged to my father and a felt hat that was a couple of sizes too large, a problem he solved by placing balls of newspaper under the crown.
“By the way, Fermín. Before you go…I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“Say no more. You give the order, I’m already on it.”
“I’m going to ask you to keep this between us, okay? Not a word to my father.”
He beamed. “Ah, you rascal. Something to do with that girl, eh?”
