I ask only to keep him talking, and then he says something wonderful, something I never would have thought of and that nevertheless I realize will change everything.
“They came here for the same reason,” he says. His eyes are shining and he knows I’m desperate for him to go on. “And they have one. They’ve had him a month now.”
“They have one? They have one! I can’t believe it . . .”
Pol can’t stop nodding and rubbing his hands together.
“They invited us over for dinner. Tonight!”
I’m happy to see him happy, and I’m so happy, too—it’s as though we’d finally managed it ourselves. We hug and kiss, and right away we start to get ready.
I bake a dessert, and Pol chooses a bottle of wine and his best cigars. While we shower and get dressed, he tells me everything he knows. Arnol and Nabel live some ten miles from here, in a house very much like ours. Pol saw it because they drove back together, in a caravan, until Arnol honked his horn to tell him they were turning and he saw Nabel pointing to the house. “They’re great,” says Pol again and again, and I feel a little jealous that he already knows so much about them.
“And? What’s he like? Did you see him?”
“They leave him at home.”
“What do you mean, they leave him at home? Alone?”
Pol shrugs his shoulders. I’m surprised he doesn’t think it’s odd, but I just ask him for more details while I go on with the preparations.
We close up the house as if we’re going away for a long time, then bundle up and go outside. During the drive I carry the apple pie on my lap, taking care it doesn’t tilt, and I think about the things I’m going to say, about everything I want to ask Nabel. Maybe when Pol invites Arnol for a cigar they’ll leave the two of us alone together. Then maybe I can talk to her about more private things. Maybe Nabel used candles, too; maybe she dreamed often of fertile things, and now that they’ve gotten one she can tell us exactly what to do.
We honk the horn when we arrive and they come right out to greet us. Arnol is a big guy wearing jeans and a red plaid shirt; he greets Pol with a warm hug, like an old friend he hasn’t seen in a long time. Nabel comes out after Arnol and smiles at me. I think we’re going to get along. She’s also tall, as tall as Arnol but thin, and her clothes are almost the same as his; I regret having dressed up. Inside, the house reminds me of an old mountain lodge. Wooden walls and ceiling, a big fireplace in the living room, and furs on the floor and sofas. It’s well lit and heated. It’s really not the way I would decorate my house, but I think it’s all fine and I return Nabel’s smile. There’s a delicious smell of sauce and roast meat. It seems Arnol is the chef; he moves around the kitchen shifting dirty dishes around, and he tells Nabel to show us into the living room. We sit on the sofa. She pours wine and brings in a tray of appetizers, and soon Arnol joins us. I want to ask questions right away: How did they catch him, what’s he like, what’s his name, does he eat well, have they taken him to the doctor yet, is he as cute as the ones from the city? But the conversation lingers on stupid subjects. Arnol asks Pol about insecticides, Pol takes an interest in Arnol’s business, then they talk about trucks, the places they buy things; they discover they both argued with the same man, a guy who works in the service station, and they agree he’s terrible. Then Arnol excuses himself to go check on the food, Pol offers to help him, and they both leave. I settle into the sofa across from Nabel. I know I should say something friendly before asking her what I want to ask. I compliment her on the house, and then right away I ask:
“Is he cute?”
She blushes and smiles. She looks at me like she’s embarrassed, and I feel a knot in my stomach and I’m dying of happiness and I think, They’ve got him and They’ve got him and he’s beautiful.
“I’d love to see him,” I say. I want to see him right now, I think, and I stand up. I look toward the hallway and wait for Nabel to say, This way. I’m finally going to see him, hold him.
Then Arnol comes back with the food and calls us to the table.
“Does he sleep all day, then?” I ask, and I laugh as if it were a joke.
“Ana is anxious to meet him,” says Pol, and he caresses my hair.
Arnol laughs, but instead of answering he places the serving dish on the table and asks who likes rare meat and who likes it well done, and then we’re eating again. Nabel is more talkative during the meal. While the men hold forth on their own subjects, we discover our lives are similar. Nabel asks me for advice about plants and then I get up the nerve to mention the fertility recipes. I bring it up as just a joke, offhand, but Nabel shows interest and I find out she used them, too.
“And the walks? The nighttime hunts?” I say, laughing. “The gloves, the backpacks?”
Nabel is quiet for a second, surprised, and then she starts laughing along with me.
“And the flashlights!” she says, holding her belly. “With those damned batteries that don’t last five minutes!”
And me, almost crying:
“And the nets! Pol’s net!”