The next three days were a gray velvet torture. The house, once punctuated by bursts of sudden laughter, had fallen under a suffocating blanket of propriety. Don Roberto kept his word, canceling the rest of his schedule in Geneva and locking himself in his office, a dark wood-paneled room on the first floor, with the door ajar just enough to hear what was happening downstairs. He sat in front of his computer pretending to review balance sheets and contracts, but his senses were completely focused on the hallway and the living room.
He was a spy in his own castle. He wanted to prove to himself that he was right, that order brought peace, that structure brought well-being, but what he heard was slowly killing him. He heard Elena’s footsteps, rhythmic and soft. He heard her voice, now subdued, saying things like, “Sit up straight, Nico. Don’t spill the food, my love. The Lord gets angry.” He heard the silence. A heavy, dense silence, broken only by the occasional, brief cry from the twins. A cry of boredom and frustration that Elena quickly soothed with a shh.
It’s passing, it’s passing. There was no laughter, no running, no life. On the third day, curiosity won out over pride. Roberto got up from his ergonomic leather chair and tiptoed to the door. He peered into the hallway that led to the interior balcony, from where he could see the living room below without being seen. The scene he saw shattered his preconceptions. The children were sitting on the rug, surrounded by expensive imported wooden toys and neutral-colored building blocks.
They were clean, immaculate, their hair parted to the side. Elena sat in a chair watching them, her hands folded in her lap, just as he’d ordered, like a professional. She looked like a picture from a decorating magazine, perfect, cold, lifeless. Nico held a red block, looked at it listlessly, and dropped it. Santi lay face down, sucking his thumb, staring blankly at the ceiling. He didn’t try to get up, didn’t try to walk. What for? There was no one on the floor waiting for him with open arms.
Roberto felt a sharp pain in his chest. Was this what he wanted? Children who looked like mannequins. Was this the decency Gertrudis so vehemently defended? Suddenly, Elena glanced at the wall clock. It was 11 a.m. She knew Roberto often had video conferences at that time and wore headphones. Believing the ogre was disconnected from the world, Elena transformed. It was subtle at first. She slid from her chair to the floor, not with a sound, but like a cat.
She silently took off her shoes, approached Santi, and whispered something in his ear. The boy, who had looked like a wilted plant just seconds before, opened his eyes wide, and a mischievous smile lit up his face. Elena pulled out of her pocket not the yellow gloves, but two socks with faces painted on the toes. She put them on his hands. “Hello, I’m Mr. Potato,” Elena whispered in a deep, ridiculous voice, waving her right hand in front of Nico’s face.
Nico let out a stifled giggle, covering his mouth with his hands, as if he knew they were committing a crime. “I’m Mrs. Tomato,” he replied, tickling Santi’s tummy with his other hand. The effect was electric. The energy in the room shifted instantly. Color returned to the children’s cheeks. Santi sat up, giggling softly, trying to catch Mr. Potato. Nico jumped on Elena’s back, hugging her tightly. Roberto, from his hiding place high above, watched as Elena rolled on the floor with them, but this time in complete silence.
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