When the turkeys had been fed with the food of luxury, Pedra showed me another gift that had just come for Villegas. “Don José will like this more than all the rest, you will see!” she said.
Villegas is the Director of the Prado Museum. What Pedra called the best present was a “testimonial,” with his photograph and a complimentary address signed by all the employees of the Prado. He gave the dreadful thing with its impossible plush frame the place of honor, and hung it up himself in the hall.
Cisera killed the larger turkey, and stuffed it with pistacchio nuts for the Christmas eve dinner-party. As we were all sitting together, waiting for the last guest to arrive, Gil, the melancholy Gallegan man-servant, threw open the door and announced:
“The Bohemian Gentleman.”
A big blond man with dancing blue eyes and a ruffled shirt came in, followed by Pedra, carrying in her upraised hands a tray with two enormous hams (she looked like the picture of Titian’s daughter with the fruit).
“A good Christmas!” the Bohemian made Lucia a grand bow. “I have brought you a pair of hams from Prague!”
“The best hams in the world,” Villegas patted one of them. “I was afraid you had forgotten this year!”
“They should be good; the pigs were raised on