Coral Stone and Bitter Salt

The lens of the Nikon D750 pointed straight at Manuela's forehead with a tiny autofocus hum. Rodrigo didn't lower the camera all the way; he barely peeked an eye over the viewfinder to assess the damage.

"Smile with less desire to murder an innocent person, fiancée," he murmured. "That vertical wrinkle between your eyebrows comes out whenever you're about to bite."

"It's my face of marital bliss. Get used to it."

"I'm flattered by the enthusiasm."

Manuela's cell phone, miraculously surviving on one percent, buzzed in the side pocket of her handbag, a dull thud against the synthetic leather. She pulled it out just two centimeters to spy on the screen with the brightness turned all the way down.

Mom: Leonor says your boyfriend looks like a castaway but has nice teeth. Whose family is he from? The Restrepos from Medellín or the ones from Pereira? Answer right now.

Things I am not going to do tonight:

1. Answer my mother before having three drinks in me.

2. Remember that Rodrigo still smells like a ridiculous mix of neutral soap and strong coffee.

3. Look toward the planters in the back.

Of course, she looked.

Felipe Zúñiga was leaning against one of the arches of the courtyard, where the bougainvillea hung withered from the afternoon mugginess. He wasn't talking to anyone. He was holding a short glass of whisky and keeping his eyes fixed on Manuela with that expression he used to wear in college whenever he found a typo in the opposing team's brief: it wasn't pain, it was a bureaucratic appetite for destruction.

Rodrigo spun the focus ring with his thumb. Click.

"Did you put duct tape on the battery door?" she asked, pointing to the bottom edge of the camera so she wouldn't have to think about Felipe.

"The plastic latch broke at a baptism in Turbaco last year. If it works, you don't touch it."

"It's of a touching precariousness."

"It's called an operating budget, Manuela."

"It's called being cheap."

They fell silent for a moment as the waiters passed by with trays of sweating ceviche and warm glasses of champagne. The Cartagena heat forgave nothing, neither the ice nor the composure. In the distance, the string orchestra played out of tune with dignity over an old waltz.

The sharp sound of a dessert spoon hitting a fine crystal glass shattered the conversation into pieces. Above, the wooden ceiling fans spun with a lazy hum that didn't move the air, merely redistributing the hot vapor among bare shoulders and soaked guayaberas. The bride, radiant and exhausted, raised her glass next to the central coral stone fountain, where drops of wax from the melted candles formed pale crusts over the salinity of the stagnant water.

The official toast erupted into automatic applause, that disciplined chorus of high society that applauds weddings with the same courtesy with which it later dismembers the newlyweds on the way to the parking lot. Manuela took two clumsy steps, remembering much too late that her right heel was still broken in half at the bottom of her purse.

An arm wrapped around her waist from behind. Firm, without asking permission.

"Lean on me," Rodrigo said next to her ear. "You look like a wounded flamingo."

"I hate you with all the strength of my ancestors."

"I know. Act natural."

Before they could take another step toward the exit of the cloister, a tall shadow cut them off between two ochre-light colonial lanterns. Felipe Zúñiga was not applauding. His glass of whisky rested in his left hand, condensation trickling cold down his knuckles, while in his right he held a sheet of paper folded in four, creased at the edges.

"How touching everything is," Felipe said. His smile didn't budge a millimeter from the script. "Really, Manuela. I almost believe it."

"Felipe, this isn't the time," she replied, gasping for air amidst the pasty heat clinging to her dress's satin.

"Oh, I think it's the exact time. Right before the waltz."

Felipe unfolded the paper with the leisurely air of someone about to read a death sentence aloud. It was a printed copy of the event planner's technical services contract. At the top, in bold faded by a low-toner printer, appeared Rodrigo's full name and a hiring date from exactly seventy-two hours ago.

"Seventy-two hours," Felipe repeated, showing the paper as if it were an overdue promissory note. "Three days. What a whirlwind romance, right? Hired to cover the cocktail party by the bride and now it turns out he's the family's official fiancé. What a small world, Manuela. Or how desperate you are."

Manuela's tongue dried against the roof of her mouth. If only she had five seconds to—

Felipe raised his glass with a triumphant gesture, puffing out his chest to project his voice toward the main table, where Aunt Leonor pretended to look away while holding her half-drunk daiquiri with gloved fingers.

Rodrigo didn't retreat half a centimeter.

He stepped forward, placing himself right between Felipe and Manuela, with the leather strap of the reflex camera crossing his chest like a worn-out military harness.

There is nothing more dangerous at a high-society party than someone who has no family name to defend and nothing left to lose.

"Raise your voice if you want to, Zúñiga," Rodrigo dropped in a glacial whisper, so low that Felipe had to lean forward to hear him. "Shout it loud so everyone finds out. But before you open your mouth, do yourself a favor and look at the approval signature at the bottom of that very page."

Felipe lowered his gaze, thrown off balance. His arrogance froze on his chin.

"The green light wasn't given by the bride," Rodrigo continued, pressing two fingers against the rim of Felipe's whisky glass until he was forced to lower his hand. "It was signed by Aunt Leonor yesterday at four in the afternoon. She knew perfectly well who I was when she hired me, Felipe. She knew Manuela didn't have a boyfriend and let you set up this little theater so you'd come make a fool of yourself all on your own."

Leonor knew.

Manuela looked at her aunt across the courtyard; the woman raised her glass toward them with a ruthless serenity and drank.

Felipe turned pale beneath his country-club tan.

"And now," Rodrigo said, gently snatching the paper from his hands, "excuse us, we have family photos to take."