Isabella snorted dismissively, “You may well say that, hija, but be warned: You must take special care. Men, young and old, will be hungry to know more about you as they eat up all that they can see.”
“Oh, Mamá,” Cumandá said softly. “I’m sure none of the men at the dance will even notice me.” She lifted her mother’s sapphire-and-diamond pendant from its resting resting place and grinned, “They will be too fascinated by this sparkling enchantment… Y el escote profundo de tu vestido.”
Isabella blushed at the compliment, but was secretly proud. Her bias-cut chiffon-and-satin sheath’s deep V-neckline and ass-hugging backless drop was ultra-modern. She had hoped she would stir thing up among Quito’s conservative high society clique. She looked again at her daughter’s displayed femininity and thought, “And now, it seems, I have an ally. Everyone will remember the Vásquez women’s impact at this Carnival Ball!”
Just then, Germán and Alejandro poked their heads through the bedroom door. Germán urged, “¡De prisa por favor! The taxi is waiting!” Happily anxious to show off his young wife’s good looks and watch the fuddy-duddies at the dance fume with jealousy, he overlooked Cumandá’s manifest nubility. Nor did Alejandro comment, but, behind his father’s back, he licked his lips thoughtfully and gazed at two temptresses to whom he had never before paid any attention.
At the Hotel Plaza Grande, Germán gave the cabbie a gold condor for the twelve-and-a-half-centavo fare and said magnanimously, “Keep it all. Buy something nice for your wife!”
While Cumandá and Alejandro exited the car oblivious to their father’s largesse, Isabella frowned. As the taxi drove off, she said to her husband, “That was a ridiculous overtip. What were you trying to prove by it?”
Germán replied blandly, “Only that I am a man who can afford to be generous to a poor soul who must work for a living on the last night of Carnival. Our first bottle of champagne will cost twice as much.” He smiled then side-hugged his beautiful bride as he reminded her, “We are celebrating, tonight. Yes?” Her unfettered breast squashed deliciously soft through his tuxedo jacket and against his ribs.
Isabella cared deeply for Germán and thrilled inside whenever he squeezed her close. Tonight, however, she prayed he would not be too amorous, as her last period had concluded not quite two weeks ago, and she was nothing, if not regular in her cycle. She flushed at the thought that she could be ovulating at any moment over the next few days. “Be cautious, ‘Bella,” she said to herself. Smiling sweetly at Germán, she answered simply, “Yes. You are right. Tonight we are celebrating.”
As the Vásquez family trooped to the hotel, live music from the terrace between the rooftop bars carried to them on the night air. When the Plaza Grande was built six years earlier, no building in the city had more than two stories and its five floors seemed an amazing accomplishment. Germán, of course, had traveled to the capitals of Europe and was less impressed than the more provincial citizenry. He famously once said to the bragging alcalde of Quito, “Of course it had to be at least that tall, else its baroque columns would just look silly.”
All the same, the hotel was elegant, stately, and even opulent enough to architecturally hold its own with the many fine cathedrals erected in Quito since earliest colonial times. In the lobby, many costumed party-goers were already milling about and greeting one another. Most common were men in conquistador regalia and women dressed up like doñas from the 16th or 17th centuries, though quite a few patrons wore colorful native outfits. Cumandá was amused to see one unidentifiable person hiding in a complete animal fur which looked quite like an oversized brown-throated sloth right out of the jungle.
Near the elevators, the dowager fiesta chairperson stood at a table dispensing tie-on domino masks, and half-masks on sticks, to attendees needing or wanting them. When she saw Cumandá, she importuned, “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather have a shawl than a mask, my dear? You are completely uncovered.”
Before her daughter could answer, Isabella stepped forward and replied, “Gracias, Doña Escobar, pero eso es innecesario. We Vásquez women are proud to wear modern fashions. These are the latest styles throughout Europe as well as in America.” Then, to take the sting out of her reproach, she smiled and pointed, “A black domino will do nicely for my daughter. I will have a white stick-mask. I think the men will choose for themselves, if they wish any masks at all.”
Señora Escobar huffed, but had no retort. She handed over the eye-shades and pointedly turned her back to help the latest arrivals at her table. Germán laughed inwardly and thought, “Ha! Our first victim could not have been worthier!” Alejandro said nothing, but he grinned broadly and puffed up his chest with pride at the defense of the Vásquez honor.
On the ride up, the seated lift operator enjoyed his eye-level eye-full of the Vásquez women’s profiled pulchritude. The liveried youth got a kick from stopping with a lurch at each floor, even though he knew no one else could possibly board and no one wanted to get off. Every jolting halt involuntarily jiggled the bra-less breasts. At the fourth floor his abrupt halt threw Isabella off-balance and, as she wobbled on her white perforated leather pumps’ seven-centimetre heels, he got a clear bonus view of her naked dark left nipple.
Meanwhile, the men were trapped in the cramped space, too. With their backs to the cab wall and their fronts flush against the women, each jostling awkwardly rubbed crotches against bottoms and vests against bare backs. Neither tuxedos, nor ball gowns, prevented the friction from inspiring indelicate stirrings. In addition, despite their high heels, both Isabella and Cumandá unavoidably afforded Germán and Alejandro over-the-shoulder, top-down, views to their cleavage.
Germán stared straight ahead and ignored his wife’s shaking bosom. He focused instead on holding her steady with his hands on her hips. Alejandro, however, was stuck in the corner with nothing else to look at except Cumandá’s creamy breast tops riding up in her bodice’s satin inserts while his restless cock prowled in his shorts like a hunting jaguar. He wanted to imitate his father and stabilize his tottering sister, but not as much as he wanted his hard-on to shrink.
The family was glad to pile out of the elevator on the Plaza Grande’s top floor and then proceed to the main bar, which had been given over entirely to the fiesta. While Isabella led her children to a vacant table, Germán snagged a waiter and ordered champagne with four glasses. By the time the bubbly arrived, other servers had delivered appetizers, including pristiños, paltas rellenas, humitas and sea bass ceviche along with a clay jug of chicha de jora. Germán toasted the table with a lusty laugh, “¡Disfrútalo todo, mis seres queridos! For tomorrow we repent!”
A little while later, Alejandro looked across the table at his sister, then nodded his head toward the terrace as he said with a disarming smile, “Listen to that music… We haven’t danced since I ruined your shoes at your quinceañera. Will you give me a chance to show you I’m less clumsy than I was three years ago?”