Paraguay Wedding

by Michael Corrigan

It didn’t seem to matter that they were late since the priest didn’t show up for the wedding rehearsal, but Greg was still concerned about where he should stand during the ceremony.
“After all, according to the Paraguayans, I’m the fake father,” he said. “You’re the real father.”
“It will work out,” Sean Dineen said. He winked at Pricilla who smiled back.
“I guess the so-called real parents stand in front of the altar and you, the stepfather or padrastro, get to stand in the front pew.”

They looked out the side door of the old church and saw Carson Dineen standing with his bride-to-be, Paola, a beautiful Paraguayan woman who spoke little English but knew Portuguese, Spanish and the native Guaraní Indian language. Carson was striking in a tux. Time in the Peace Corps had led to his meeting with Paola. She was now watching a pet monkey chained to a tree branch. It was a spring night and the temperature still high. Wearing a tuxedo, Sean could feel the heat, wet and oppressive. Only early morning gave a brief relief. They could hear the heavy Asunción traffic.

“We can meet here in two hours,” Pricilla said. Sean could see she was tired.

“Never thought our boy would get married in Paraguay, right?”

“No, Sean, I never thought that … even though Carson is adventurous.”

“A Paraguay wedding is an adventure for all of us.”

Watching Pricilla in yellow streetlight, Sean Dineen remembered the young woman he had once loved. She had lost weight, the dark spiked hair now streaked with grey, her face lined with age and recent pain. Greg had gained weight and his once thick curly hair had turned white.  The eyes were still dark and always seemed to hold a suppressed mirth. Though they had raised Carson through his teen years in England, they both missed the spring cherry blossoms of Washington DC, their new home. Paola approached Pricilla.

“We go to do the makeup job and…” Paola searched for the word. “Dress,” she said, smiling. “Makeup and dress.”

“I’ll need a lot of makeup,” Pricilla said. Sean was suddenly aware of Carson at his side.

“There’s a great pizza bodega near here. Let’s grab a bite.”

Sean looked at the handsome face of his twenty-four-year-old son.

“Son, I don’t like pizza. I hate pizza!”

Carson nudged him playfully. “You’ll like this place. It’s got ambiance. The guy who runs it fled during the Stroessner dictatorship. His pizza is to die for and he has a lot of stories to tell. I can translate.”

“Then let’s hear them.”

“I like pizza. You need a third party?” They looked at Greg. He was sweating.

“I need to talk to Dad alone,” Carson said.

“Dad? What am I, chopped liver?”

“Of course not. I just need to talk with … with Sean for a minute.”

Greg nodded. “You guys want time alone, I understand that. I’ll meet you back at the house.” 

“We can meet at the church.”

“You also need to spend time with your mother,” Greg insisted.

“I will. And you need to get dressed.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s time to put on that penguin suit.” They felt the furnace heat of Paraguay. “Let’s hope it cools down tonight.”

“It won’t,” Carson said. “Not until what we call summer.”

They watched as Greg helped Pricilla into a cab and drove to the house where Paola had put them. It was a large white house with a red tiled roof and a swimming pool in the courtyard. Broken glass lay imbedded in the top of the garden wall and armed guards manned a station down a short path to the street. Paola waved to Sean and joined her sisters in another car.

“We need to talk about Mom,” Carson said.

“Sure.”

The pizza-bodega was small with a bar and an oven, the front door facing a busy street. Outside were modern houses and small shacks. An occasional palatial palace from colonial days lined a major boulevard. Inside the bodega, a poster of Bogart from Casablanca was on the wall and a section of an epic poem about a rebel gaucho called Martín Fierro. Carson sat on a stool and ordered.

“I know that poem,” said Sean.

“I think Martín Fierro eventually sold out in the end and became a government man. Even after Stroessner was deposed, he kept his Colorado party in power and had secret police.”

“He also harbored Nazis.”

“Yes, he did. A few descendants might still be around.”
Carson spoke in Spanish to the owner who shook his head and replied. He was gaunt with thinning hair and missing teeth.

“He says he was tortured by Stroessner’s secret police and fled to Argentina. He might have some stories for your potential novel.”

“Maybe. I gave up political cartoons. Real life just got too bizarre. I have to create something.”

“Maybe a graphic novel,” said Carson.

Two beers and the pizzas came and Sean was impressed. He stopped in mid chew. “I, who loathe pizza, love this. It’s great.”

Carson watched his father’s face as he sipped his beer.

“What?”

“I thought you quit drinking.”

“Since losing Rachel, I decided to have a beer or a glass of wine now and then.”

Carson nodded. “No gambling, these days?”

“None. Not even bingo.”

“I’m glad you and mom are reconciled and you approve of Greg.”

“He’s okay,” Sean said. “I think he loves her. Your mother and I weren’t meant to be husband and wife, only crazy lovers.”

“I was so sorry to hear about Rachel.”

Sean could still see the young cop’s neutral expression while reporting the accident.

“It was terrible,” Sean said. “Two years later, I still think about her – but life goes on.”

“I liked her.”

“She liked you. In a world of fiber glass, she was a gem.” Sean winked. “I borrowed that line from a song.”

“Well, it’s true,” Carson said. “She was a gem.” His eyes had the same brilliant rich brown of his mother’s, the hair thick and brown, the perfect teeth white enough to give Carson what others called a “wicked grin.”

“You know, Carson, your mother reached out to me after Rachel died.”

“I know.”

Sean was thinking about his late wife when the thin proprietor asked how the pizza was and they agreed that it was excellent. Then he told stories about the ruthless dictator called Alfred Stroessner, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish which Carson translated. Sean was able to recognize an occasional word.

“They executed his son,” Carson said, “and imprisoned his wife. He finally got out but he never saw her again.”

“Well, Stroessner is gone.”

“And so is the economy. It takes 4,000 Guaranis to make one dollar. It will get worse.”
They finished the pizza. Sean had noticed a store across the street with a German name. He wondered if some of the stories were true: dispossessed Aryan Nazi tribes, golden-haired and blue-eyed, living in the jungle and enslaving the natives. He had heard other stories that such Nazi colonies had existed but that they finally succumbed to tropical diseases. Sean ordered another round of beers.

“What’s on your mind, Son? This should be your happiest day … or evening.”

“It will be. But I’m worried about Mom … and Greg.”

“She was very ill, but she’s here. I think it would have broken her heart to miss your wedding.”

“I’m glad she made it,” Carson said. “I was just thinking. You’re a widower.”

“True.”

“Greg worked hard to be a good stepdad. Maybe you could help him when – ”

Carson’s voice went silent.

“Greg’s a nice guy but he makes me nervous. All he thinks about is money.”

“We can’t all be artists like you,” Carson said.

“True again. And who said I was an artist?”

“Greg might be a little jealous. He knows what you and Mother had.”

“And lost.”

“And lost.”

He touched his son’s face. “I’ll be there for you.”

Sean felt a sudden rush of tears. He was seeing the cop’s face, again; the cop was telling him that his wife had been struck by a drunk driver while returning from shopping.

“She did not survive the accident,” the cop simply reported. The radiant woman who had suddenly appeared and given Sean a new reason to live was just as suddenly gone.

“We’ve known mom’s inevitable outcome for some time,” Carson said, “but when it happens, it will be difficult for me and you … and Greg.”

Sean could see moisture in his son’s eyes and, on this happy occasion, wanted to ignore future sad vigils. “We’ll get through it.” They both stared at Bogart on the poster. He was looking at a radiant Ingrid Bergman. “Don’t forget Paola. She’ll be strong for all of us.”

“She has to learn English first,” Carson said. He suddenly lowered his head and laughed. “And you need to learn better Spanish. Do you have any idea what you said to her sister yesterday?”

“Tell me on the way back,” Sean said.

They left the bodega. Traffic was heavy, with many motorcyclists without helmets driving down the crowded lanes. Sean saw a crippled dog lying on the sidewalk. Carson began to tell the story of Sean’s language mistake. They were still laughing when Greg and Pricilla met them outside the church. Pricilla’s face was white with make up, the eye liner and lipstick layered on thick. It was 10 PM, dark but humid with sweltering heat.

“What’s so funny?” Greg asked.

“Yesterday, my dad was complaining about his Jesuit education. You know, the Jesuits settled Paraguay and actually helped the local Indians. Anyway, dad was telling Paola’s sister that the Jesuits were always warning him about sin when he was in high school, but he used the wrong word.”

Pricilla smiled, watching Carson’s animated face. It was nice to see him so happy.

“Wrong word?”

“The Spanish word for ‘sin’ is pecado and the word for ‘fish’ is pescado. Dad used the word for ‘fish.’ Basically, he told Paola’s sister that the Jesuits warned him he would go to hell over ‘bad fish’.”

Greg’s face was impassive. “I guess that’s amusing.”

“Paola’s sister is concerned since there will be fish served at the wedding party.”

Everyone started laughing.

“I can handle the fish. I might even handle a little sin,” said Sean.

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