The Spanish newspaper “El Mundo” has revealed, in an article signed by its chronicler Pío Canario, that my eldest daughter, Camelia, a prestigious lawyer, has been married, before a Catholic priest, in a religious temple, in the city of dust and fog, where she was not born, and that I snubbed her, because I stayed at home, cultivating laziness, dragging myself around in pajamas and slippers, and refusing, like a complete idiot, to attend the wedding.
At the same time, three widely read Peruvian newspapers of proven moral solvency, “La República”, “Perú21” and “El Popular”, have stated that my second daughter, Paulina, an expert in cutting-edge technological matters that I do not understand nor do I want to understand, has also been married, before a Catholic priest, although without setting foot in a religious temple, in the gardens of the beautiful residence of her grandfather, a hotel magnate, in the city of dust and fog, where she was not born either, and that I gave her a sit-down, because I I stayed at home, like a lazy bear, refusing to attend that wedding that reporters described as “dreamlike.” “Jaime Bayly’s absence did not go unnoticed,” one of those newspapers revealed.
Since I am not right in the head, and I can no longer trust my memory, and I do things that I later do not remember, I am sure that the newspapers in Madrid and Lima always tell the truth, when it comes to reporting on my life, the erratic existence of a man, this Bayly’s, who languishes, withers, wrinkles and stoops, the life of a writer whose voice fades, the life of a talker whose words suddenly become tangled, when he does not ideas. If I trust the newspapers or my damaged memory, I certainly trust the rigor of the press, and not my clouded head. That is why I have felt terrible with my daughters Camelia and Paulina, who, according to those newspapers that enjoy undoubted credibility, have recently gotten married, in the face of Divine Providence, in religious ceremonies that I have offended, or perhaps blessed, with my absence.
I have apologized to Camelia for not attending her wedding, I have congratulated her from the bottom of my heart, I have sent her a gift, but she, laughing, told me that she has not gotten married, not yet, and that, if she does get married, it will be in Jamaica, without shoes, on the beach, and that the newspapers are misinformed, although she accepted the gift anyway, there was more to go. I believe that Camelia has indeed gotten married, as the Spanish newspaper claims, to which, by the way, I subscribe. I think Camelia lies to me, she hides her marriage from me, she hides the truth from me, just because she is fond of me and doesn’t want me to feel bad. I refuse to believe that the Spanish newspaper has married Camelia, without her actually being married. Camelia has probably gotten married, but she preferred not to invite me, for fear that I would later write the secrets, the gossip, and the intimacies of the wedding. It is understandable that he prefers me uninformed and at a cautious distance. He knows that I am a disastrous, untrustworthy father, a writer who tells everything, especially what he shouldn’t tell.
I have also sincerely apologized, shedding tears, to my second daughter Paulina, for being a selfish and negligent father, a father who has been absent from her wedding, just as he was absent from her school and university graduations. The press has stated that, in the face of my notorious, scandalous absence, strongly criticized by the ladies of high society, Paulina was led to the altar by her older sister Camelia, “reaffirming the close bond that unites them.” A newspaper has titled in large characters: “Jaime Bayly’s daughter celebrates religious marriage surrounded by friends, but without her father.” Overwhelmed by guilt, I have offered my daughter Paulina, as a belated proof of my fickle paternal love, to pay for her honeymoon, to see if she will forgive me. However, she told me, laughing, that she did not get married according to the Catholic religion or according to Judaism, even though her boyfriend is Jewish and she was baptized as a Catholic, and that I was present at the wedding, just as I was seen at the full-throttle party, held hours later. You don’t have to pay me anything, you already paid for the party, Paulina told me, in a smiling tone. I think my daughter is lying to me. I don’t remember if I was at his party, nor am I sure I paid for that celebration. If the newspapers say that I did not attend Paulina’s wedding, I have no doubt that the journalists, apostles of truth, know my agenda, and my adventures, escapades and adventures, much better than I do myself. Given the choice between my fragile memory or the veracity of the newspapers, I blindly trust the press and its incorruptible commitment to the truth. At my mature age, I don’t know who I am or where the hell I stand, and without a doubt my journalist colleagues know it better than me. Why then does Paulina assure me that I was at her wedding, when, apparently, I did not attend, making her look ugly? Maybe because she doesn’t want to tell me the truth: that she didn’t invite me to the wedding because, understandably, she is ashamed of me and prefers that I not meet her boyfriend, or her boyfriend’s family, who travel by private plane, while I do it in premium economy class, using my mother’s credit card.
I then choose to believe the newspapers in Madrid and Lima: my daughters Camelia and Paulina have been married in separate religious ceremonies to which I, having been invited, did not want to attend, otherwise I will be a scoundrel father. The argument offered by one of those newspapers seems irrefutable: “Bayly’s did not publish content related to the ceremony nor was it seen in the records released by attendees.” The definitive proof of my absence at both weddings is then that I have not uploaded photos to social networks of my presence at those ceremonies and the guests have not posted photos with me at said celebrations either. Consequently, if I am not in the photos, it is because I stayed at home, I did not attend the weddings and I snubbed my daughters Camelia and Paulina, not taking them to the altar, as an honorable father, of good character and impeccable reputation, would do.
As if that were not enough, the Spanish newspaper publishes some photos that aggravate my confusion and plunge me into stupor and bewilderment: in one I appear with my current wife Silvia, who is described as my daughter, and who in fact looks like my daughter, since I am twenty-four years older than her; In another I appear with my youngest daughter, Zoe Bayly’s, just turned fifteen, who is described as one of my oldest daughters who just got married; and in a third photo the newspaper shows my first wife, Sandra, who looks very pretty, and whom the reporter criticizes for not having invited my ex-boyfriend, the Argentine Gazpacho, a second division soccer player, to the wedding. After reading the chronicles and browsing the photos, the truth is that I no longer know who married who, if the weddings were religious or civil, if I was invited or ignored, if I attended or was absent, and who are, after all, my already married daughters and my still single daughters.
In any case, my daughters know that, present or absent, I love them very much. My daughter Camelia has bought tickets to watch together some World Cup matches that will be played in Philadelphia, the city where she lives. My daughter Paulina told me that she will come to spend the 4th of July weekend on the island, with us. None of them have asked me to send them my most recent novel. I have never given my books to Camelia or Paulina because I don’t want to force them to read to me when they probably don’t feel like doing so. It has saddened me that you do not write to your younger sister, greeting her on her birthday, but nothing is perfect, except the day I married my current wife, Silvia, fifteen years ago, in the courts of this city, where winter is a fiction: we showed up at the court at one in the afternoon, me in my nightclothes, without witnesses, without rings, overflowing with love, and after we got married there was no party, banquet or saree, and we walked to eat in a restaurant Italian and drink a Baileys on the rocks, without disturbing anyone, and without the newspapers here and there finding out about that clandestine, disastrous and happy wedding.
