When we checked out of the hotel in New York, they emailed me the bill for the suite occupied by my wife and teenage daughter, but not the bill for the suite where I slept alone, snoring like a bear in the winter. … While we were waiting at the airport for the flight home, I said to my wife: those idiots at the hotel made me pay for your suite, but not mine, how wonderful, how lucky I am. I was excited because I had billed my suite for the considerable expenses of the hotel’s restaurants, bars, hair salons and massages. If, by mistake, the hotel receptionists did not charge me for this suite, I would save a considerable amount of money. I am so stupid that I thought: this is a gift from the gods for having behaved well at my daughter’s wedding, celebrated these autumn days in this city. A week later, I called the credit card and asked about my recent spending in New York. Of course, the hotel had me pay for both suites, everything, including banquets and parties, oysters and caviar, champagne and wine, blown hair and massages. Although it was within its rights to charge me for these properly provided services, I felt that the hotel had been insensitive in charging me a bill that, suddenly amazed at my luck, I had already planned not to pay.
Before leaving New York, I met my newly married daughter at the hotel bar, in a private setting, just the two of us. She ordered champagne. Since I wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol, I took it away while eating: I ordered bread with grilled cheese and tomato soup. Lowering my voice, in a conspiratorial tone, I asked my daughter how much it would cost for the wedding party she will give in a few months, in Lima, the city of dust and fog, where I was born, but it was not, since she came into the world in Miami, thirty years ago. With good manners, he told me we could talk about it later. I insisted that he give me an approximate and provisional figure. When he mentioned the amount, I was speechless, I turned pale, I was overcome by spasms and tremors. This is what I earn in six months on television, I thought nastily, but I didn’t tell him, because I couldn’t find the words to get out of the moral dizziness that was overwhelming me. Once I found my voice again, I managed to tell him that if he had already gotten married so happily in New York and everything had gone so well, so perfect, maybe it was not advisable to also get married in Lima, and not to save money, what an idea, but because it seemed impossible that the extra party in Lima would be as beautiful as the one in New York, a precious, beautiful, insurmountable celebration, not only because love reigned and it took place in the fanciest hotel in town, but because, congratulations, I didn’t pay anything. My daughter told me that it was already too late to cancel the additional celebrations in Lima, since the invitations had been sent and the international guests had purchased their plane tickets, and that she was also looking forward to this second bridal shower or this bridal draft because there, in the city of dust and fog, she had many friends who had not attended the wedding in New York. I suggested: why not send them photos of the event in New York and that way they will feel a little invited, even if it’s late. I added: the second parts were never good. With a smile, she said that she would get married in Lima anyway, but not in a church, but in an equestrian club of which I am not a member.
Resigned then to paying for my newly married daughter’s second wedding or bridal suite, I had no choice but to eagerly negotiate with her, trying to reduce as much as possible the exorbitant sum she had asked of me. I told her: well, you know, girl, that I don’t drink alcohol, and that my father was an alcoholic, and that I hate drunks, and that’s why I think that, if I have to pay for this party, I prefer not to offer alcohol, because spirits bring out the worst in people, so it is better to offer lemonades, chicha morada, soft drinks and fruit juices. My daughter looked at me, perplexed, disconcerted, thinking I was joking. Then I told her: what they charge us for food is abuse, my love, let me take care of it, I have a friend who worked with me on television and now makes a living preparing snacks for birthdays, you don’t know how delicious they are, I can ask her to make us rolls with ham and cheese, bread with fried eggs, bread with pork rinds and bread with avocado, what do you think? And that he prepares for us, as in children’s saints, red and yellow jellies, sweet and savory courts, picarones and chocolate cakes with a minimum of addition of cannabis so that people are very happy. My daughter then told me that she had already hired a family friend who throws the fanciest parties in town and that she preferred to continue planning the details with him.
Finally, trying to reduce costs, I decided that the wedding banquet would not take place at the equestrian club, but at my mother’s mansion. I already talked to mom, she is very excited, she remembers that they didn’t invite her to the wedding in New York, I wouldn’t want to break her heart again, I told her. Then I took the liberty of adding: plus, Mom has nice priests who don’t charge us because she keeps them low, and she also provides us with cumbia orchestras and mariachi groups that she frequently hires for her parties. Slightly upset, my daughter clarified to me: I don’t want a priest, Dad, because we won’t get married because of religion, and I don’t want cumbias or mariachis, that’s not the music we’re going to dance to. Then she argued: plus, there will be a polo match at the club, because my boyfriend and his friends are polo players, and so are my cousins. Defeated, I backed away: I’m done for here, my love, because in my mother’s garden we can’t play polo, but mom can have ponies and we can play mini-polo, do you think? And thus, we save the club, which charges us a fortune.
At the end of the day, my newly married daughter told me: Dad, it’s my wedding, it’s my party, I want to run the whole thing, even if it’s more expensive, and if you don’t want to pay for anything, don’t worry, my husband and I will pay for the party. Touched in my honor, I jumped and exclaimed: No, my daughter, what an idea, I will pay everything! Then, with pompous gestures and breathing deeply as if I were going to skydive, I took out my wallet, took out a check, wrote down my daughter’s name, wrote down the amount she had asked me for, and signed it with a triumphant air, as if I were a rich man who could pay for this party without breaking a sweat. My daughter thanked me, hugged me and asked me to trust her, that everything would work out wonderfully. I felt like a good father, a generous father despite everything. I had negotiated in good faith, trying to lower the cost of the party, but she had won, so, writing the check to pay for this raucous party in the name of love, I signed my surrender, my honorable surrender.
However, on the return flight, I said to my wife, lowering my voice, in a conspiratorial tone: I am calm because the check I gave to my daughter is going to bounce. My wife was surprised: you don’t have money? I told him: Yes, she has funds, but when the check is for such a large amount, the bank asks me, for security reasons, if I approve or disapprove of the transaction to be carried out. I told him: when the bank asks me, I will press the red emergency button, I will press NO, I do not approve of the transaction, I do not approve of the two-city wedding, I do not approve of the expensive spending on alcoholic beverages, I do not approve of the polo match, I do not approve of anything, dammit. But your daughter will look horrible, you can’t do that to her, my wife told me. I’ll tell him it’s a mistake on the bank’s part and that I’ll send him a new check soon, I defended myself. But will you pay for the party or not? my wife asked. I replied: I will only pay for the party if it takes place at my mother’s house, with priest friends, cumbia and mariachi bands, bread with fried eggs and chicharrón and polo matches with dwarf horses.