“Yes, let’s drop it. Do you want dessert?”
Dessert or not, the meal was already ruined, though at least one thing was clear: Sandra hates what I do, can’t stand it.
I was so upset, my hands were shaking as we left the restaurant. I could have used a line right then.
We spent the afternoon at home reading. There was some tension in the air, but not enough to disrupt the normality. When it was time for me to go to the club, I kissed her hair and said goodbye.
I stopped in at the bar and ordered some tea. The waiter, who knows me by now, asked, “Anything to eat?”
“No, thanks, I don’t have time. I have to go to work soon.”
It felt so good to say that! It was true: in a little while they’d be waiting for me to show up at work. Waiting for me, Javier. I had a boss, colleagues, buddies to go out to eat with after the show. For the first time, I felt happy as I headed to the club.
* * *
How does he fit in there? Doesn’t he realize? Is this the same man I met that first day? If someone had told me I’d be going through this, I’d have died laughing. Javier, so mature, well-adjusted, calm, tolerant, realistic . . . What goes on in the guy’s heads? I thought I knew, but I don’t. He’s been in the striptease business for two months now, and that’s a long time. I thought he wouldn’t last a week—actually, I thought he’d never dare do it at all. Sometimes people in literary circles like to dabble in different experiences. But it seems like he’s taking it seriously. Why? Not because of the money—we don’t need what he’s bringing in. Just to have a job, no matter what? Does it really count as a job?
Some days, there in the office, sitting at my computer, I’m convinced none of this is true: I’ve just dreamed it. I don’t understand Javier’s reasons for getting involved in this crap. I guess a lot of it has to do with Iván, that lowlife, that philistine. Javier listens to him. He’s flattered. Iván always treats him like his intellectual superior. The other day he called here and I answered the phone. “Is the teacher around?” he asked. The teacher! There’s the nub of it: my boy’s ego is probably in the gutter, and it probably boosts his self-esteem to have Iván admiring him and calling him “teacher.” But I fell in love with Javier because he wasn’t your typical vain guy! He didn’t need me to tell him, “You’re so handsome!” “You’re so good at your job!” “You’re a stud in bed!” all the time. No, he seemed solid. He did things because he liked them, not because they raised his social standing. I never heard him say he wanted a full-time teaching position. Teaching supplementary classes was enough for him. He’d rather live a quiet life than be number one. His only ambition was to have enough free time to read all the books he wanted.
I liked that he was like that; I can’t stand guys who are full of themselves. My older sister lives with a guy who makes a lot of money. He’s horrible—all he cares about is work, and he’s always going around in a snit, competing with everybody, perpetually caught up in his phone and computer. When he gets home at night, my sister has to tell him he’s amazing, number one, the best. Otherwise he gets depressed. His aspiration in life is to become the manager at his company. Horrible.
The whole time I’ve lived with Javier, I’ve been very happy. We’ve lived a quiet life. During the week we each did our own thing, and on the weekend we did the shopping together, drank some wine when we were done, had dinner with friends, went to the movies . . . I don’t know, the things normal people do! I always wanted a peaceful life, no anger or tension. I’ve seen what it’s like to live with an ambitious guy, and I wanted no part of it. I’ve met a lot of guys who are as vain as peacocks, competitive as race horses. Mine wasn’t like that. Not till one fine day he lost his job and decided to become a stripper. It would be funny if I weren’t so bitter about it! It’s like a two-bit vaudeville show!
We don’t do much on the weekends anymore. He leaves at seven in the evening and I stay home alone, trying to figure out why a guy like him would prance around naked in some rundown dive. “I already have a job.” Some job! If it’s such a normal, dignified job, why hasn’t he ever encouraged me to come see him perform? I’m tempted to show up one day without warning, sit down at an out-of-the-way table, and record him on my cell phone. When he came home I’d show him the recording so he could see himself looking like a ridiculous clown. The only reason I haven’t done it is I don’t want to go alone and I’m embarrassed to ask a friend to go with me. I haven’t told anybody he’s working at a club. He’s stopped seeing his friends, probably because he’s as embarrassed as I am. Everybody thinks we’re fighting over something secret. It’s awful to be ashamed of the man you live with, though most disappointing of all has been realizing that Javier’s like any other guy, that he needs a numbskull like Iván to call him “teacher” so he can feel like he’s somebody.
He’s told me he comes home so late because he goes out to eat with a group of “coworkers” after the show. I can just imagine how those conversations go! And what his “coworkers” are like! When he gets into bed, he reeks of alcohol.
This is all too much for me. I could still put this period out of my mind if he quit the club immediately, but I’m afraid to ask him to. He acts like dancing nude is the same as being a company accountant, a sacred professional obligation. I don’t get it—we used to be so happy! I’ve been trying to keep on living as though nothing’s changed, but it’s not working. I’ve got the club stuck in my head. We’ll see—I don’t want to give up all hope. Maybe the problem will resolve itself in the same unexpected way it arose. One day I’ll get up in the morning and Javier will tell me, “Here I am, Sandra, the joke’s over, I’m me again.”
* * *
The rooftop bar at the Hotel Imperio. I’ve been to this super-high-end hotel before, but never on the roof. It’s very elegant, very on-trend. I love minimalist décor. Now that I’m living alone, I should change the décor in my house: switch out the furniture, repaint, even tear down some walls. With David everything was very traditional, though he never chose anything. Papá gave us the furniture as a gift. We ordered it together. David said yes to everything—poor guy didn’t have a clue about interior design, nor the time to think about that sort of thing. Still, the two of us did all right. We bought the latest fashions, the ones in all the magazines. It drove Papá a little crazy. I called a decorator at first, but he kept asking me personal questions: “What’s the life plan for the two of you?” I didn’t know what to say; I felt incredibly uncomfortable. I’ve never been able to talk about my plans with anybody. So I turned to Papá. And I didn’t much care what our house looked like anyway. Maybe if my mother had been alive . . . maybe then I would have been more interested in that sort of thing. But living with Papá, I’d learned to do without extravagances. Papá used to say that extravagance is a very womanly waste of time. Of course I’m a woman, but Papá would sometimes tell me I was “his boy,” which I was to a certain extent.
The rooftop bar at the Hotel Imperio. Sometimes I think Genoveva feels obligated to take me out on the town. It bothers me, makes me feel like I’m a silly little girl or an abandoned woman—which I actually am. It doesn’t matter, I let her take care of me. Today, with a bit of a mysterious air, she’s brought me here—I have no idea what’s so special about it. The plan is just to chat for a bit while sipping a gin and tonic.
She’s stunning today, dressed all in red and black. Even her shoes combine the two colors. We sit down at a table under a super-modern gas heater, nothing like those crappy ones they pull out in wintertime for outside seating at regular bars. I no longer think this plan is boring: I’ll have a couple of drinks, and by the end of the first one I’ll be feeling more cheerful and ready for a laugh.
“Why did you choose this place?” I ask Genoveva.
“Just my personal business.”
Mine and yours too, honey, or at least I hope so. If she doesn’t go along with this, I’m going to have to cut
her loose. Spoiled little girls are always getting bored, always wanting more—but when you set an entree down in front of them, they turn up their noses and say they’re not hungry. We’ll see how she reacts. If she’s not OK with it, we have nothing more to say to each other. I’m not her nanny or her mom.
“You know what I was thinking, Genoveva? Maybe I should redecorate my place. But then it seems like such a pain.”
Genoveva isn’t listening—she’s distracted or she doesn’t feel like talking. Suddenly she lifts her hand and signals to somebody, smiling. I turn for a moment to see who it is and spot two men walking toward us. Are they here by chance, or did she arrange to meet without telling me? If this is another attempt to set me up, I just might kill her. They come over to us. I repress the urge to get up and leave.
“Hi! What’s up, boys? How are you? Let me introduce you: this is my friend Irene, and these two are Rodolfo and Uriel.”
“Nice to meet you,” I hear myself say.
Rodolfo and Uriel? Where did she find these guys, with their preposterous names? I’m suddenly tempted to laugh. Rodolfo is black, black all over—he’s a black. They’re both young, tall, slim, well dressed. Uriel is darkly tanned with Latin American features—Mexican, maybe.
Genoveva has, as usual, taken control of the situation. She tells them to take a seat, orders them drinks. A surprisingly dispassionate conversation begins: what a beautiful sunset it is, the terrace décor, the brands of gin they selected for their cocktails. Fairly quickly, it becomes clear that Genoveva arranged this meeting. They’re prototypical studs, beefcakes. Rodolfo’s wearing a pink shirt that contrasts with and intensifies the beautiful color of his skin. Uriel’s well-developed muscles ripple beneath his suit. They have silky voices, a sophisticated manner of speaking; they’re good at small talk.
After a while, the alcohol has perked us up considerably. We go for tapas in a bar in the historic district, one of those places that’s suddenly become trendy. It’s packed, so we have to wait in line for a table. We drink red wine. It’s clear that Genoveva and Rodolfo know each other quite well—they exchange sidelong glances, their shoulders bumping conspiratorially. Uriel starts discreetly flirting with me. The more we drink, the more nonsense we talk. We’re like schoolkids: little jokes, double entendres . . . Luckily, occasionally someone reveals a bit of information about the two guys. I finally learn that Rodolfo is from Cuba and Uriel from El Salvador. How is this expected to play out—are we supposed to go dancing in a dive bar somewhere? I don’t really care; I’m starting to get bored with the insipid chitchat.
When the desserts arrive, Genoveva and Rodolfo start nuzzling each other like teenagers: an affectionate tap on the nose, a playful tug on the hair . . . Finally they kiss on the lips. The people around us stare at them. They stand out because she’s white and he’s black, because of the obvious age difference, and especially because of their ridiculous behavior. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been embarrassed for them, but the combination of the gin and tonic and the wine makes it so I just don’t care. At some point it occurs to me that maybe my ex and his current girl, the simultaneous interpreter, also coo at each other in public, and they must look as comical as Genoveva and Rodolfo do.
Genoveva ends up paying the check, just as she paid for our drinks on the hotel terrace. The guys don’t protest or make any attempt to pay or split the bill. I’m quite sleepy, so I’m caught off guard when my guess turns out to be correct and they cheerfully announce that we’re going out dancing. I flatly refuse, say I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Uriel jokingly performs some dance steps right in the middle of the street. “Come on, baby, life is short.” He moves gracefully, and I smile. For a second I think Genoveva’s going to insist I go with them, but she’s so drunk that she’s no longer worrying about me. Perfect. I start to say goodbye and Uriel interrupts me, saying he’ll accompany me home. I object, but he insists on doing things the old-fashioned way: “I’m a gentleman, and after an evening out, I take the lady home.” Fine, I let him come with me. I give the taxi driver the address to the office. On our way there, Uriel keeps staring at me intensely. When we arrive, I hastily get out of the cab, but he gets out too. I pay the driver. I shake Uriel’s hand as a final goodbye, and he won’t let go afterward, gazing at me with puppy dog eyes. I pull away somewhat brusquely and say good night. I walk through the main entrance. I don’t turn on the light. I stay there in the dark, checking to make sure he’s left. After a couple of minutes, I go down to the parking lot and collect my car. I head home.
The next morning I call Genoveva. She answers sleepily.
“I’m still in bed, darling.”
“Sorry, I thought since it’s almost eleven . . . ”
“We partied till four in the morning. What did you think of the guys? They’re great, right?”
“Who are they? How did you meet?”
I hear her laugh, which immediately makes her cough, since she’s a smoker.
“Jesus, Irene, I can’t believe how naïve you are! They’re escorts, sweetie.”
I’m starting to think she’s playing dumb, faking it. How is it possible she’s never heard that there’s such a thing as male escorts? She’s so out of touch, maybe it’s possible—the girl is totally clueless. Who did she think they were, friends from college? Please! I’m not surprised her husband left her; even I’m getting fed up with her. Didn’t she realize what was going on yesterday? What did she and Uriel do when they left? Maybe she told him her life story: about the company and her dad and how her husband left her. It’s almost embarrassing, to be honest.
“Do you mean gigolos?”
“That’s an out-of-date concept, Irene. They’re call guys, I don’t know how else to put it.”
Gigolos! What planet does she live on? Françoise Sagan, Sylvie Vartan, convertibles, and the Cote d’Azur. She must have seen it in a movie.
“Male prostitutes?”
Genoveva is gripped by a fit of laughter that lasts too long to be genuine. By the end, her laugh sounds like the clucking of a hysterical chicken. I wait patiently for her to stop.
“Look, darling, if you want we can meet for drinks and I’ll tell you all about it, but you saw them—they’re gorgeous, well-mannered guys who will take you on their arm wherever you want and always make you look good. And of course if you want them to accompany you to bed, that’s fine too. It’s a very discreet network. You meet one, and then another one from there . . . It’s not a prostitution ring or anything like that.”
“But you pay them.”
“That’s the arrangement, darling. You pay their expenses for the night and an additional fixed fee. But no cash—it’s all done really discreetly. A couple of days after you’ve gone out, you deposit their fee in a bank account. Nothing dodgy, see? It’s all very tasteful.”
“Right.”
“I see you understand.”
Poor Irene sounds frustrated. What did she think, that I’d met the guys on the city bus? Two handsome, well-mannered young men! It’s not like good-looking men grow on trees! I’m getting up there, sure, but she’s not exactly a catch herself: a divorced middle-aged woman, colder than an iceberg, blander than hospital food. And physically? Well, she’s not bad, but she’s not going to win any beauty contests or have strangers follow her down the street. But she’s rich, right? She owns a company. Well, that’s what you have to offer, sweetie—that’s the deal. The world is a marketplace in every aspect, not just some. Irene’s a businesswoman, so she should know everything has its price, its exchange rate, its valuation.
“So how much do I owe you for last night, Genoveva?”
“It’s my treat this time. The next time, if you want there to be a next time, we can split the cost. What did you think of Uriel?”
“Very nice.”
“He’s handsome, right? Those muscles! Rodolfo’s a sweetheart. We’ve gone out a few times, and
he’s always been flawless in everything. And when I say everything, you know what I mean.”
She laughs again. Her laughter repulses me a little. She’s revealed herself now. This is the real Genoveva. It had to be something like this; you don’t get that kind of reputation just from drinking in bars and buying cheap clothing. Now a lot of things make sense.
Male escorts. There are probably lots of women who use them, hire them to go to parties, on trips . . . The men know how to fit in, and nobody asks where they came from. Those women must no longer aspire to have a future, I think; they live life as it comes, day by day, at peace. And what about me? Do I aspire to have a future? I’m all mixed up and would rather not think about it. I’m not looking for a new love or a good time or anything like that. I don’t have a future. I’m happy to have gone out with an escort. I don’t feel guilty. It’s silly to think about how my father would be rolling in horror in his grave. Papá isn’t in his grave or anywhere else. Papá’s not here.
I don’t want to think. My head hurts. I don’t want to think.
* * *
Shit, man, the fuss this guy’s kicked up! And all because of something he brought on himself. Where the hell did this guy come from? Hasn’t he ever had any friends? I asked him about that one day, and he said, “Yeah, in college, and a few coworkers . . . but I don’t see them anymore.” I can guess why he stopped seeing them: he’s embarrassed to be working as a stripper. Well, he’ll figure it out: if it’s so beneath him, he can go back to being unemployed, no problem, just stay home reading books or doing sudokus—I don’t care. It’s not like he’s the scion of the Duke of Crappington or something! He can stop putting on airs—he was born in the same neighborhood as me! And weren’t any of those friends of his fags? Hasn’t he figured out you have to be on your guard? It’s not that hard. With all that education and as much as he’s read, he doesn’t even know the basics of human psychology?
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