I stand up and go to look for my wedding photos. I considered throwing them away when David left me, but instead I buried them in a drawer. Here they are, and here I am in a white raw silk dress and a tulle veil secured with a wreath of flowers. I have no idea who tricked me into wearing such a traditional look. If my mother had been alive, she wouldn’t have let me dress like that. I’m sure she was more modern—or maybe not. How would I know? I never met her. Here’s Papá, dapper and proud, of course: he was marrying off his only daughter and gaining a splendid asset for the company in the figure of the young lawyer who would work for him from then on. The company. You really screwed me with the company, Papá. A perfect prison for me. An apparently surefire husband-snaring trap. And here’s David, all serious in his morning coat. He’d probably written it in his agenda: “Wedding at noon.” All these marvelous images could soon reappear for an encore. With new characters, of course. Papá wouldn’t be in the photos because he’s dead. David’s with a woman who’s not me. The groom would be Javier. How would we dress for the nuptials? He’d be in that gladiator outfit he dances in at the club, and I should match: maybe a vampire-red dress with a thigh-revealing side slit and my foot sheathed in a silver stiletto heel. Spectacular! The best man and maid of honor would be Iván and Genoveva. Even more spectacular!
I take a big swig and then pour two drops of whiskey onto the photo. One on my father’s image. The other on David. I want them to drink a toast with me to my new marriage, which will never take place.
Everything could have been different this time—in fact, it was starting out that way. I never asked Javier questions. I didn’t want to know anything else. We were fine the way we were: casual conversation and sex. Every once in a while, sleeping contentedly beside each other after screwing. I’m grateful to him for opening the doors of sexual pleasure to me. And I can’t complain about the rest: he’s been polite, kind, caring, and fun. But I wanted more—exclusive access to him at an agreed-on price that worked for both of us. A civilized arrangement, and I could start living. With the company sold and money in the bank . . . free for the first time! But it was an unforgivable misstep. In wanting to have him all to myself, I gave him an opening to want it all: a steady job, an evolving relationship, and a normal life.
Maybe I should have told him, “The company’s no longer part of the package,” but I kept that information to myself, and that’s how it’s going to stay. It’s such a crock! There are only a few women whose value comes from themselves alone; the rest of us are always part of a package.
Tomorrow I’ll call the psychiatrist and tell him to go to hell. Oh, I did that already? Doesn’t matter—I’ll tell him again. I’ll say, “You were right. I’ve been living in a cage made of fatherly love and money, but I’m not going to escape it by taking pills and trying to make do. I’ll get out my own way. Dumbass!”
It’ll be fun, it’ll be great. I’ll call him tomorrow.
I’m sleepy, but I won’t go to the bedroom. No, I’ll stay right here, spend the whole night on the sofa. I don’t want more order in my life. For me, order has been chaos.
* * *
I figured I’d put my foot in it for real. She didn’t call me for two weeks, and when I called her, she always told me she was busy: a series of problems at the company that required her attention. Until yesterday. Yesterday she called me, sounding upbeat: things at work have finally cleared up and she can go back to normal. I’d been almost positive my proposal had set back our relationship to the very beginning. All gone, bye-bye. I told Iván I’d asked for a job at her company, and his reaction didn’t cheer me up.
“You’re nuts, man. You really thought you could look to these broads for professional advancement? Just thinking about you working at her company must have freaked her out. And then you go and suggest the two of you should be a couple! I bet my balls once she was alone in her house, she pissed herself laughing at you. You really don’t get it, teacher. These chicks think we’re a couple of losers, the bottom of the barrel, pure cannon fodder. What’s that country where everything’s organized around social classes and the ones on the bottom can’t even be touched? China or India, I think—I don’t remember. Well, it’s basically like that here too. Don’t tell me you believed that crap about how in a democracy everyone’s equal and all that jazz.”
I couldn’t reply that I’m not him, that my relationship with Irene isn’t just sex. I made an attempt:
“Look, Iván, I’m not saying Irene’s in love with me, but I think I mean something to her—she treats me differently.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure she pines for you every night. Probably kisses your photo. So she proposed you fuck her exclusively—that doesn’t mean anything. These chicks get selfish—all of them do. They don’t like to share. They want a cock of their own. But to go from there to giving you a job and getting serious with you . . . Get it out of your head, man. Get it out or this chick is really going to screw you up. And my advice is to tell her you won’t go exclusive, no way. You be the boss. I warned you right from the start, if you stay with just one chick, you’re screwed.”
Iván’s changed since his mother died. He’s more aggressive, more insulting toward women; he snaps at me a lot and is always in a bad mood. He must feel guilty he didn’t go see her, or angry he never got revenge on her. Who knows! In any event, though, Irene’s call dissipated all my doubts. We agreed to meet that night.
She’s radiant in a low-cut blue dress. She’s acting completely normal, as if we saw each other just yesterday. She smiles, makes small talk—she looks so happy that I wonder whether she’s about to tell me she’s got a job for me. It’s not like I’m asking for anything excessive or immoral. I’m not trying to take advantage of the situation. I like her, she likes me—why not give it a shot? If I worked for her company, I’d make sure to do a good job. I’d never look for extra privileges or special treatment. And I’m not hoping to get ahead or earn a ton of money, just a fair salary that’s enough to live on, pay the rent, buy books . . . I’ve never been an ambitious man, and I don’t understand people who are. My little apartment is enough for me; a bit of free time, and I’m all set—guaranteed happiness. I’d give up my job at the club—I’ve had enough—and my nights out with women, which I find more and more unbearable. I don’t regret what I’ve done: the situation was out of my hands and I didn’t have another option. But I have to escape the fringes of society at some point. I don’t want to end up like Iván, like his mother. As far as my relationship with Irene . . . we’ll see. For the moment, we have our own places. We’ll evolve or we’ll remain stalled, but at least we’ll have things clear, and maybe, just maybe, something lasting will come of it. Stable relationships aren’t based just on violent passions or romantic love. After being together according to other rules, it’s still possible we might get to know each other well, maybe even love each other. It wouldn’t be hard if she were always the way she is today: beautiful and happy. Today she’s looking at me in a special way; it takes my breath away. I want her. I’d like to get up from the table and drag her home with me. The sex today is going to be explosive.
And it was: explosive and all-encompassing, hungry and passionate. Afterward we had coffee in the kitchen, an intimate little ceremony. With my cup steaming in my hand, I asked her:
“Have you had time to think about a job for me?”
“Of course! I’ve given the relevant instructions to have them look for something for you.”
“Look, Irene, I don’t want you to think . . . ”
“No need to explain. It’s all very clear. I thought to celebrate I could invite you all to dinner at my house. It would be the usual foursome: you, me, Genoveva, and Iván.”
I’ve never been to her house. She hasn’t said what it is exactly we’ll be celebrating. Maybe she’s referring to the changes that will be taking place in her life and mine going forward. That must be it. I’ve never heard her sou
nd so professional either: “I’ve given the relevant instructions.” She must be a very different woman in her work environment. I have no idea—come to think of it, I just know her in bed and across a restaurant table . . .
She insisted on paying me tonight. That’s OK—I’ll let her be the one to set the pace for the changes in our situation.
* * *
It was awesome, just awesome. Really amazing. I was surprised she invited us to her house—that doesn’t usually happen—but there we were at the indicated time for dinner. The house was freaking huge. The living room’s as big as a nightclub. Armchairs everywhere and a sofa as long as a train. And paintings, and antique and modern furniture all mixed together. All of them good quality, top-of-the-line stuff—I don’t know much about that, but I know a little. A low dresser or whatever you call them—when I opened it I was blown away: bottles and bottles of whiskey and gin, a million different kinds, and other liquors too, who knows what all of them were. I’d never been in a rich person’s house, as a guest like that, I mean. I’d seen plenty of nice houses when we performed at parties, but never one like this. Hell, at first it pissed me off! If we’d known these broads were such high rollers, the teacher and I would have charged them more. Of course, rich people are known for haggling, being stingy—after all, they got rich some way. And the situation itself pissed me off too: why the hell does this chick get to live like a queen while the rest of us are scraping by as best we can? It’s massively unfair. I know there have always been rich people and losers, and that’s not going to change, but when you see it up close and in person like that, it really cheeses you off. At least she was treating us like VIPs: “What would you like to drink?” “Please have a seat.” All very sophisticated and polite. Even the ice they put in the glasses looked different from the kind you take out of the freezer at home. It made a fantastic noise when it hit the bottom of the glass: clink, clink . . . It sounded posh, as good as the honey-colored whiskey trickling down afterward.
The four of us sat down and started making small talk as usual. Just to be a pain in the ass, I said I didn’t feel like whiskey, wanted a beer instead. I didn’t want them to think I’m a bum who was seizing an opportunity—I can have whiskey whenever I want. The lady of the house went off to get one, and when she came back with the bottle and a chilled glass, Genoveva asked her if the maid had the day off. Irene probably got her out of the way so she wouldn’t see us.
Every once in a while I’d look over at the teacher and signal to him with my eyes to check out the luxury around us, but he didn’t notice. He was in a daze, sitting with his knees together like the old people in the waiting room at the public hospital. He looked as crumpled as a recently discarded cigarette butt. Not me—I was cool as a cucumber, drinking my beer like I was at the corner bar. I don’t crumple in front of anybody.
We stayed there chatting idly until it was time to eat and Irene said we should move into the dining room. Shit, it was like being in a goddamn movie! The dining room featured a sideboard loaded with canapés on trays covered with white cloths. You just had to remove the cloths and chow down. The maid had probably left everything all ready so Irene didn’t have to do anything. It was an awesome dinner, the kind you don’t see every day. There were even goose barnacles, which I’d never tried before because they kind of gross me out. I didn’t try them that night either. I just can’t bring myself to gulp down some animal where you can’t identify its head and feet. But there were some other shellfish I did eat. Genoveva was babbling on the way she does: “God, this dinner is just orgasmic!” I used to find her funny, but she’s starting to get on my nerves. I’d like to punch her. Or kill her, even. But I just chilled, got up to fill my plate when it was empty and laughed and watched the teacher, who was less nervous now—he looked goddamn delighted with life, toasting with his glass and gazing at Irene as if we were celebrating a goddamn marriage and she was the bride.
Irene was starting to fall apart. She hit the wine hard and then moved on to the Moët. The maid had left a huge bucket full of ice and bottles of alcohol so we wouldn’t have to go to the kitchen to get them, in case we were completely pooped. We made full use of it. And Irene was holding her own, though she remained as buttoned up and occasionally rude as ever. The chick bugs the hell out of me. You never know if she’s screwing with you or doesn’t mean anything by it. My money’s on the first option. “What a lovely shirt, Iván!” she says suddenly. “Is it a name brand?” I longed to shoot back, “Shove it up your ass, sweetheart,” but I kept quiet because she’s a customer and the teacher is my friend. Come to think of it, how is it he’s hung up on a hussy like her? Cold, always looking down on you, nasty, a total weirdo . . . Aren’t there any other chicks out there?
She can’t stand me, so I wonder why the hell she invited me to dinner. I guess she likes screwing with people.
Anyway, when we were many bottles in, the lady of the house goes and says she’s got a surprise for us. She takes out a bunch of cocaine wraps.
“Get out of here! What did you do to come up that kind of supply?” I said.
“You think I’m just a dumb girl, don’t you, Iván?”
“I didn’t say that. You said that.”
“We’re talking about thinking, not saying.”
Iván’s a real champ, just a gem. Aggressive, boorish, lazy, macho, imbecilic. Pure trash. The king of the lowlifes, number one. An anthropological treasure.
“I always say what I think!”
It’s a good thing I wasn’t carrying a gun or I’d have plugged her right there. Seeing that the situation’s getting ugly, the teacher makes a couple of silly comments to calm things down. We all laugh. Even Genoveva laughs. The poor woman’s so wasted, she seems like she might pass out at any moment.
We do a few lines, some high-quality stuff. We chill out a little. We talk about the usual bullshit, nothing special. Then Irene gets up and puts on some music. She starts dancing sexily around the dining room. What the hell is she doing? Today’s full of surprises. The coke has put her in a good mood, brought out her hidden side. Genoveva starts dancing too. Between how hammered she is and how she’s getting up there in years, she’s about as graceful as a breakdancing bear. The teacher, who’s a goddamn prince for life, keeps sitting there, very upright and faintly fake-smiling. I join the party and start horsing around, though I have no idea what this is all about. What comes next? Has she gotten two rooms ready, or are we having an orgy today? Just to test things out, I grab one of Genoveva’s tits; she shrieks playfully, picks up a piece of bread from the table, and throws it at my head. When it seems like things are finally getting going, Irene breaks in and asks, “Does anyone want a gin and tonic?” The teacher says he does, and goddamn Irene leaves us all taken aback because she goes and says, “Well, let’s go to a bar. It’s really hot in here.” Javier’s thrilled—what a relief, right, teach? You didn’t really see what was going on. So we gather up our things and the wraps we haven’t snorted yet, and head out into the street.
Almost immediately, Irene, who’s high as a kite, spots a bus approaching a stop and takes off running. “Follow me!” she shouts. We get on the goddamn bus without tickets, of course, through the back door. The driver doesn’t say boo, and the few people on the bus at that time of night eye us listlessly. We’re not the least bit funny: four jackasses, obviously stoned, looking to make a scene. I’m getting fed up with that bullshit—I’ve never liked calling a lot of attention to myself. And I don’t like having a hot chick leading the group. But all right, I’m down for whatever. Plus Irene’s got the blow in her purse, and a line here or there will keep me going. Javier’s chipper but surprised. He laughs at all of his girl’s antics—he’s probably never seen her so happy.
Downtown, we go to a cocktail bar. Four gin and tonics and laughter and “the night is young” bullshit, and Genoveva saying it reminds her of her youth. The hell with her youth—there were probably dinosaur
s roaming the earth back then! We take turns going to the bathroom for a supplementary line of coke. We’re totally buzzed, smashed. I’m so high, I’m not even pissed anymore.
All of a sudden the chick, our activity director for the night, tells us to knock back our drinks and come outside with her because she needs some air. That’s no surprise—I’ve never seen her drink so much, let alone put anything up her nose. We go out and head down the street, the four of us looking like freaking zombies. We walk through some plaza, no idea—the one with the huge fountain in the middle of it.
“Anyone feel like a dip? It’s hot—I’m really hot.”
No sooner said than done. The girl goes and starts getting naked right there. And I do mean naked: she takes off her bra and panties and stands there in her birthday suit. Unbelievable—what the hell is up with her? I never would have expected that. Shit, people are always surprising you. She looks at us, wobbling, with the same superior air as always.
“What are you waiting for? Come on, guys, strip down and get in!”
I immediately go after her and take it all off. I’m not about to be intimidated, especially not in front of this goddamn annoying chick. And it’s fun. Shirt, pants, boxers, and splash! Shit, it’s cold! I look out and there are Genoveva and Javier, fully clothed. The teacher is smiling strangely. Genoveva looks really pissed. She goes up to her friend and starts saying, “Irene, please, please.”
Lots of pleasepleases but she didn’t say anything else, though it was clear she was asking Irene to drop the cavewoman routine and wrap things up. But Irene had no intention of it—there she was, splashing the water with her feet like a kid at the beach. And I was having a great time! It had turned out to be an awesome party. I looked at the teacher again, and the bastard wasn’t moving a muscle—he had on a poker face, though it was a little glum too. I guess he was taking it hard seeing his little angel going wild and making a buck-naked spectacle of herself. I warned him to watch out, but he just refused to see it.
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