She says she wishes she could have taken her in then, she’s sure she would’ve gotten along beautifully with her daughters. Now that she thinks of it, she can’t send her to live with them either. They have their own problems to contend with. Some of them are barely ever home, while others have kids and can’t take on the responsibility of feeding her and keeping her safe. Their budgets are limited, too, she presumes. Her own is very tight, which is why she also can’t accept being paid in kind: the utility companies won’t take chickens or fruit in exchange for their services. It’s true they’ve owned that house for a long time now, but they’re always having to put money into its upkeep. There’s never quite enough for everything they need or want. She, for example, had to give up two trained maids and hire a couple of young girls instead who were interested in learning to keep house and then left for others once they’d become proficient and could charge more. Now all they can afford is the help of a señora who comes twice a week during office hours. To be fair, it’s not all that bad because they don’t make much of a mess there and, besides, she doesn’t have the energy to be training little girls. The girl says she’ll work as their cleaning woman in exchange for room and board. The señora says no, that wouldn’t be right at all, she has a bright future ahead of her, she’s got to study and finish her degree. But the truth is, she doesn’t think that sort of arrangement would work. Because of her schedule at the university, the girl wouldn’t be there when she needed her most and, on getting home, would surely have neither the energy nor disposition to do what was asked of her, and in just the way the señora liked. The girl isn’t very detail-oriented. What’s more, she wants her out of the house. In fact, she’s been waiting for her to slip up so she can use it as an excuse to make her leave because, for some time now, she hasn’t liked the way her husband’s been looking at her. It annoys her that he’s stopped being offended by the presence of a strange girl in their house, that he’s stopped ignoring her and started cozying up to her bit by bit, and little by little taken to using diminutives with her until finally he was calling her hijita, even though he’d never done so with his own daughters. She didn’t want to say anything so as not to bring it to the girl’s attention, if she didn’t already know, and so as not to give her any of the weapons she might need to take advantage of the situation. Instead, she went straight to her husband and told him to not to be getting any ideas, that the girl wasn’t their daughter. She reminded him of the names of the daughters they’d had together and of the fact they bore no resemblance to her. But first, she wanted to be sure it wasn’t just empty nest syndrome. If it was, she could get him a pet to shower his affections on, even though she’d be the one to feed it, clean up after it, and clear the house of its smells. If it wasn’t that, measures would have to be taken, and quickly, because whenever he became friendly with the cleaning girls, he ended up sleeping with them. It’d happened several times. He began by seeming understanding. Then generous. He’d even offered to buy one of them a house in the village she was from. The girl, an innocent little thing, had gleefully told her about his promise. That same day, she asked her to pack her bags and leave. She settled the amount owed and took her to the terminal. She swore to herself she’d never again walk in on her husband with one of those chiquitas, be it in his bed or hers. It was very possible this one had no interest in her husband’s propositions and hadn’t even realized his intentions. But it was also possible she was aware of them and just waiting for a moment of distraction on her part to hop into bed with him and sort out all her financial problems. So she decided it was a good time to be rid of her, even though her offer to work as their cleaning woman was a bargain and she felt awfully sorry for her whenever she saw her walk in through the door, disconsolate, and heard her crying hour after hour for several days.
At first, she thought something had happened to her on the street. A few days ago, the girl herself had said a car had pulled up beside her to ask for directions to an address she knew wasn’t in the area even though she hadn’t been in the capital very long. Besides, she’d sensed something strange in the way the men had looked at her and asked and insisted she come closer and help them find their destination. She couldn’t say whether they wanted to steal from her or rape her but she didn’t stop, not for one second. She kept on walking just as she’d been told to if something happened, and located the escape routes her mom had shown her when she’d come to help her settle in and teach her the way to university. She’d arrived a bit later than usual, furious and slightly pale. She told the señora that she hated the way they’d talked to her, and their mocking looks. As far as she was concerned, she’d done nothing to encourage what had happened: she’d worn the clothes the señora had approved and not a drop of makeup, just like she’d been told to if she wanted to live in that house. She’d asked for permission to carry the pocketknife her mom had given her to defend herself if she ever needed to. The woman had said no. Despite the danger that might exist out there on the streets, she couldn’t have her carrying a weapon, even though she knew she could use it. She was scared of what law enforcement would do to her if her tenant ended up castrating or killing her aggressors. What would she say? How would she respond when they asked her why she hadn’t taken the weapon from the girl when, on her arrival, she’d looked through her luggage? And what if she were to use it on her husband? What if she decided to defend herself when he tried to seduce her or corner her as he had some of their past employees? How would she explain it to her kids? It would’ve been partly her fault for not confiscating it and also for putting her up in the service room. But what else could she have done? She couldn’t give her one of the family rooms: she might get the wrong idea and think she had more rights than the ones granted by their rental agreement. It might also make it easier for her husband to find an opportunity to be with the girl without her knowing. If anything were to happen between them, it should be in the maids’ quarters and her husband should treat her like a maid. The easiest and most reasonable course of action would be to kick her out. It would also be easier to explain why the husband was hurt: the girl had thought he was a thief. Tired as she was every day after so much studying and so little sleep, she could’ve mistaken him for a stranger when he came in to grab his shirt, which should’ve been in the closet, except the girl hadn’t ironed it in time because she’d been busy with her coursework. It would’ve been her fault entirely. They wouldn’t prosecute her because they were considerate, they knew fear and exhaustion could pave the way for grave mistakes. Though they’d forgive her and wish her no ill, they couldn’t put her up anymore. They couldn’t allow something like that to happen again. Her husband could have died. And what would become of her if he did? He was her husband, after all, despite his many failings. No one would take him from her. The little cleaning girls could get their hopes up because he washed his own dishes when they were around to make it seem like he was a considerate sort of man and because he smiled at them and said they were the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, but they’d never get more out of him than the talcum powder and gifts he bought for them at the supermarket when she went there with him. The next day, she’d toss them out, gifts under their arms, meaning she had to do all the housework herself, and he never helped clear the table, even when she told him she needed him to because she was old and couldn’t manage with everything anymore, her body ached so much and she needed his consideration. He’d say that he was old too, that he was tired and hurt all over because he’d worked his whole life so they’d never want for anything. He wouldn’t lift a finger or give her a cent to hire help until some girl he thought he might stand a chance with in some not so distant future came knocking. Which is why he hadn’t liked it when the girl who arrived at his doorstep turned out to be a student. He’d told his wife he didn’t want any strangers in the house. She’d said the girl came highly recommended and, what’s more, that they needed the money she paid for room and board to cover the cleaning lady coming twice a week: she couldn’t ma
nage all the chores on her own.
Her husband didn’t take kindly to it. He’d told the children that their mother thought she could go making decisions without consulting him, that he didn’t know what sort of person the girl she’d brought home was, and that they’d have to give her a talking-to so she didn’t destroy their house. The mother answered that yes, it was true, they’d have to be patient with the girl because there were devices in the house that she’d probably never used before, but it wasn’t all that different from how it had been with the many cleaning girls they’d employed before, who hadn’t even known how to use the restroom because, where they were from, they made do with septic tanks in their homes, schools, and even in hospitals. She knew none of them liked it, but she had to employ those girls—it was the only way they could afford a cleaning lady. Their father’s pension wasn’t enough. She couldn’t earn the bits and bobs she used to because she couldn’t go around the city selling things anymore. The only other option was for them to pitch in. Would they? That’s where the discussion ended. They went back to their things and she busied herself with hers. The girl hadn’t been a distraction until she started sensing she was about to fail a subject and risked losing her financial aid, which is when her husband had started cozying up to her. What would follow was that she, who’d turned down his help and never given him any ins, would end up accepting his offer, unable to find any other solution, and then, out of gratitude or a sense of duty, let herself be touched by him from time to time, or sleep with him. She didn’t want to say this to her so as not to offend her if she was the kind of girl who’d never agree to that sort of thing. Instead she said that, on top of the money issue, she’d realized that she couldn’t look after her any longer. What the girl had told her about the men in the car had made her see that the world was too dangerous for her to account to her mother for her safety. She was too old. She’d already raised her own children and gone through the anguish of waiting for them to come home every day. She didn’t want to go through it again. She asked her to understand.
Her friends spoke with their own families, but couldn’t get them to take her in: they barely had enough to sustain themselves in the coming months. Instead, they suggested she find a job, rent a room, and take on a lighter course load, even if it ended up taking her two or three times longer to graduate. One of them knew of a cafe hiring students. The owner had studied at the same university as them. She’d started that business after failing a subject for the third time. She wasn’t a millionaire, but she was quite comfortable. She had a car and a house and two girls at private school. She’d understand her perfectly. She’d give her a workable schedule, and some consideration.
She even offered her a place to rest her head. The room wasn’t like her current one, but it’d do as a place to spend her days and muster up the courage to tell her mother she’d failed the course. When her mother told her to come home, she’d show her she had everything under control. She’d stay in the city, study, and finish her degree even if it took her twice or three times as long. She had a plan and an answer to any question she might ask. She’d even rehearsed a calm tone of voice, which broke the moment she started talking to her over the phone.
18
The mother begs her daughter not to work while she’s studying. She knows she’s only offering to so as not to be a burden and she also knows that, since the first year was already a struggle, the second would only be harder for her if on top of everything she was working, too. She asks her to focus on school. She’ll find some way to help her keep studying. She tells her to stop crying: she’ll have a place to live soon enough. There must be somewhere within her budget. It might not be as convenient as the room the woman who helped her with her flight to France had found, but she’d have someplace to rest her head and leave her things. With what she’d managed to save up in the first year, and what her mother had squirreled away in case something came up, they could afford to enroll her in the second term. She’d handle the rest. She mustn’t worry. Sure, she’d have to tighten her belt some more, drink the campus tap water, and, when possible, copy her classmates’ booklets by hand instead of buying or photocopying them. Once she passed that subject, they’d apply for financial aid again and, if everything worked out, would be stable once more. Everything would be different. But right now, she needs to hush. The mother will come to the capital the following day to help bring her things back home. She swears she won’t make her stay. She just wants to make sure nothing happens to her on the way and, while she’s at it, have a chat with an acquaintance of hers: the woman who’d put her up while she was pregnant with the eldest daughter she’d raised. If she’s still living in the same house as she was then, she’ll ask if she can help her daughter, if she can take the girl in as she herself was taken in back then, and support her.
The neighborhood is the same, but the surroundings have changed significantly. It doesn’t strike her as the kind of area her daughter could navigate smoothly, but they don’t have a choice. The girl will need to learn to walk unnoticed and turn a deaf ear to whatever the garage workers say to annoy her. Soon enough, they’ll grow bored of trying and pay her no mind. Her mother will suggest she goes out when there are more people around. If a neighbor can keep her company, all the better. Ideally, she’d stay at the university as long as possible, but come home while it’s still light out. She’d have to sign up for classes that accommodated her commute: if she managed to get a spot in the morning group, they could save themselves the cost of a bus or two a day. She’ll ask her to spend the night awake and have everything to hand so she can be the first to enroll. She’ll see if one of the women from the organization that helped her locate her firstborn can put the girl up for the night and lend her a computer for the occasion. She’s always done everything she’s asked her to, and more, and never requested a thing in return. She’ll never ask her for anything else. She’s still looking for the house. She reaches it. Rings the doorbell. She contemplates asking the woman if she remembers her, and giving her three guesses. She’s changed enough that the woman might not recognize her at first. If she does, she’ll hug her. If she doesn’t, she’ll keep dropping clues until she finds her way to her name, not the one she got from her mother but the one she was given in battle. She’ll call her by her given name unless she goes by the one on her birth certificate. Some ex-combatants had gone back to earlier ones. Some had gone back to being the people they were before the conflict and others had turned into very different people from who they were during the war. She doesn’t know what might’ve become of that woman, but wants to believe she’s either the same, or very similar to how she used to be. She rings the doorbell a second time. The woman who opens the door doesn’t look like the one she’d been expecting. They’re nothing alike. She hasn’t even heard of her friend. She’d dealt with a man when she bought the house, she says. She can’t recall his name either. It was a long time ago, just after the war ended. Back then, a lot of people moved. Houses changed hands every week. She can’t say where the woman who used to live there had ended up. She doesn’t think she asked. She wasn’t after anything more than a business relationship. But she made one suggestion: she might consider searching for her in the land records. With her name and surname, she’d find her in no time at all. She could ask the neighbors, too. At least one of them must know of the woman she was looking for, or still be in contact with her. They were already living there when she moved in. But they didn’t have much to share either: the woman she was searching for hadn’t lived there long. She hadn’t left behind an address or any friends. They’d been suspicious of her because she was always taking a lot of young people into her house. Boys and girls came and went far too often. At one point, they’d even thought she was running a call house, but quickly dismissed the notion once they saw that none of her visitors drove cars or made a racket. Did she know what it was she’d been up to? Why had she come looking for her? As a relative, she ought to know more. As a friend, she ought to know the wo
man had moved away a long time ago. What was their relationship, exactly? What was she after? Though they wanted to ask, they couldn’t work up the courage. She’d have said she had a message for her from a woman in her village, but since no one asked her to explain herself, she didn’t. Everyone seemed to want to keep the conversation from moving forward. They were scared that whatever they were told might implicate them in something. Better to live with uncertainty than with trouble, they thought. People who vanished without a trace tended to bring the latter. As did those who came out of nowhere. You could only talk frankly with lifelong neighbors, and even then not about everything. They’d learned as much when, after the war ended, those they’d always assumed were on one side turned out to be on the other. None of it concerned her. She’d come for a specific reason, but, seeing as she was there, she wondered if there was anyone in the area renting rooms to students. She’d a daughter in need of one.
They said no, that the best place for that sort of thing was near the university. The area she was looking in was too far away. If there were students, they were most likely the neighbors’ kids. There might be houses for rent, though. Was she interested? No. She thanked them when they offered to take down her number and pass it along to anyone on the lookout for tenants, then made her way back to her daughter. She greeted the señora, thanked her for her kindness in putting her daughter up for all those months, and grabbed half the girl’s luggage. She didn’t accept the coffee she was offered or beg her to let the girl stay. She didn’t want to tarry any longer, in case she started crying. She said they had just enough time to catch the bus that would get them back before the sun went down and the way home became unsafe. The señora tried to apologize for her decision. Blinking back tears, the mother told her not to worry. But that was impossible. The señora took her by the arm and asked her to let the girl come back the following year: she’d gladly welcome her into her home again. All she needed was a little time to sort some things out. Time the girl could use to rest, reevaluate her options, and come up with a new study plan. She suggested they leave part of her luggage there as a guarantee of her return. The daughter looked beseechingly at her mother. As far as she was concerned, there was no better place for her. All her friends said so. They envied her location. She’d saved on money and transfers, as well as on time she could then use to study. What’s more, the neighbors knew her. Though they didn’t call her by name or talk to her smilingly as they did to others, they’d grown used to her presence, waved hello, and once even offered to drive her to the university, even though it wasn’t far. That way she could arrive early, they said, and get herself a good seat. The person driving the car had studied there, and knew every minute counted when it came to securing a decent desk. This detail didn’t seem to matter to her mom, though, who thanked the señora for her offer and said that unfortunately she couldn’t accept. She said she had everything lined up for her daughter’s next academic year: the girl would stay with a friend of hers. Before, she’d felt too embarrassed to contact her, but it was all sorted now. In fact, she’d just come from there. She thanked the señora once more for all her time and attention and reminded her they’d just enough time to get home at a decent hour.
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