Fish Soup

by Margarita García Robayo

  The mother and the little girl were at the back of the queue. If she went now, she would bump into them again.

  Jerónimo had bought her ticket the night before. It was the most expensive ticket in history: there were only business class seats left. He didn’t care, he’d spent two months’ salary and he couldn’t care less.

  ‘When you come back’, said Jerónimo, ‘I won’t be in the apartment anymore.’ He turned and hurried towards the exit before she could reply.

  She went to join the queue. The little girl smiled at her, Ema blanked her and concentrated on the mother’s magazine: Discover Patmos, said the front cover. In the background was a beach, and in the foreground, a couple in Greek dress. Jerónimo had once said that they would go to Greece. Not to Patmos; she couldn’t remember where, but it would definitely have been somewhere more predictable, more picture-postcard. Ema told him that she didn’t like places that were too beautiful.

  He didn’t understand. ‘I hate beauty, that’s why I love you,’ she said to him, and reached out to stroke his face, but at that moment Jerónimo turned and she ended up poking him in the eye. ‘Bitch!’ he shouted. This made Ema so angry that, without thinking, she clenched her fist and punched him in the face.

  *

  She was woken by a noise on the roof. The sound of a heavy animal up there, a fox perhaps. It was given to scratching around on the flat roof and howling, as if begging for help. She sat up in bed. Her whole life she could remember this animal: when she was young she would cry with terror, but then she got used to it. Elsewhere, she heard somebody switch on a blender. Ema left her bedroom and made her way to the living room. There were four little water features, one in each corner of the room, which made the constant sound of a waterfall. Decorative metallic wind chimes tinkled in the windows. On the coffee table there was a fish bowl filled with coloured quartz pebbles instead of fish.

  In the kitchen, her mother stood with her back to the door, blending something green. She had the cordless phone propped between her ear and her shoulder and was talking into it. Her voice hit Ema like the lash of whip, a sharp blow to the back of her neck.

  ‘Emanuella always travels business class, and I think it’s good that she does. She’s been very stressed lately, with everything that’s happened it’s no wonder, the poor thing.’

  ‘Mum?’

  Her mother chucked the spinach leaves into the whirring blender and went on talking. She was wearing a dressing gown made out of Indian fabric. It showed her underwear; an enormous bra and a pair of tatty knickers. Ema sat down at the plastic dining table, leaned her elbows on the table top, her chin in her hands. The clock on the wall read nine o’clock. Years ago, her mother had sent her a wall clock similar to that one. It was made of transparent acrylic and filled with an iridescent liquid that changed colours as the hours went by. “Transform your fragility into something beautiful,” said the card. Ema threw the clock in the bin without even taking it out of the box.

  ‘…yes, she’s better now, but she’s still finding it hard to believe, we’re all finding it hard. What a tragedy, my poor darling.’ Her mother switched off the blender and turned around. When she saw Ema, her tone became serious, ‘Let’s talk later, my dear, bye.’ She hung up.

  She poured a glass of the green concoction and offered it to Ema, who shook her head.

  ‘It’s pure iron, try some, it’ll do you good.’ She guzzled down the liquid.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ asked Ema.

  Her mother washed up the glass. The water dribbled weakly out of the kitchen tap.

  ‘What do you want for breakfast?’

  Her mother was not really one for conversation. The things her mother said reflected her own train of thought, and nothing else.

  ‘Coffee,’ said Ema. ‘Why did you say that I always travel business class? I’ve never travelled Business, it’s like you’re convinced that I’m Princess Caroline of Monaco or something.’

  ‘I’ve got soya milk; do you want some?’ Her mother took a carton out of the fridge. She opened it and was about to pour it into Ema’s coffee.

  ‘No, I don’t want any of that.’

  Her mother put the carton back in the fridge, brought her coffee over and sat down opposite her. ‘Your aunt Ana has very strict visiting hours. I’m going to call the doctor now to see if we’re allowed to go today, even if it’s just for a short while. She’ll be so happy to see you, she always asks after you, although she’s a bit confused, poor thing.’

  Ema blew on her coffee. Her mother had traces of green liquid at the corners of her mouth. She remembered the girl’s dribble in the airport and felt repulsed. She pulled a napkin out of the napkin holder, which was shaped like a large plastic sunflower.

  ‘Wipe your mouth,’ she said, holding out the napkin, ‘you’ve got green all over it.’

  Her mother licked her lips. The green mark spread out but did not disappear.

  ‘This juice is so good for your bowels, Emanuella, it helps you to digest undigestible things. It’s a recipe I learned on that nutrition course. I told you about it, didn’t I? The one from the magazine offer…’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’ Ema sipped her coffee.

  Her mother was silent, as if she had forgotten the next line and was trying to remember it.

  Ema hated it when she talked about bowels.

  ‘Where’s my dad?’

  Her mother had picked up the remote control for the stereo system and was pointing it at it. Some kind of new age music started to play.

  ‘I don’t like it when you make up things about me,’ Ema told her. ‘I don’t understand what you get out of lying to your friends about me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, darling. Did you get out of bed the wrong side this morning?’

  She stood up and went over to the kitchen counter, decanted the green liquid into a glass jar and put it in the fridge. Then she set about washing up the blender. Ema finished her coffee in three large swigs. The first burned her throat. The other two went down fine after that. In the cup, the dregs formed a messy shape. A nothing-y shape, a small brown heap without rhyme or reason. She got up from the table.

  ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  ‘Don’t make any plans with anyone this afternoon, Emanuella.’

  Who the hell was she going to make plans with? She didn’t know anybody in that city. They had all left, like she had. Her mother had the phone in her hand again and was dialling a number.

  ‘I’m not stressed, mum.’

  Her mother was concentrating on the telephone keys. It seemed like she was dialling way more numbers than necessary, as if she was calling Tokyo. The blender was draining on the drying rack, creating a small green puddle underneath. Not as green as the juice; a diluted green. Her mother washed up badly. She had always washed up badly. There were always remains of things on the dishes: remnants of food, traces of soap, fingerprints in dried foam.

  ‘Hello? Yes, I need to speak to Doctor Jaimes, please, I’m a relative of her patient, Ana Soto.’ She picked up a dishcloth and wiped the counter top in circular movements. White rings still littered the surface: smears of old grease. ‘Yes, of course, I’ll hold.’

  Ema remained standing in front of the plastic table. She touched her belly; it was a flabby, droopy mass of skin. In recent months, she had got used to the inflated feeling: it was like touching a water balloon, full to bursting. In recent months, Jerónimo would ask her things like, what does it feel like? And she’d reply, like I’m being squeezed. Or, what could it be doing? And she’d say, it’s crushing my lungs, trying to suffocate me.

  ‘I’ve never travelled business class. I hate it when you make up things about me. I hate it when you say anything about me.’

  Her mother turned around; she was sweating heavily. She looked at Ema and raised her finger to her lips.

  ‘Sshh.’

  Ema went to have a shower.

  *

  She stepped out of the
shower dripping wet. Her phone had been ringing for a while.

  ‘Hello.’

  It was Jerónimo. He did not know what to do with the baby clothes.

  ‘Donate them to the Church,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re the sickest person on earth.’ He was crying.

  Ema hung up. She imagined him drunk, foul-smelling.

  The phone rang again. She wrapped her wet hair in a towel. Her head hurt.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered.

  ‘I’m going to burn them.’ He was raging.

  She was naked and felt at a disadvantage. It seemed so unfair that he could just call her up whenever he wanted and assault her with everything that came into his head.

  ‘Do whatever the fuck you want, I’m sick of hearing that victim voice of yours.’

  ‘Am I not a victim?’ Now he was laughing with that dry, cynical, fake laugh. ‘What am I then?’

  ‘…’

  ‘You’re happy.’ He started crying again. ‘You’re relieved. It’s so obvious that…’

  ‘Drop dead.’

  ‘You want me to die too? You need your head examined, you psycho.’ He hung up.

  Ema was shaking. She took the towel off her head and rubbed her hair. The mirror was where it had always been, hanging on the inside of the bedroom door. It still had some Jem and the Holograms stickers on it. She moved closer, stood up as straight as she could and looked at herself front on. Even in her most upright stance, she was hunched. And that belly, that damn flabby skin: the scar ran from one side to the other, reddish in colour. The stitches were badly done, it had ended up wonky, and this made the rest of her body look lopsided as well. Her boobs were swollen; she should have been breastfeeding right now. During the first days, when she expressed milk, she was worried that the stream would gush out so hard that her nipples would burst. She touched them, they were like rock: she pressed and expelled a trickle of whitish, watery liquid that ran down her belly and landed on the carpet.

  ‘Emanuella?’ Her mother opened the door.

  Ema tried to shove her back, but she was already inside the room, looking at her with an expression that turned rapidly from pity to repulsion. Ema pushed her out of the room and pulled the door closed in her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ she managed to whisper from outside.

  Ema heard her hurried footsteps down the corridor.

  *

  ‘Could you tell me where my dad is?’

  Ema and her mother were in a taxi on the way to the psychiatric hospital. Her mother ignored her; she was busy giving directions to the driver. Absolutely unnecessary directions, seeing as it was the only psychiatric hospital in the city.

  ‘Honestly, Emanuella, I don’t want to get involved…’

  ‘So don’t then.’

  ‘…but it’s just that I find Jerónimo’s attitude to be very inconsiderate.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Cruel, I’d say.’

  ‘Sshh.’ She covered her ears.

  ‘…to leave now, when you need him most.’

  Her mother rolled up the window, fanned herself with her hands.

  ‘Can we have some air con please?’ she asked the driver.

  Ema also rolled her window up, but not all the way. She did not like feeling confined.

  ‘I think that…’

  ‘I don’t care what you think.’

  Her mother let out a deep sigh. After a short while she said, ‘Anita’s going to be so pleased to see you.’

  She didn’t even like her aunt Ana. She should have told her mother that, when she insisted on them going to visit her. ‘She’s your favourite aunt.’ ‘She’s not my aunt, she’s a dried-up old fossil.’ But she was tired of arguing.

  ‘I’m going to get an earlier flight back, mum,’ said Ema.

  Her mother, who had been silent, studying the taxi driver’s information on the back of his seat, suddenly turned towards her. Her mouth was open and the look on her face was like a reaction to a different kind of sentence, such as ‘I’m going to be sick on you, mum.’ She was also sweating. For as long as Ema could remember, her mother had suffered from these sweats. She attributed it to ‘a hormonal problem’. It was as if she’d been going through the menopause all her life: she was chronically menopausal.

  ‘Do whatever you want, Emanuella.’

  Her voice trembled, she looked out of the window, the glass reflecting her watery eyes.

  Outside, a row of poplars lined the road. Poplars were not native to the area. A rather cultured mayor had introduced them from warmer climes and had them planted along the main avenues. The result was this tranquil, refined landscape, so at odds with the people who lived there.

  The taxi pulled up outside the hospital. They got out, her mother rang the bell and a smiling nurse came out. They made their way down a dark corridor that stank of urine, until they reached the room where aunt Ana sat in her wheelchair. The walls were painted apple green, and there was an overpowering smell of medicine. Aunt Ana was made-up: a pair of red circles on her cheeks, and black pencil suggesting eyebrows she didn’t have. She was balding. Her forehead was the worst; riddled with blue veins. Thin webs that looked like things underwater, drowned tentacles.

  ‘She’s still looking splendid, isn’t she?’ said her mother, nodding towards aunt Ana.

  Ema nodded.

  There was a single bed and a bedside table with a radio, and a picture of her, young and smiling, a large quiff adorning her face. She was neither ugly nor pretty. And, as far as Ema could recall, neither was she good at anything in particular. She was utterly unremarkable. Her mother, on the other hand, was very good at being mediocre at everything she did. She excelled at that: she put a lot of effort into being mediocre.

  ‘Splendid,’ her mother repeated. She hated lulls in conversation.

  ‘It’s because she never had children,’ said the nurse.

  Aunt Ana smiled as if they had paid her a compliment.

  ‘Oh, but she did,’ said Ema’s mother, who was standing behind the wheelchair, raking through Ana’s lank hair with her fingers, ‘I mean, I was always like a daughter to her.’

  Aunt Ana looked at her with expressionless eyes. Then she turned to Ema, who was standing in front of her. She clasped her wrist and pulled her in close, as if she wanted to tell her a secret:

  ‘What did they do with the little body, Emanuella?’

  Ema pulled away and looked at her mother, who cut in immediately. ‘Look, Anita, what a beautiful day!’ she exclaimed, pushing the wheelchair over to the window.

  Ema sat down on the bed; the mattress was rock hard. Her heart was beating very fast and she felt a jabbing pain in her ribs. The nurse scrutinised her from the doorway. Ema held her gaze for a few seconds and then said, ‘What are you looking at, you moron?’

  *

  That night she packed her bag and changed her return flight. In two hours the taxi would arrive to take her to the airport. She waited at the kitchen table, while her mother made fish stew, which smelled foul. She kept glancing at the acrylic clock. She still could not work out how she had ended up here. Jerónimo had come up with the idea one day, and she had not reacted fast enough. She’d said I don’t know, maybe, and he’d dashed off to buy the ticket, to take her to the airport, to shoo her away like a mangy stray dog.

  ‘It’s a pity I didn’t get to see my dad,’ said Ema. ‘Where have you got him hidden away?’

  ‘Do you like mustard in it, Emanuella?’

  Her mother held up the yellow jar, the spoon in her other hand, poised to dip.

  Ema sighed and got up from the table. She crossed the living room, with its soundtrack of babbling water features, and went out the back of the house, to the garden: a dirt yard surrounded by a few bushes and dried leaves that nobody raked anymore. At the bottom was a shed of sorts, where they kept old junk. In the middle, there was a lantern and a stone bench that once served as the base for a little makeshift table using a piece of plywood. That is where she sat
.

  The little garden used to have a lovely, unobstructed view of the sky and poplars. Now a building had been erected behind it. The windows of the façade opposite were dotted with plastic flower pots and clothes hung to dry; the walls were grimy. The garden had been transformed into a cold, gloomy place. A place the sun no longer reached.

  When she was little, Ema used to invite her school friends to have picnics in the little garden. Her mother would spread out a rug on the ground, and after they ate, they would lie there looking up at the clouds, singing songs, marrying boys from school. Once, at the beginning of everything, she had brought Jerónimo to her house. She showed him the little garden, which at that time still had an unobstructed view, and they lay on the ground to look at the clouds. He sung “Me and Bobby McGee” in a terrible accent. He said that the song was just like them. Ema thought that the song had nothing to do with them, but she nodded emphatically: ‘It’s true.’

  The door of the shed opened. Her dad came out.

  ‘Dad?’

  Surprised, Ema stood up and moved towards him, but he instinctively took a step back, almost frightened.

  ‘Emanuella,’ he said.

  He cleared his throat and smoothed down the thin fabric of his checked shirt. He looked unkempt; the right arm of his glasses was attached to the frames with sticky tape. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and stared at the ground. Ema also looked at the ground. A line of ants was emerging from under a bush. It was marching its way across to the old dog kennel, which she had just noticed, stowed in a corner of the garden.

  ‘Have you been here the whole time?’ asked Ema.

  Her father took a step forward, took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt. He put them away in his pocket.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve made myself a little workshop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know if your mum told you. I’ve taken up woodworking again, and well, I don’t know.’

  ‘What don’t you know?’

  He took a very deep breath.

  ‘It’s a very difficult situation for me, Em.’

  ‘What situation?’

  ‘I thought that your mum would do it better than me, and your aunt Ana, who you always loved so much. I wouldn’t have known what to do, what to say to you.’ He shook his head. ‘Your attitude…’ his voice faltered.