Love, in Spanish

by Karina Halle

  When we leave the restaurant though, late and tipsy on three bottles of grenache, flashbulbs go off in our faces. There are two photographers this time—it is now public news that I am Diego’s replacement—and though my first instinct is to shield Vera and give the paparazzi the finger, I decide to take a moment and set things right.

  I put my arm around Vera’s waist and pull her into me, smiling broadly for the cameras. They loved my smile back in the day, they should still love it now.

  “Nice to see you back together,” one of the photographers, the bothersome one with the mullet, says.

  “We were never apart,” I answer smoothly before escorting her down the steps and toward Claudia and Ricardo, who are standing startled and bug-eyed on the sidewalk.

  “Who were you with last week, Vera?” he asks.

  I narrow my eyes briefly before I answer for her. “She’s allowed to have friends, isn’t she? Good evening, gentlemen.” I raise my hand dismissively at them then nod at Claudia and Ricardo to keep walking. The four of us quickly disappear down the street and out of the photographers’ sight.

  “Jesus,” Claudia swears, brushing her long dark hair behind her ears. “You’re a celebrity all over again.”

  I shrug. “I guess now that I’m the future coach they’re all over it. Slow news month, perhaps.” I squeeze Vera’s waist, both in support and as a reminder.

  The next day, the photo of Vera and me has made the online version of the magazine. Perhaps the two of us looking happy together isn’t as print-worthy as Vera dancing with some punk, but it’s still there. I don’t know who is out there reading it and getting false assumptions about our life together, but I hope whoever they are, that they see it. It’s petty, perhaps, to care so much about what thousands of strangers think, but that doesn’t change the fact that I do.

  If Pedro has seen it, he doesn’t mention it, and when work is over I have a quick cigar with him while walking the playing field. He’s at least someone I can tolerate now for the length of a stogie. After that, when I know that Vera has gone home for the day, I drive to the Las Palabras office.

  I haven’t been here since I first boarded that bus last April, but it all comes back to me like it was only yesterday.

  I remember being excited for the first time in a long time. The feeling was strange, to feel was strange. My nerves were jangled, and when I got on the bus I was embarrassed because all these strange faces were looking up at me, and I had to be the last person getting on, holding everything up. But, as I made my way down the aisle and found a pair of empty seats, and we still weren’t taking off, I relaxed. I wasn’t the last one.

  I hadn’t meant to be late, it was Isabel who was being deliberately slow, like she wanted me to miss the trip. She hadn’t wanted me to go, thought there was no point in improving my English since I knew enough already. But that wasn’t really the point. Good enough was never good enough for me, not when better was so easy to reach.

  She took her time trying to find the place, despite me barking directions, and when she dropped me off at the office, she was more huffy than sad about my departure.

  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t been that way, if I had gotten to the Las Palabras office early. I would have gotten on the bus with everyone else. I would have sat next to maybe Ricardo or Jose Carlos or Nerea.

  I would have never seen Vera get on the bus and sit beside me. I would have never felt every inch of my skin buzz as if shocked awake and watched her walk down the aisle, looking flushed and sexy and tattooed and young and impossibly, impossibly pretty. I would have never turned my staring eyes away from her and looked out the window as if I hadn’t noticed her at all.

  I would have never waited a few moments, composing myself, trying to find my English and my voice before turning to her, meeting her vibrant gaze and quirky, unsure lips to say, “Hello, I’m Mateo.”

  That was all it took for me, really. I shook her hand and felt this surge deep within my heart, like something was being unearthed after a very long time. There was no turning back. Back then I knew she was trouble, I was in trouble, and the rest of my life would be different. I didn’t realize how different, but I knew then it couldn’t stay the same. You don’t keep your eyes on the ground once you’ve seen the beauty of the stars.

  I let the memories fold over me, and I hold them close as I approach the office. The sign is flipped to CLOSED but I can see a light on through the glass and the shadow of someone walking past. I rap my knuckles loudly on the door and wait.

  A few moments pass, and there is movement on the other side of the door. I see a pair of cat-eyed glasses peer at me, and then something unlocks and the door opens.

  “Mr. Casalles,” Patrice says, looking me up and down. I’ve only met her once since she took over as manager at Las Palabras, at a small party, and she looks exactly the same. Close-cropped hair, sharp nose, sharp eyes under even sharper glasses.

  “Call me Mateo, please,” I tell her with my most charming smile.

  She nods, birdlike. “Of course, Mateo. Come on in.”

  She gestures and I walk into the small office. It’s a mess and I can tell where Vera sits because that section is even messier. There is a small arsenal of lipsticks scattered beneath the computer monitor and two seemingly empty cans of Diet Coke.

  “I suppose you’ve come here to discuss Vera’s situation,” Patrice says, leaning against the door to what I presume is her private office.

  I nod and am hit with this unnerving feeling like I’m at a parent-teacher meeting or something of that sort. “She doesn’t know I’m here, of course,” I quickly say to offshoot the idea. “And she’ll hate me if she finds out. But I just wanted to get the real story from you. Sometimes I think she’s protecting me a bit by not telling me everything.”

  That’s not exactly true. I think Vera has been honest from the start, but Patrice doesn’t have to know that.

  She offers me a tense smile. “Very well. The thing is, Mateo, we’re going to have to let Vera go.”

  I stare at her dumbly because I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly. “I’m sorry?”

  She sighs and wrings her hands, looking at the posters of happy as shit Spaniards on the wall. If I have heard correctly, I’m about to resent every single thing about this bastard company.

  “We only got the six-month working visa for Vera because we just weren’t sure if hiring her in the long-term was feasible. For one, she doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  I glare at her. “She’s learning. She’s trying.” My words are as sharp as her face.

  “And that’s good. But it’s not good enough. We are a Spanish company and need someone who speaks both Spanish and English fluently.”

  “But she’s just an administrator.”

  “Yes, but for how long? You of all people should know about growth and progress. What happens if our booking agent leaves? Vera would take her place. She cannot take her place with the way she is. Face it, she’s not cut out for this job. She should, I don’t know, be at a music store selling CDs.”

  “Those don’t exist anymore,” I say through grinding teeth.

  She folds her arms crossly. “I know she’s your . . . whatever she is to you, but you know what I mean. More than that, this job doesn’t interest her. It’s just a job. She won’t make it her career and we won’t either. Now, we already have someone who has just started helping out. She’s part of the EU, there’s no paperwork or legalities, no dealing with the government, and she’s fluent in Spanish. It’s just a better match for everyone.”

  There is no air left in my lungs, but I manage to say, “Everyone but Vera.”

  “I am sorry, Mateo,” she says, and she does sound a bit sorry. But not sorry enough.

  “Does she know?”

  She shakes her head. “I was going to tell her on Monday and let her work that last week.”

  “You realize what’s going to happen to her if you do this,” I say, running a hand th
rough my hair. The office is starting to feel so small. I stare at Vera’s lipsticks on the desk, imagine her lips, and I feel something inside me coming undone. This can’t be happening.

  Her pointy eyebrows draw together and up. “Again, I am sorry, Mateo. I like Vera. She’s a funny girl and very . . . sweet. But she doesn’t belong here.”

  I have nothing more to say to Patrice. It’s evident that even if I flashed my wallet at her, insinuated that Las Palabras could use donations for new office equipment, she wouldn’t go for it. I leave and climb back into my SUV, spending a moment to think about what I should do. I have to do something. I have to think. If I don’t, I will think about the inevitable. I will fall apart.

  I am not used to being a man without a solution. When I fell in love with Vera, the solution was clear. I had to leave Isabel. It wasn’t easy, but it was clear. Now, I have no solution and nothing is clear.

  Vera doesn’t have to work. I can easily support her. But she wants to work, and in order to stay in the country legally, she must work. There is always the option of university, but she had told me the foreign student fees were far beyond what she or her parents could afford—or would want to give—and she was adamant that though she was a good student, she wasn’t good enough to qualify for any kind of aid. They would give her that in her own country for a Canadian school, but not here.

  I had brought up the university option before, telling her I could pay for it, but she waved it off like it was just a dream. She wouldn’t let me pay for it, and our back and forth about it turned into a fight.

  Now I wonder if I can convince her again, now that deportation is on the line. It is probably too late for her to join the school year next month, but there is always the January semester. The only problem is that she would be illegal until then.

  Maybe it won’t be a big deal. There are thousands of illegal immigrants from Somalia, Nigeria, Mexico, El Salvador, all working under the table in Spain. They don’t get caught. Vera doesn’t have to either. If we play everything right, we might actually be able to ride this thing out.

  Clinging to that thought like a lifeline, I speed back to the apartment, eager to cement this idea down.

  Vera isn’t home when I get in which only compounds my anxiety. Luckily by the time I’ve poured myself a scotch and settled uneasily on the couch, she appears in the front door, holding a small bag of groceries.

  “Hola,” she says brightly. “We were out of food and I was staaaaarving.”

  She plunks the bag on the counter and then comes over to give me a kiss. She seems to be in a good mood. I feel terrible that I’m about to ruin it for her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, staring at me with wide eyes. “I can feel it rolling off of you. What happened?”

  I lick the scotch off my lips and sit back on the couch, holding her gaze steadily. “Remember what you said the other day, how everything was going to be okay?”

  Her face blanches, turning paler than milk.

  “Well,” I continue, “keep that in mind. That it will be. Everything will be okay. I already have a solution.”

  “Mateo . . .”

  “I went by Las Palabras today. Just now. After work.”

  She stares at me in horror. “No.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I did. I wanted to talk to Patrice myself, figure out if there was something I could do, if we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

  “Mateo,” she whines. “Oh god, what did you do?”

  I give her a sad smile and shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. It was too late, Vera. You were right, about the Irish girl who speaks Spanish. Patrice is planning on letting you go. She’s telling you on Monday. Next week will be your last.”

  Her mouth forms a pretty little O shape and I immediately think of the lipsticks on her desk. I know why the sight had struck such a chord with me. Those lipsticks were such a small part of her, trying to fit in to the office, the world around her, and failing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I really, truly, deeply am. I think she has no idea. “I tried but . . . she wouldn’t have any of it. Her mind is set.”

  “Well,” she says, straightening up, one hand on her hip, the other at her mouth, rubbing her fingers across it. “Like fuck I’ll be staying for a week. Fuck the pay and fuck her. Fuck that whole program.”

  “Even though it’s how we met?”

  “What good is it if it lets us meet but won’t let us stay?”

  “I agree,” I say. “Besides, she wasn’t in charge at that time anyway. It doesn’t count.”

  She plops down on the couch beside me and leans her head against my shoulder. I can feel her whole weight on me, and I know she’s putting it in my hands. I am only too eager to handle it for her, I just hope I know how to get us out of it.

  “What the hell am I going to do?” she asks, voice tired now.

  “You’re going to live here illegally until January. Then you’ll go to school.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the only way. But it’s not so hard, Vera. You’ll see.”

  She sits up and eyes me incredulously. “It’s not so hard? How do you know? Do you normally harbor illegal immigrants?”

  I give her a half-smile. “I would if they all looked like you.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  I sigh. “No, it’s not. But honestly, it’s our best chance. It will have to do, anyway. Even if you go and find another job and convince them to sponsor you, that will take some time, so it will have to be this way. It just has to.”

  “And what were you talking about with the whole school thing?”

  “Your astronomy degree. There is no reason why you can’t finish it at the universities here.”

  “Uh, yes there is. It’s called money. I don’t have that.”

  “But I do.”

  “Mateo, we’ve been over this. I don’t want you to pay for me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s either that or you’ll continue living in fear of being found out, or you leave. We don’t have much of a choice here, Vera. We don’t. I wish we did. I wish this was easier.”

  She chews on her lip for a few beats, then stares at the ground. “Common law. We’re common law, we’ve been living together for at least six months. Can we do something through that? In Canada it’s a legally binding thing.”

  “I doubt in Canada that people can get extended visas or permits due to shacking up with someone. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be much tragedy in overseas romances, would there?”

  “Tragedy?” she asks.

  “Let’s just say the path we chose, out of all paths, isn’t the easiest one.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  I glance at her. “Sherlock Holmes?”

  She give me a wry but tired smile. “Another expression.”

  “Of course.” I clasp my hands together and close my eyes.

  After a thick moment she says, “Please don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  I only grunt in response.

  “It’s just a lot of money. A lot of money. Fifteen thousand euros for one year. I could never carry that kind of guilt on me.”

  “You carry too much guilt on you as it is,” I tell her, eyes still closed.

  “Nothing more than I deserve.”

  My eyes fly open and I look at her sharply. “Vera. Stop it. You don’t deserve anything but happiness. Get it out of your silly head that this is something you’re owed. It’s not. You never did anything wrong. You were never the one who was married.”

  She swallows and looks away. “I am a homewrecker,” she says quietly. “I’m the bad guy.”

  “No,” I say, my voice hard. I spear my words. “I am the bad guy. That will never change. But you, you are anything but. You are pure and wonderful and warm and sweet and—“

  “A whore.”

  “Vera,” I say, anger and frustration rising through me at lightning speed. I grab her hand. “Don’t you dare ever call yourself th
at. You are not a homewrecker. You are not a whore. You don’t deserve to get fired. You don’t deserve to leave. You don’t even deserve me, but I’m here now, and I’m going to try my hardest to get us out of this. We can be okay if only you’d just let me. Please, Estrella, let me try. This is as much for me as it is for you.” I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

  She peers at me intensely, perhaps trying to match my own expression, perhaps searching for the truth. “You won’t.”

  “Then let me try.”

  She nods slowly. “Okay.”

  I break into a grin. Suddenly nothing seems impossible. “Monday then, you go into Las Palabras, and you leave making them regret this. Take your lipsticks, all your stuff. Never look back. Hold your head up high like the star that you are. Then we’ll start taking a look at the school stuff, exactly what we need.”

  She fidgets. “And you’re sure that this will be okay, me staying here illegally?”

  “Vera. They will have to step over my dead body to take you away,” I say. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to harbor an alien. Though, when I was young, of course it was an actual alien. You know, like E.T., yes?”

  “That’s so dated,” she says.

  I cock my head thoughtfully. “Well, I am an old man.”

  Her face falls and she quickly averts her eyes. “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “I know.”

  She slides her cool fingertips across the stubble on my cheeks, on my jaw, like she’s feeling me for the first time. “You are not old. You are perfect. More than that, you are perfect for me. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, want you any other way than just the way you are now.”

  “An old man?”

  She raises her brow in impatience. “A beautiful man.”

  I think I can live with that.

  Chapter Six

  The next Wednesday afternoon, I end up working late because Warren had to fly back to the UK for a family emergency. It wouldn’t normally be a big deal except that Wednesday is the day I have Chloe Ann, and while Pedro has permitted me to leave early so far—I am just an observer after all—today he does not. I’m tempted to call Isabel and tell her I can’t make it, but I am caught up in the idea that Isabel may use that against me. She may think of me as unreliable and not a good father, even though I try everything in my power to be the opposite of that.