Then he does something else.
He sticks his hand under her skirt, up the back, then the front.
The girl opens her legs, offering herself, squeezing against him.
One minute, two, five, until they separate and she enters the building.
Felipa miscalculates the time. She should have gone back to her room right away. But she’s still hanging around closing the window. Vanesa is already inside the enormous 400-square-meter duplex apartment. An apartment you can lose yourself in.
“Good evening, Miss Vanesa.”
“Oh God, you scared me! What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Shall I fix you something?”
“What would you fix me at this hour of the night?” She takes a quick glance at her watch. “And you …” She struggles for the right words. “Are you spying on me?”
“Me?”
“Shit, Felipa. If you tell Mother, I swear I’ll make your life a living hell!”
Felipa’s about to tell her that she couldn’t make it any worse, but ends up not saying anything. It can always get worse. There’s always a way. The laundry that’s not washed on time, and the blouse that, although she has ten others, is precisely the one she needs to wear that afternoon; hot meals, cold meals; searching pockets before the wash and sometimes finding incriminating things such as condoms … She has lied for Vanesa so many times, to protect her, but ultimately also to protect herself.
“I have never told your mother a thing, miss.”
“Of course …” Vanesa crosses her arms.
“What?”
“You people were already doing it when you were like eleven or twelve, right?”
“Doing it?”
“C’mon or I’ll smack you. Doing it like rabbits.”
Felipa thinks she knows what Vanesa’s talking about but doesn’t want to get into it. After all, she’d found the girl one day with a boy, in her own bedroom, when she was barely fifteen. Her parents weren’t home, like always, and though it was her free afternoon, she’d come back early because she wasn’t feeling well, didn’t have any money to spare, and knew all too well she had nowhere to go.
“If there is nothing you want, I’m going to bed,” and she tries to leave.
“May I ask you a question?”
From the look of contempt on the face of this know-it-all, Felipa is sure the question won’t be to her liking. “Of course.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Working, miss. Working.”
“You’re revolting.” Her face stresses the disgust. “You come to Spain penniless and take care of other people’s children because you can’t feed your own. Why do you have them then?”
“Children are a gift from God.”
Vanesa bursts out laughing. “Go on with that nonsense.” She almost spits the words out. “Mother told me that your first husband left you and that you didn’t even have time to hug the second one before he knocked you up.”
“My Manuel died, miss.”
“Who takes care of your children?”
“My mother.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”
It’s hard for her to speak the words. Sometimes it’s too much, much more overwhelming than usual.
“Almost three years, miss.”
Vanesa Morales Masdeu holds her gaze.
Then Felipa looks down, unable to resist. “Good night.” She starts to leave.
The girl says nothing.
A few steps.
“Don’t go making noise in front of my room tomorrow. Clean somewhere else, okay?” she hisses suddenly.
Felipa nods and walks on. When she gets to her room, she knows exactly how difficult it’s going to be to fall asleep.
Laia Masdeu Porta is forty-seven years old and a slave driver.
A natural blonde with two liposuctions and three facelifts, she’s a Botox addict, does four or five hours a day in the gym, a sauna, massage, and intensive care; always corporal, never intellectual; almond-eyed, generously siliconed lips, an adolescent’s body, large breasts, well-manicured hands, and expensive clothes. She rarely smiles so as not to provoke unnecessary wrinkles. She never voices strong opinions because she doesn’t have any. Her hourglass is perfect.
As solid as her amorality.
The first thing she does when she crosses Turó Parc on her way home from the gym is to look up to see her wide balcony. It’s not the first time she’s surprised to find Felipa up there, doing nothing. But, of course, it’ll be the last if she catches her again. The most amazing thing is that she always says she’s cleaning the windows or sweeping. For God’s sake, they’re all alike. A herd of beggars. Although Felipa has been with her for a long time. Years now. But it doesn’t mean she’s the least bit fond of her …
They’re nothing more than third world animals living like rats in a society that’s beyond them.
Laia Masdeu Porta goes up the elevator by herself and enters her apartment without making a sound. She takes off her jacket, looks at herself in the mirror, the front and sides, all mechanical gestures, and then walks away with the same circumspection.
Her maid is in the bathroom, on her knees, scrubbing the toilet.
Laia relaxes, although not too much.
First, the kitchen. She opens the fridge. She keeps tabs on the food, because recently she’s discovered that sometimes there’s a missing steak, or yogurt, or custard. She hates to be robbed. But all those wretches steal. They can’t help themselves. That’s the way they’ve been brought up. Deep inside, she knows she should feel sorry for them.
But she doesn’t.
They know well enough to send their money back to their countries.
And then they complain. They complain! The day before, she’d had a talk with her and made things clear.
“Look, Felipa, if you’re not happy, there’s the door, understood? I just have to tap my foot and fifty more like you come rushing out. But not even like you! Cheaper! We’ve done quite a bit for you. What more do you want?”
She goes to the dining room. The mail is waiting on a large cut-glass platter on top of a little table, next to the door, so everyone can pick up their own. She glances at the letters from the bank but doesn’t open them. José María will take care of them. She grabs hers, all junk mail. But she does take a look at the phone bill. She rips open the envelope and studies the calls.
None to the Philippines.
She sighs.
It’s not about the charges for two or three euros that she finds on the bill. It’s the actual fact, the detail. Aren’t there telephone centers for immigrants? Let them talk from there! What if there’s a truly important call for her while Felipa is chattering or whimpering with her children or her mother?
And Felipa calls them every week.
Well, it’s hard, but she’s already taken her in hand.
The poor thing can’t cope with more—
“Felipa!”
Laia sees her emerging from the bathroom almost bent in two, rubbing her hands on her apron and wearing her eternally frightened face.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Anything new?”
“No, no.”
“Calls?”
“No, no.”
“Oh, girl, please wipe that look of horror from your face. Good heavens! It’s not the Gestapo questioning you!”
The maid doesn’t know what to say.
She doesn’t know what the Gestapo is, of course.
“My God.” Laia Masdeu Porta sighs. “You’re such a sad person, eh?”
Felipa doesn’t move; she holds the same expression.
“I am going to my studio to relax. I’d like a salad for lunch, but careful with the vinegar. And scrub your hands well. You just had them in the toilet!”
Laia goes to her room. First, she changes into something more comfortable. She opens the dressing room and checks out her clothes. Half the things in it aren’t good anymore. It’s impo
ssible to wear them anywhere. Even less with the staff watching her. Mariano, Alberto, and Andrés’s wives are really something … and the “new ones” are much worse. Ignacio’s is a twenty-two-year-old kid. Although she’s already thirtyfive, Francisco’s wife also looks like a supermodel.
She’ll clean things out this afternoon.
Everything in the trash.
She doesn’t want to see Felipa, like that other time, a year ago, when she caught her rummaging through the cast-offs for a sweater, a blouse, a skirt …
This cheapskate behavior makes her shudder.
She undresses, looks at herself in the mirror again, the one in the dressing room, from the front, the side; she tucks in her belly, lifts her breasts, strokes her behind with both hands. Everything’s solid. José María doesn’t touch her anymore, but that’s because her husband’s impotent and stupid. The young man at the gym, the one at the door, didn’t take his eyes off her. He was checking her out. She can still make anybody scream in bed. She just has to decide to do so. She’s going through the best period of her life. The age of wisdom.
Too bad sex is so exhausting, so sweaty …
She puts on clean clothes. House clothes, but classy, because you never know when someone might call or come over. Dignity is in the details. Her mother used to say: “Hold your head high, even when you step in shit.”
She leaves the room and goes to the studio that serves as her oasis. She hears Felipa singing softly to herself. Laia hates it when she does that. She’s asked her not to do that, but if she starts to argue about it she’ll end up with a migraine and that’s not what she needs right now: a wretched headache because of that idiot. So, for once, she lets it go. She closes the studio door and opens a window. Turó Parc immediately restores her peace of mind. This is her world. The rest can go to hell. That green patch and the surrounding buildings. That is her Barcelona, exclusive, unique, her own.
The world works, in spite of all the damned Felipas.
Laia Masdeu Porta lets herself drop into her favorite armchair and, just before picking up a fashion magazine, closes her eyes for a few seconds and relaxes.
José María Morales Moreno is fifty-five years old and a son of a bitch. He combs back his increasingly thinning hair, which is shiny and somewhat out of control around the back of the neck, where there are black cowlicks that make it seem just a touch trendy. Tanned complexion, the eyes of a lynx, straight lips, an incipient double chin that will soon vanish with surgery, a big body, the body of an entrepreneur, a powerful body. After he was mugged by some Moroccans, in the very center of Barcelona, and they took his gold Rolex and two rings—one, to his relief, his wedding ring—he never wears anything ostentatious. It’s not necessary, either. His mere presence sets off the staff’s neurons wherever he goes, from a restaurant to the hairdresser’s where they take care of his image. That and the armored car do the rest.
The world has gone crazy.
And sometimes, like this afternoon, especially so.
“Damnit, fuck! What are you talking about?”
Felipa stops in the middle of the stairs at the upper part of the duplex. Her boss’s voice comes through the half-open door like a gale-force wind. She hesitates and rubs her hands. They are sweaty from fear, from what she’s daring to do, from everything. She thought this was the best moment and now, suddenly, she hesitates.
She’s about to go back down the stairs.
But a hint of anger stops her. It’s taken her so long to make up her mind …
The voice is loud and clear again: “Then give him half a million, goddamnit! With everything we’ve got on the line, we’re going to get caught up with details now? I know he’s not fit to be seen and he’s a pig, but what do you expect? Calm down, we’ll get rid of him in less than a year, I’m telling you! Now we have no choice but to put up with it. Just make him sign the receipt, okay? And careful on the phone, damnit. Everything’s taped now. Idiot judges and their fucking mothers!”
Felipa is on the other side of the door, trembling, wondering for the second time whether to come back later or wait. The problem is that if he leaves the office and goes downstairs, it’ll be difficult to get him alone. It’s not that there’s much interaction between the people in the house, but if Master Pelayo, Miss Vanesa, or Mrs. Laia show up in the middle of her request …
Through the door’s small opening she sees him, red with anger, furious, incensed. The force of his power is clear from here.
If her need didn’t outweigh her fear …
“And that other one wants a hundred thousand?” José María Morales Moreno’s voice intensifies. “Fuck him! Why is it that in this fucking country nobody lets you lay a brick without asking for something? Tell him fifty, Eloy, and make it work! We’re not going to just throw money away like that! At this rate, we won’t even have ten million!”
This isn’t the first time she overhears him on the phone. Last time it was with Gemma. Gemma has been to dinner with them a couple of times. She’s very good looking, younger than Mrs. Laia. José María’s sweet nothings left no doubt about what was going on between them.
But that’s none of her business.
Perhaps that’s part of the game among the rich.
Besides, Gemma is not the only one.
Her boss’s trousers are a well of surprises, a stream of secrets. His audacity is astonishing. The week before, she’d found a pink card with a woman’s peculiar name, perhaps French. The card described the many things she could do with a man in bed. A month before that, she had found a receipt from a no less conspicuous club.
Felipa isn’t clever, but neither was she born yesterday.
Sometimes she thinks about the four of them and doesn’t understand a thing.
“Look, you know what? A couple of our guys will break their legs for four euros, okay? Then it’ll be fine to can half the staff, to throw all of them out on the fucking street!”
The phone conversation ends.
Felipa counts to ten and rubs her hands on the apron again. She takes a breath and slows down her heartbeat. Now. Now or never.
Then she knocks on the office door.
“What do you want?” roars the voice of the owner of the house.
“Excuse me, sir …” She puts her head through the opening.
“Oh, it’s you. What is it?”
“Sir …”
“Come in, come in. I don’t have all day.”
She has to jump right into the issue, heart on her sleeve.
“Sir, it’s just that … well, the last time you gave me a raise was … more than a year ago, you know? And now …”
“What do you want? More money?” His eyes are big as saucers now. “Are you out of your mind or what? Do you think they just give me money, like a present? We’re in a recession, do you understand? Yeah, I know you have no fucking idea what I’m talking about, but that’s the way it is. And what do you want money for, Felipa? For the love of God, you have everything you could want here.”
“I want to visit my family for Christmas and—”
“For Christmas? This year? Are you thinking of leaving precisely when there’s the most work, with all the dinner parties and …? C’mon, c’mon, Felipa, don’t mess with me, okay? Leave me alone; just take it up with my wife.”
“But your wife—”
“Felipa.” He looks at her sternly and his dry gesture signals the end of the conversation.
She lowers her head and leaves the office.
For some time now, she has stopped crying when she feels worse than a rat, but this time she shuts herself in her room and weeps until she’s called and has to run out to see what her masters want. Any one of her masters.
Felipa Quijano Quilez is thirty-five years old but looks more like fifty. She’s short, with olive skin, eyes painfully tired, a sad expression on her face, worn-out hands, worn-out hopes.
This day, this afternoon, she calls home from a telephone center.
“I’m coming ba
ck,” she declares.
Then she holds back her tears, talks with her mother, with her children. She says the same thing to all of them.
“I was lucky. I won the Spanish lottery.”
At night, she makes dinner.
Cool. Feeling nothing.
She doesn’t sweat now, she feels no fear. She’s worked everything out. Now her will is firm. She cautiously distributes the rat poison she bought at a drugstore downtown, not overdoing it, so they won’t notice its bad taste. The exact amount in the soup, and a little more in the wine and the meat sauce. She found out what she needed to know about it. She had asked the druggist what would happen if people imbibed it by mistake and the man was graphic and generous in his explanations. A person will notice the flavor unless the soup is strong and salted, unless the wine is dark, unless the sauce has mustard. A human being can’t eat it without detecting its bitterness, but a little at a time in soup, wine, sauce … The druggist said that more than one writer of detective novels has asked him about this and he’s become an expert.
But she wants it to kill rats, right?
This is the first night in over a month that the four of them are eating together at home. Generally it’s the husband who’s missing, but the wife also has her dinners with friends, and Miss Vanesa sometimes “studies” at a classmate’s house. This is her chance, after so much patience these final weeks. A royal dinner. She’s a good cook, although they hardly value her work and at times they even get angry or laugh at her. She consults the wife, but she just shrugs and tells her not to make her dizzy with details, to do whatever she wants.
Whatever she wants.
The only negative comment comes from the head of the family.
“This wine seems sour,” he says.
But Miss Vanesa is somewhat kind. “The sauce is very good today, Felipa. It was high time you learned to cook. It’s rather strong …”
She goes back to her room after doing the dishes and clearing the table.
Then she packs her bag.
Barcelona Noir Page 13