by Monica Ali
She picked up Rosanna and examined her absurd rosebud lips, the cold blue of her eyes, the non-existent nose. Sniffing hard and blinking, Teresa lifted the doll above her head with both hands and brought it down like an axe over the melamine dressing table. She stopped just short. The doll’s head rolled in the air, her hair across her face. Teresa laid her down and then flung herself on the bed.
She was only crying because she was angry. Mãe and Francisco, why couldn’t they be happy for her? Why? Was it really too much to ask?
She looked round her bedroom and thought what a pity it would be to leave it, now that she had finally got it nice, cleared out all that old, dark furniture, the creaky iron bed, and made it modern and sleek.
In London, though, she would have her own television. Her room would be modern, perhaps with fitted wardrobes. She was to have her own bathroom. She wondered if everyone in the family had one.
Once she had told Mãe she would feel better. Get it out in the open, get it over and done. She hugged the pillow and ran the scene. Mãe shrieking, ‘Santa Maria!’ and fainting. Mãe slapping her across the face and hissing, is this how you pay me back? Mãe turning and staggering towards the door, her arm crashing across the dresser and sweeping the glasses to the floor.
In the soaps that’s what they always did. Unexpected news made them crazy and clumsy as well.
But Mãe was no soap star. She wouldn’t know how to act.
Teresa turned over and stared at the bamboo on the ceiling. A spider dangled from a thread. Insects were always dropping out of there but Mãe wouldn’t let her take the bamboo down. God alone knew why.
What was Mãe watching now? Woman of Destiny or Family Ties, Teresa thought. Or perhaps the next one was on by now. She wouldn’t move until they had finished and then she would sigh and shake her head as though to say thank goodness she was free. Perhaps, deep down, she enjoyed them. Perhaps she was swelling inside, gorging on the passion and power and money, all the things she didn’t have. It was hard to believe. More likely it was comforting because she could despise them, all those people with no self-control.
Teresa stirred it round, knowing she would reach no conclusion. Mãe was always a puzzle; so simple yet so hard to understand.
She spent her evenings watching people talking but pretended talking was a waste of time. Once in a while she told a story, a tale about her grandfather being stung by his bees, or Senhora Carmona’s wild ways; she unfolded the stories and aired them, like linen from the closet, and stowed them away again. Otherwise, she treated words like money and money was always tight.
It was getting late. Teresa changed into a skirt and blouse and took the file and the brochures from the drawer. She remembered Mãe’s prescription.
She would tell her everything. ‘So,’ Mãe would say. ‘London,’ she would say, as though this was exactly the disappointment she had steeled herself against.
‘I’ve got your sleeping pills,’ said Teresa, when she went through.
Mãe glanced at her and nodded, her face floating in the radiant projected light.
‘See you later,’ said Teresa, knowing she would not.
The moon, nearly full, hung low in the velvet sky as if it had bounced off the rooftops. The air was sweet, almost cloying, with smoke from a wood-fired oven and the overripe scent of a lady of the night, the small cream flowers smothering the empty house across the way, obscuring almost entirely the handwritten ‘for sale’ sign that had been there for as long as she could remember. Light spilled out from the other houses, washing the high stone kerbs. Teresa set off down the crooked street.
‘Good evening, Teresa,’ called Senhora Cabral, from her usual seat in her doorway. ‘And where may you be going?’ Her knitting needles flew. She never risked looking down at them in case she missed something.
‘Good evening, Senhora Cabral. I’m going to meet a man. A married man.’
‘Ah, I see you have your brochures. You’re a good girl, Teresa. Always working so hard for your poor mother, for your poor little brother.’
‘Goodbye, Senhora Cabral. I think you’ve dropped a stitch.’
At the corner she almost bumped into Telma Ervanaria, who could scarcely see over her load of neatly folded laundry.
‘I’m just taking it round,’ panted Telma Ervanaria. ‘She’s bedridden now, you know. Everyone’s taking a turn.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Teresa. She had no idea who her aunt was talking about. ‘Anyway, I have to go.’
‘Have you heard? Marco Afonso Rodrigues is coming back to Mamarrosa. You don’t know who he is? He’s closer to your mother’s age, of course, but we knew him when we were young.’
‘That’s good,’ said Teresa. She tried to step round her aunt.
‘Left with a few escudos in his pocket and coming back stinking rich. Made his money in dry cleaning and laundries. Now he’s richer than a king.’
Teresa patted the stack of sheets and towels. ‘Maybe you should start charging.’
‘Two of a kind,’ chuckled Telma Ervanaria, still in love with the idea.
Senhor Marcelo Álvaro Mendes tapped his pipe along the wooden arm of his chair and shuffled his feet.
‘Your mãe is well?’ he said. ‘And your Francisco, he is well too?’
Teresa said that they were, very well. She rearranged the brochures on her knee and opened her file.
‘And your aunt?’ said Senhor Mendes. ‘How is she?’ He stuck the pipe in his mouth and sucked and then picked a fleck of tobacco from his teeth.
His wife came in looking flushed and paused in the doorway, listening to check that the children were quiet in their beds.
‘Shall we get started?’ said Teresa. She uncapped her pen to signal that business was under way.
‘Goodness,’ said Senhora Mendes, ‘I thought Henrique would never go down.’
Teresa cocked her head and smiled. ‘How is he?’ she was forced to say.
Senhora Mendes collapsed on the sofa, her legs splaying inelegantly wide. Teresa, striving for focus and a little necessary formality, pressed her knees tighter together.
‘Teething,’ said Senhora Mendes. ‘And you know it can give them the runs. His bottom is bright, bright red.’
‘Well,’ said Teresa, ‘we’ll start with the fact-find. That’s what we normally do.’
‘But where are our manners?’ cried Senhora Mendes, struggling to her feet. ‘I’ll go and make the tea.’
Senhor Mendes knocked his pipe into the grate. He was scared to look at her, Teresa realized, when his wife was not in the room. If she got him on his own he would buy; he would sign whenever she told him, right on the dotted line.
Senhora Mendes stuck her head through. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ she said. ‘Did you hear about Paula and Vicente? Yes, they got engaged today.’
‘Of course they did,’ said Teresa, capping and uncapping the pen. ‘They are such a perfect match.’ It was typical of Paula, she thought, always trying to outdo everyone. She was certainly welcome to Vicente, who was nice enough if you liked that sort of thing, which Teresa actually didn’t.
When the tea had been brought and poured and the cakes declined and re-offered and accepted, Teresa closed her file and decided to jump right in. The training (two days at a freezing air-conditioned conference centre in Faro) was all very well but those men in their pushy little suits had clearly never been to Mamarrosa. If she went by the book it would take all night and anyway the fact-find was pointless. How many children do you have? Teresa knew their names and ages and even the state of their bowels.
‘The thing about life insurance is,’ she began, addressing herself to the head of the house, ‘that should anything happen to you . . .’ from the corner of her eye she saw Senhora Mendes making the sign of the cross, ‘then your loved ones will be protected. Fully protected,’ she added, as if salvation itself was assured.
‘Oh, foo,’ said Senhor Mendes, blowing through his teeth, ‘what could happen to me?’ He leaned f
orward to reassure his wife. ‘I’ve not seen a doctor in twenty years.’
Teresa stayed quiet. Senhora Mendes performed a quick check-up on herself, sliding her hands across her shoulders and down her sides to rest finally on her knees. Seeing his mistake, her husband gave a guilty smile. ‘I haven’t needed to go,’ he said, feigning irritation.
On the coffee table was a bowl of plums, freshly picked and bloomed still with dust. Senhora Mendes reached forward, her cuff dark and damp from her labours at the sink, plucked out a tiny caterpillar and crushed it between her fingers.
Teresa considered her options. Senhor Mendes drove a cream-coloured Mercedes taxi, the only one in Mamarrosa. Portugal had the highest road-fatality rate in Western Europe. She kept her eyes low, watching Senhor Mendes’ feet, the way he kept raising and lowering his heels, the creases across his shoes.
She wouldn’t mention it. He spent more time, anyway, washing his taxi than driving it.
She wanted this sale. She needed the commission. When she left for London at the end of November she would give Mãe an envelope stuffed with cash, a surprise, a bonus on top of what she usually handed over to supplement her mother’s earnings from the cleaning jobs at the school and the doctor’s surgery. And there was the flight (the word made her tie her fingers together) to pay for, and goodness knows what that would cost.
Teresa tugged at her ponytail, two hands in opposing directions, to tighten the band. The fine hair at the nape of her neck caught and pulled and brightened her eyes. ‘It’s something we never want to think about,’ she said briskly. ‘Of course we don’t.’ She dropped her voice and said, as if to herself, ‘Mãe never did.’ She smiled then and straightened her papers. ‘But we do all right. You know, we are getting by just fine.’
‘Bless us all,’ said Senhora Mendes, her eyes fixed on her husband. ‘But doesn’t it make you think?’
It was the opening day of the internet café, in the old frozen-fish shop, and at least a dozen people had turned up. Teresa looked in through the window below the lettering that still said Congelados Aquários and saw Antonio with his finger in his ear. The way he scratched, so vigorously that his body vibrated, he looked like a dog with a flea. She averted her eyes and licked her lips to make them shine. After waiting a moment or two she stepped inside.
The walls were painted a futuristic shade of acid green, the chairs and tables had tubular metal legs and by the back wall was a long trestle with two computers which no one had dared to approach. There was a small bar with a notice advertising beers at fifty céntimos a pop, and by the door a couple of shuddering chest freezers plastered with pictures of prawns.
Vicente was talking to Antonio. Teresa said, ‘Congratulations, Vicente. Have you set a date?’
Vicente stood there, lording it over them. He held his head unnaturally high and was constantly sucking and rolling his cheeks so it seemed as though he would spit on you. He slapped Antonio on the back and said, ‘You’re looking at a condemned man, my friend.’
They offered fists to each other and rubbed knuckles. Teresa crossed her legs.
‘So,’ she said when Vicente had moved away, ‘what did he say to you?’
Antonio squeezed her knee under the table. ‘What do you mean? When?’
‘The wedding. I suppose he was talking about it.’
Antonio put his hands on top of the table, waiting to catch hold of hers. The palms were scrubbed pink but his fingernails were lined with engine grease. His mother had stitched up a tear in his overalls using white thread. It looked like a scar across his chest. ‘No. Not really,’ he said. He smiled plainly at her and she conceded a hand to his.
‘Never mind,’ said Teresa. ‘Were you busy this morning?’
‘Oil leak on a Peugeot 504. Broken fan belt on a Fiesta. Senhor Mendes brought the Mercedes in for a service. I said, “Why, isn’t she running right?” The inspection was only six months ago. He said . . .’
‘Well,’ said Teresa, ‘sounds busy.’ She nodded towards the computers. ‘Shall we try it out?’
‘Can’t,’ said Antonio. ‘There’s no connection.’
‘Of course not, no.’ She looked at Antonio’s dark, accepting eyes, the slightly goofy way his hair sprang away from the parting, the length of his earlobes smudged with dirt. This is a great opportunity to make new friends. ‘I love you,’ she whispered.
‘Me too,’ said Antonio, without urgency.
‘I mean it.’ How fierce she sounded.
‘Me too,’ he repeated and she pulled away.
Paula, wearing a tight skirt that showed the line of her knickers, came to take their order.
Teresa stood up and kissed her. ‘I’m so happy for you, Paula. It’s really wonderful.’
Paula fanned the fingers of her left hand and studied the ring. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m a lucky girl.’
Antonio was at least twice as handsome as Vicente, who had narrow shoulders and small, mean eyes.
‘Exactly,’ said Teresa, ‘you’ve done well for yourself. You couldn’t do better than Vicente.’
‘Thank you,’ said Paula, a little louder than necessary. ‘And it’s time for me, really, to grow up.’
‘Oh, yes, it’s just right for you. Now you know for certain what the rest of your life will be. I wish you every happiness, Paula, now and for always.’
‘Me too,’ said Antonio.
Paula licked the end of her pencil and stabbed her order pad. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘I’m starving,’ said Antonio.
‘We’ve got cheese toast, ham toast or cheese and ham toast,’ said Paula, ‘kitchen’s not on till next week.’
Teresa picked pink slivers of ham from her sandwich. The crust, toasted black, was sharp enough to cut your finger. She watched Antonio eat with his head down over the plate, the broad brown sweep of his cheeks peppered with stubble. He was nervous about tomorrow and it was making him more tongue-tied than ever. Poor Antonio. She knew him better than he knew himself.
He lifted his face and their eyes locked. Teresa burned. The knowledge of what lay ahead welded them together. Forged in this moment was an everlasting bond. Where the minds, the souls, came together, the bodies would naturally follow.
Antonio spoiled it by chewing. She sighed and looked away but forgave him. Probably he felt too naked. He didn’t understand that not a person here had eyes to see.
Clara came in, her baby brother like a storm cloud over her shoulder. ‘The Pope is sick again,’ she said, sinking down at the table. ‘I saw it on the television.’ She nodded and panted, pleased to have shared the bad news.
‘So much suffering,’ said Teresa. She stroked Hugo’s head. It was huge. No wonder he never wanted to walk. He would be toppled by that head.
‘Anyway,’ said Clara, dragging out the word, ‘do you want to come round tonight? I’m babysitting but I got this braider out of the catalogue; it’s electric and you put three strands in and press the button and it whizzes round and they’re really, like, the best braids.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I have to work.’ Teresa stroked Hugo’s cheek. Hugo knew that Clara didn’t want to look after him. That was why he gave her such a hard time. ‘Cutie-pie,’ she said. ‘Little angel.’
Hugo bit her finger.
Teresa screamed and jumped out of her seat.
Hugo thrashed and unleashed the full works. Clara tried to rock him in her arms but it was like juggling with firecrackers. Glaring at Teresa she pinned Hugo in a fireman’s hoist and said, ‘Oh, brilliant.’
‘He bit me,’ Teresa hissed. ‘My God.’
Clara was leaving. ‘He’s two years old,’ she called back. ‘He doesn’t like to be fussed with,’ she added, as though Teresa knew nothing about children.
Antonio ordered ice-cream and Paula brought two little plastic cartons of something pink and wavy from one of the chest freezers. Teresa took a sniff. ‘Smells of fish. Probably they didn’t clean out the freezers.’
Antonio got that l
ook, a kid in class with his hand up, bursting with the answer. ‘Prawn ice-cream,’ he said, tapping with his spoon. ‘It’s prawn ice-cream.’
Teresa laughed politely. It wasn’t his fault she was always one step ahead. ‘What about that Hugo, though? He bit me.’
Antonio shrugged. ‘Someone wants to give him a good slap.’
Teresa thought so too. ‘I would never slap a child,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Physical punishment of a child is never acceptable,’ said Teresa, translating from the au pair information sheet.
‘Why not?’ said Antonio, clearly puzzled.
‘Stop doing that,’ she barked.
‘Doing what?’
‘That. Just don’t . . . oh, never mind.’
They sat in silence. A fly crawled across Antonio’s forehead and disappeared into his hair.
‘Want a beer?’ he said.
‘I’ve got to get back to work.’
‘There’s half an hour yet.’
They had a beer. Paula swayed by on her heels. She always wore heels because of her short legs. Teresa wasn’t being bitchy but it only made things worse.
‘Are you going there in the morning?’ Teresa knew he was but she wanted to talk about it.
‘Yes.’
‘And your mother won’t . . . you know, she won’t come looking for you, later on?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll get everything ready?’
Antonio, she could see, did not know what she meant by this. ‘Yes,’ he said, to please her.
She did not know what she meant either. What would he get ready? What preparations would he make?
The house at Corte Brique was owned by a couple from Lisbon. It was their holiday house. Antonio’s mother looked after it. She was going to give him the keys tomorrow because there were two drains that needed unblocking, a dripping tap and a broken toilet flush. Antonio was good with his hands.
‘What’s it like, the house? Is it nice?’
‘It’s nice,’ said Antonio decisively. ‘There’s a swimming pool.’
She knew there was a swimming pool. It was the only thing he had told her and she had imagined the rest.