Everything changes here and everything stays the same, she thought.
But Viridiana was in motion that day, her feet pedalling with determination, her hat set firmly atop her head. She had that sensation, like when the winds pick up before a storm. Omens, Grandmother used to call it, her toothless mouth grinning.
Milton’s house was located on a jagged seaside cliff, up a narrow road, defiant and alone. The End. When you approached it indeed seemed like it was the end of everything, with this house left by itself against the immensity of the sky. Viridiana’s grandmother had told her folktales about the days when there were giants walking the peninsula and Viridiana thought it was possible to picture one of those giants bending down and placing the house atop the cliff.
In front of the house, someone had parked a brand new red Cadillac Eldorado, which was dusty from the highway and the unpleasant roads. It was nevertheless a beauty, the sort of car Viridian only saw in magazines or TV. Never up close.
Viridiana rested her battered bicycle against a wall of the white house and took off her hat, dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief as she stared at the car, resisting the impulse to touch it and ensure it was not a mirage. She wasn’t car-crazy, like boys were. Driving the family’s truck seemed to her pretty much the same as driving anything else, although her stepfather didn’t let her drive it that often. But this car. Now this was a car to gawk at.
She straightened her blouse, regretfully eyed her worn tennis shoes and ran a hand over her hair before ringing the bell.
A woman opened the door. She was tall and slim, her blonde hair all layered flicks. Her blue eyeliner matched her eyes and she wore a heavy lapis lazuli necklace around her neck. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties, but Viridiana did not know any woman in her mid-thirties who would wear a tight red jumpsuit like this lady did. She was beautiful enough to be in films. Like the car, she had been transported from a different, parallel reality.
“Hi, I’m Viridiana,” she said. “Reynier told me I should stop by.”
Viridiana held out her hand.
“Come on in. I’m Daisy,” the woman said, but did not offer to shake Viridiana’s hand. Instead she started walking and Viridiana followed her.
She had never been inside this house before. The living room was dreadfully large and the shaggy carpet under her feet seemed completely unsuited to such a warm climate. The carpet was white to boot, as was much of the furniture, which would make it extra difficult to clean. There were two couches—white—facing each other, a lone, egg-shaped chair in bright yellow and a matching yellow painting. The stairs leading to the second floor were on the left, and the railing was painted white. Modern, chic and glossy, that was her first impression of this house.
Two men sat in the living room, one on each couch. The one occupying the loveseat was an older man, his brown hair was noticeably thinning, his eyes were small and fanned by numerous wrinkles. He had a painfully receding hairline, a gut which could not be concealed and an expression of utter dissatisfaction.
The second man was much younger. Late twenties, at the most. Like the woman, he was also blond, but a dirty sort of blond, and his eyes were green. If the woman looked like she could be a film star, he looked like he might be a model. His features were chiselled, his mouth generous. He gave the impression of a man who liked to laugh and was, perhaps, in the middle of telling a joke when they had walked in.
“This is my husband, Ambrose, and this is my brother, Gregory,” Daisy said.
“I’m Viridiana. Reynier sent me.”
“Yes, Reynier, he said you’d come. Where are my smokes?” the older man asked, looking up sharply at the blonde woman.
“You left them in the kitchen,” his wife replied.
“Go get them,” Ambrose said, making a motion with his hand.
The woman exited. None of them had offered Viridiana a seat, so she stood rigidly in place and slid her hands into her jeans’ pockets.
“Did Reynier tell you what I’m looking for?” Ambrose asked.
“He said you want a personal assistant, someone to type notes for you.”
“And can you type?”
“Yes. I took a shorthand typing class in high school and I’ve done work for Reynier and other folks.”
“Can you read and write in English?”
“English, Spanish and Dutch,” she said. “My French is serviceable, too.”
“What do you know,” the older man said, looking surprised. “I didn’t realize you could study that here.”
It always seemed to amaze foreigners that they were not all running around in loincloths, praying to the rain gods.
“You look awfully young,” Ambrose said, frowning. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“When Reynier mentioned you, I thought you were older.”
“Eighteen or forty, what does it matter?” Daisy said walking back in and handing her husband a packet of cigarettes.
“Kids might get bored here,” Ambrose said, he took a cigarette and then, as if considering seating arrangements for the first time, motioned for her to sit down. “Do you want a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” Viridiana said, and she sat on the same three-piece sofa as the young man, but kept a good deal of space between them. His shoes were two-tone, blue and red, and he had loosely knotted a matching blue and red neckerchief around his throat. It was probably silk. She’d seen such a thing in catalogues.
“It’s a good thing. Filthy habit. I’m trying to kick a few of my filthy habits,” Ambrose said leaning back on the couch. “The reason why I mention your age is because we’d like to keep you here full time. There’s a guest room you could have. But young people, they need bars and movies and excitement, you know? I don’t want you complaining that you can’t go out all the time.”
“There’s no cinemas in Desengaño,” Viridiana informed him. “But I can come and go, you don’t have to offer me a room.”
She had never heard of such an arrangement. Only maids lived in a household and Viridiana didn’t want them thinking she would scrub their floors, cook their food, wash their clothes, and then also take dictation. They might be trying to get all-in-one servant for cheap. She was not up for that.
“My husband keeps odd hours,” Daisy said, sitting down next to Ambrose. “He wakes up at noon and works at midnight. I don’t think you can possibly come and go in the dark like that.”
“Yes, I’m a night owl,” he said, patting his wife’s leg. “What would an assistant be worth to me if she’s not here when I need her?”
“My rates would have to go up to make up for the inconvenience,” Viridiana said.
“Name an amount, I can make it happen.”
“Well… ”
“Don’t be coy.”
She blurted an amount twice as much as she had originally thought to ask for. The man smiled and told his wife to bring his checkbook. Which she did. And then in sloppy handwriting he made out a check, which Viridiana carefully inspected.
Ambrose P. Allerton. But more than his name, it said this was a man of great wealth and indifference, whose pen had not faltered for a second as he wrote down the digits. He did not have to worry how much money he spent.
“You understand I’ll want you here until the end of the summer,” the man said. “I don’t want to turn around and discover midway through July that you are off on a vacation or something of the sort.”
“I had none planned,” she said, setting the check on the wide, low coffee table between them. “But I also haven’t said I’ll take the job.”
“You have to think it over? Think it over. But come back and give me an answer,” he concluded. “Take the check. If you don’t want the job, return it tomorrow.”
He stretched out his hand, holding out the check. She nodded and slid it into her pocket. Then she hesitated, not knowing if this was her cue to leave or if she ought to wait some more. Didn’t
they have questions? Was that the entire interview?
The younger man, Gregory, stood up. “I’ll show you out,” he offered.
He walked her to the front entrance. He looked at her placidly, with an appraising eye that was foreign to her. It was the eye of an expert collector.
“It’s a good job. Ambrose is lazy. Most days you’ll probably do as you please while he waits for inspiration,” he said.
He wasn’t wearing a jacket and his shirt was tight against his chest. She lingered by the doorway even though she could have taken off with a simple “see ya.”
“He wants to write a book?” she asked.
“That’s what he says. Between you and me, I don’t think he’s finished a single page yet.”
“Why doesn’t he type his own notes, then, if they are so sparse?”
“Ambrose wouldn’t know the letter q from the letter p on a typewriter. Besides, I think it makes him feel like he’s a ‘real’ writer if he has a personal assistant. And we don’t speak a lick of Spanish. We’ll need your help when we run errands in town.”
“And you’ll really be here until the end of summer?”
“That’s the plan. Don’t people usually stay for the summer?”
“Some do,” she said. “But most folks come for a week or two. Then they’re off back home or to see more interesting sights. La Paz, or even Mexico City.”
“He wants to stay here. He thinks it’ll be quiet. He shipped all kinds of papers and books and things ahead to make sure he’ll be comfortable. And he’s already asked Reynier to make sure that cleaning woman he sent comes over twice a week.”
“Delfina?”
“Yes, that’s the name. Like I said, we don’t speak a lick of Spanish so you’ll have to translate for us even with her. But Reynier assured us she’s a hard worker and he said you’re reliable,” he leaned against the doorway after she finally stepped out, crossing his arms “Is it true they hunt sharks here?”
“When the waters are warm.”
“I’ve never seen a shark.”
He smiled. What a smile. Teeth gleaming white, all neat and straight, and the curve of the mouth told her he was used to people noticing the smile, noticing him. The smile almost dared her to stare.
Instead, Viridiana looked down at the hat between her hands and placed it on her head. It had a string, which she tightened, ensuring it would not be blown away by the wind.
“You think you’ll take the job?” Gregory asked.
She’d gone to visit them late in the day, but not so late she’d be riding home in the dark. It was folly to take the bicycle in the nighttime. You’d get hit by a car. But now the sky was turning purple and she’d best be off. So she shrugged and rode away.
* * *
Viridiana’s mother was not pleased, and she made it known. They sat at the table, Mother, Viridiana and her step-father. Mother lit a cigarette and tapped it against the ashtray, almost violently. She only smoked when she was angry.
“It’s nonsense, that’s what it is,” Marta said, her voice dipping.
In the next room Viridiana could hear her younger siblings playing and the noise of the TV. El Chavo del Ocho was on, the laugh-track punctuating the jokes. There were loud cries, someone was chasing someone. Feet stomped upon the floor. The house was filled with noises from the crack of dawn until the late of night. It was a frenzied nest of activity. Marta’s stepfather was decidedly Catholic and he thought each child came into the world with a torta under the arm, hence he approved of his wife’s fecundity.
Viridiana’s aunt shushed someone, but to no avail, and then the dogs began to bark. They had three, they belonged to her stepfather but he never took care of them. It was Viridiana who had to fill their bowls with leftover rice, bits of chicken, and old tortillas. It was Viridiana who scraped dog shit from the floor, tried to clean the stinking couch where the dogs liked to piss, and threw away the dirty newspapers from the bird cages.
She hated all animals. Except sharks. The sharks were entirely different. She always felt sorry for them, even when she ate their meat.
“It’s good money,” Viridiana countered, pointing to the check she had set on the table and which her stepfather was examining. “I could save for university.”
“University,” her mother said.
“Yes.”
“And what would you do in your university?”
“Study something,” she muttered.
“Study languages. Translate. Charge almost nothing by the page. Mexico City, the university, they’re nonsense. You should get married.”
Marta had once made the same trek to the city where she’d met a useless young man who could recite French poems and translate the lyrics of popular American songs. But then he’d gotten her pregnant and translating lyrics never paid the rent. So, she’d journeyed back home, back with a belly full of Viridiana and a husband in tow. It turned out the husband was fool who spent too many afternoons enthused with the contemplation of the sea when what she needed was a man of action, a man who would seize opportunities and save money instead of wasting it on ordering books from the capital.
Marta, made wiser by her brush with mediocrity and misspent dreams, wished tangible rewards for her daughter. A house, a car, vacations in Acapulco and Disneyland. Viridiana could get that if she married. God knew with five brothers and sisters Viridiana could not expect any reliable support from her mother, not in the long run.
“Your mother has a point,” her stepfather said. “Besides, we need your help around the house.”
Babysitting. Feeding dogs and canaries. That’s how they expected her to spend her time.
“I’d give you a portion of my check, of course. A fourth for the family to help with expenses would be fair, don’t you think?” Viridiana said. She knew that was what Ignacio wanted to hear. There was enough cash that she was willing to part with a chunk of it. She’d still be left in a good position.
Ignacio pretended to think it through.
“It might do her good,” Ignacio told her mother. “It would teach her about real work. She works only an hour or two a day during tourist season, and another hour with the Dutchman.”
“I’m aware,” her mother replied. “She refuses to sit behind the counter. Putting on airs, that’s what she’s good at.”
Viridiana did not protest. She scratched one of the white flowers printed on the plastic tablecloth. There were yellow plastic flowers in a vase in the middle of the table and a matching arrangement next to the figurine of San Judas Tadeo, who watched them from a corner. Beneath the saint a horseshoe dangled downward from a nail. The horseshoe was wrapped in crimson rayon thread and decorated with gold sequins and a picture of San Martin Caballero. This was an amulet, quite pagan, but of course the inhabitants of the household were all devout Catholics who mixed superstitions and religions with ease.
Once upon a time Viridiana had believed in the mystical powers of the horseshoe and the San Judas Tadeo porcelain figurine with the green robe, but the benevolent, pale saint had not answered her prayers, never brought her father back, and she had long since stopped making the sign of the cross when she passed.
“Let’s see how she does having to work for these people every day, each week. It’ll teach her to earn her bread. High time, too.”
“They’re strangers.”
“Reynier knows them, mama,” Viridiana lied.
Marta looked at the ashtray, brows furrowed, then snapped her head up and stared at her daughter.
“You’d have to come home every Sunday, for mass, and then stay in the evening for supper.”
“Sure.”
“And you’ll have to be polite to Brigida and Manuel Esparza, if they are around,” Marta added.
“Why would they stop by?”
“To play dominoes. Like we used to.”
Viridiana understood the plan. They’d toss Manuel and her into the same room, hoping to rekindle their rel
ationship. Hoping that Viridiana would get married and move out, solving their space problems in a house that was too crowded now that Marta had a new baby. Six kids, counting Viridiana. If they had a seventh, someone would have to sleep on the couch.
Viridiana had managed to avoid Manuel, but she couldn’t avoid him if he was sitting in her living room. Would Brigida object? Perhaps, at first. But Marta must feel pretty sure she’d agree to the plan.
Let Manuel come to visit again, then. Viridiana was capable of polite conversation—or an enduring silence, whichever suited the situation better.
“And you’ll behave yourself in that house,” Marta said. “No nonsense.”
“What nonsense? It’s a boring old guy and his family,” Viridiana declared. She had not mentioned the family included a man who looked like he had stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. No need for that.
She glanced at the figure of San Judas Tadeo and thought that the little statue bore a vague resemblance to Gregory. The hair color, the carefully trimmed beard, most of all the eyes. Although the American’s eyes were green and she was certain the statuette had brown eyes, as did the picture on the plastic prayer card everyone carried in their pocket or placed by the nightstand.
Pray for me because I am alone and without help, the prayer card said. This was the real resemblance, the idea rattling in her brain that the American had been sent there to help her, to change her life. She could feel it, like when her Grandma used to describe how she read omens, only she’d never taught Viridiana that sort of stuff.
Untamed Shore Page 2