With very minimal effort I’d cajoled her into admitting she’d semi-accidentally split Mauricio’s skull open by launching an ashtray at him.
‘Ah well,’ she hooted, ‘you know what they say, honey: behind every crazy bitch is a man who made her that way.’
It was the perfect example of Aunt Celia’s hard-as-nails attitude when it came to men, and just the reminder I’d need to keep my resolve firm when it came to Román in the future: Palacios women are not to be fucked with.
WHERE’S THE GEWÜRZTRAMINER?
For days after Javier and the Jotas left, the house felt strangely empty. No Jotas helping around the house, sharing tales of cattle-rearing, no Javier prepping dinner in the kitchen while humming old Gloria Estefan hits. But with the fickleness inherent in human affection, we soon got over Javier and the Jotas as we slipped back into familiar routines. I went back to reading and guzzling coffee in the backyard beach chair at six a.m. wearing just an old T-shirt. Zulema resumed her forty-five-minute beauty ritual before work in our shared bathroom, and my parents went back to their habits too, walking around the house in various states of undress, screaming at American singing competitions on TV while the poor amateur singers warbled and flailed in front of celebrity judges. With Christmas only days away there was no time to think about long-lost illegals. Last-minute gifts had to be bought and wrapped, food purchased and prepped, Christmas outfits assembled.
We were even too busy to think about when the next batch of illegals would be deposited on our doorstep. When the phone rang, we all assumed it was Venezuela calling with a mix of seasonal well-wishers and complainers. When there was a rap on the door, everyone hollered for Zulema, knowing it would be the FedEx guy delivering the gifts she’d ordered online. Life went on as though we’d never known Ugly at all, as if the only thing amiss was that this would be our first Christmas without Aunt Celia.
As for Román, I tried not to think about him. Whenever he popped into my head, I’d shove the thought out by writing or going for a run, until before I knew it, it was December twenty-third, and our house and the whole damn island were in such a flurry of yuletide preparation that I actually had forgotten about Román. Gearing up for Christmas Day was tantamount to preparing for the apocalypse – so much urgency, so much stress, so much goddamned traffic. I’d just got back home from the mayhem of the mall after sitting in said traffic for hours, an outing I’d endured after realizing I hadn’t bought anything for Zulema, a faux pas that could’ve brought a shit storm of passive aggression raining down on me till New Year’s.
Drained as if I’d run a half-marathon, I was making a pot of coffee to help me power through that afternoon’s novel-writing session. While I waited for the pot to fill, I heard Papá in the backyard, singing along to parang playing through the tinny speakers of his wireless radio while he gave the gutters a fresh lick of paint. Every year since we’d all moved to Trinidad, Christmas lunch was held at our home on Christmas Day. (In an effort not to attract the attention of nosy or malicious neighbours, we celebrated Christmas with Anglo traditions.) Even though it meant replacing all the curtains and repainting every inch of the house, my father insisted on being the host as the patriarch of the Palacios in Trinidad. That meant he was also the host of family get-togethers at Easter, Corpus Christi, and every other religious holiday. In fact, we’d ended up adopting the Trini custom of celebrating all religious holidays regardless of our actual denomination. So last year, Papá had also been host to our family’s Divali, Eid-al-Fitr, and Shouter Baptist holiday luncheons.
But back to Christmas: my mother had been working fourteen-hour days to cater to all the clients clamouring for beauty appointments. At the Colour Me Beautiful spa, Zulema was just as booked up. Apparently people needed to know exactly what hues of red and green would get them through Christmas with glowing complexions. So with all my family members occupied in their chores and workdays, I was yet again the only one who heard the three sharp raps at the front door. The same knock I’d heard the day Javier and the Jotas turned up.
I went to the window above the sink, throat constricting slightly with the expectation of seeing Román out there, like I was having a mild allergic reaction. If only there was an antihistamine to cure me of giving a shit about a man who I couldn’t-shouldn’t-wouldn’t have.
Through the window I saw the black jeep right where I expected it to be, but he wasn’t in it.
Another three raps. He was at the door.
I took my time, drank from the faucet to cool my suddenly dry mouth, bifurcated by the dual hopes that he would and wouldn’t be on the doorstep. But when I opened up, my heart dropped. Román was already pulling away in the jeep. And our second shipment of illegals had arrived. ¡Feliz Navidad!
Vicente and Veneranda Manrique were well-to-do refugees, hoteliers who ran a four-star resort, the Tropical Dream Hotel, and who, on account of their substantial wealth, had a whole lot to lose, from first Chávez and then Maduro’s socialist shenanigans. Way back when their hotel was a one-star motel, it’d seemed like a great idea for the rich to share with the poor, for everyone to be equal and entitled to the same rights and privileges. They only realized what a terrible idea socialism was when they had all the bright shiny privileges money bought. Then suddenly socialism seemed like a downright awful idea. Why should some politician get to force them to give away all their hard-earned dough? Why should they have to obey that horrendous new law that made them give big fat chunks of their profits to the rabble of their employees?
So Vicente, ever the nationalist, took a stand, calling meetings of like-minded anti-socialist entrepreneurs. By the third meeting, the Manriques got word that they’d better stay on the right side of Maduro if they didn’t want their Tropical Dream up in flames, the insurance policy mysteriously non-existent.
They sold the hotel and tried to migrate, but hardly anywhere gave residency permits or even tourist visas to Venezuelans any more, least of all a couple of Venezuelans who were almost retired and wouldn’t be contributing squat in tax dollars. Hence, here they were in North-West Trinidad two days before Christmas, waiting on our doorstep like a pair of evangelical Mormons hoping to be invited in for tea.
I could see right away that Veneranda Manrique was a vain bitch. This was evident in the extravagant cockatoo coif of her hair, the lilac hue of her Chanel suit and matching lilac heels, and the glitz of the many fat rings on her equally fat fingers. Vicente Manrique seemed just as pompous, standing beside a full set of Louis Vuitton suitcases wearing a silk cravat and a cream linen suit. He had a stupid little moustache, a smug black ant trail above a deeply indented upper lip, a real squiggle of a lip that turned my stomach.
When I opened the door to the pair of them, with their matching guts protruding towards me, I was instantly overcome by dislike. Veneranda looked me up and down, a drawn-on eyebrow rising while her spurious smile stayed fixed.
‘Good day,’ said Vicente, affecting the accent of an Argentine (deemed the snootiest of all Latin Americans, for those who don’t know). ‘I presume you are one of our hosts?’ He paused to look me over. ‘Or perhaps our hosts’ help?’
I sighed and stepped aside, showing them in. ‘I’m Yola. Welcome. I’m not the help.’
I went out to the backyard, leaving the Manriques sniffing with disdain at our furnishings. I found my father at the side of the house on a ladder. He was shirtless, white paint splattered all over his lean frame, hair poking out from beneath a beat-up old cap speckled with the paint of the last two Christmases. Seeing me, he paused to wipe his forehead, leaving an accidental white streak.
‘What’s up, Yolita?’
‘Second leg of the invasion.’
‘Shit,’ said Papá. ‘Two days before Christmas? What was Román thinking?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ It had come out more bitter than I’d intended.
Papá didn’t pick up on it. He dropped the paintbrush into a bucket of water and climbed down from the ladder. ‘Where
are they?’ he asked, removing his cap to run a hand over his hair.
I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. ‘Living room. There’s two of them.’
Papá walked past me into the house. I heard him welcoming the Manriques and apologizing for his appearance, explaining that we hadn’t been given notice of their arrival, but that they were most welcome nonetheless. Not even a hint of inconvenience in his tone. As I was crossing the backyard to head back inside, he popped his head out the porch door. ‘Listen,’ he hissed, ‘these people want wine spritzers. What the hell is a wine spritzer?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort that out,’ I said, laughing the oblivious laughter of the blissfully ignorant, not knowing that wine spritzers were just the beginning.
We clocked onto the Manriques’ extravagant expectations pretty quick after I fixed them wine spritzers, which they summarily criticized as flavourless and flat before asking if we didn’t have a nice Gewürztraminer ‘lying around’ instead. Shortly after that, I abandoned Papá and hid out in my room, using work as an excuse, and when I re-emerged later that evening, it was to find Zulema in the kitchen, taking a tray of store-bought mini-quiches out of the oven and looking uncharacteristically frazzled – hair twisted up into a frizzy topknot, lipstick faded.
‘Those people are, like, total nightmares,’ she whispered when she saw me. ‘They’re asking for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. They think they’re staying at the freaking Marriott!’
‘Why would they expect all that shit?’ I said, reaching for a mini-quiche before she slapped my hand away. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘I don’t know, but Papá told me they’ve been dropping hints that if they’re not satisfied, Román will be hearing about it.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yup. And that Román, Papá told me he’s heard things about him. That he’s, like, some big shot – works for all the drug barons and human traffickers over here. He’s totally killed a bunch of people.’
It felt like a boulder had been dropped from a hot-air balloon straight into the pit of my stomach. Violent intimidation was one thing, but murder was another altogether.
‘Where would Papá hear that?’ I asked.
‘Grapevine, duh.’
‘Grapevine of what people?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever. I mean, look at him. He just looks like a villain, don’t you think? I didn’t need anyone to tell me anything to know he’s bad news.’ She looked at me sharply. ‘You don’t think so?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know a thing about the guy.’
I went to the fridge and opened it just to stop Zulema scrutinizing my face. I told myself it was pura paja, just bullshit speculation. A man who had that effect on me couldn’t have killed someone. Or at least I’d tell myself that until proven otherwise.
* * *
Dinner with the Manriques that night was nothing like our first dinner with Javier and the Jotas. Although Vicente stiffly recounted the story of why they’d left Venezuela, they dodged questions and stayed guarded despite both my parents’ friendly overtures. They showed no interest in any of us, did not compliment the food, didn’t thank us for our hospitality, and immediately after dinner, positioned themselves on the couch and demanded the remote. My parents handed it over bitterly, relinquishing a night of ridiculing wannabe pop stars.
No one wanted to stay up with the Manriques there on the couch, so we all turned in for the night, soured by our new illegals, missing Javier and the Jotas with renewed affection.
HOUDINI MAKES AN APPEARANCE
Mamá couldn’t work all day on Christmas Eve, not with so many preparations to be made, so I’d offered to help out by driving her around to do last-minute errands that afternoon. At exactly midday, when I knew she’d have finished her last appointment, I went to the annex. The clients were finally all gone, but when I went in, I could see Mamá was stressed: she was tidying about as quietly as a toddler having a tantrum, flinging things in drawers, shoving past chairs, yanking all the singing elf figurines’ plugs out the wall like she was pulling out someone’s fingernails. The toxic blend of Christmas stress, overwork and the Manriques had definitely gotten to her.
‘¿Todo bien?’ I asked.
She gave a long exhale. ‘Everything’s fine. I just need to get this place cleaned up. It’s filthy from all those women traipsing through.’ She jabbed an accusing finger at the tiled floor. ‘Look at those dirt marks! You think any of those women use the welcome mat? You think they take a minute to scrape their royal shoes clean before they drag all their dirt and dog mess through my place of business?’
‘Just leave it, Mamá. We can deal with it on Boxing Day. Zu and I will help.’
‘Ha!’ She threw her hands up, glaring at me like I was shit smeared across one of her tiles. ‘You think on Boxing Day I won’t be in here working? I must’ve forgot that we’re millionaires who can afford not to work for weeks on end!’
‘Would you relax? Let me give you a hand.’
‘Don’t tell me to relax,’ she snapped, grabbing the broom. ‘Just go wait in the house ’til I’m done.’
I left her there cleaning and muttering angrily to herself, but didn’t go back into the house. I got into the Datsun, switched on the ignition and cranked the a/c right up. The car was a furnace but I’d take the heat over listening to the Manriques haranguing my poor father from their permanent post on the couch. It’d only been twenty-four hours since their arrival, and already I was finding I couldn’t get out enough. But it was my father who really had the brunt of it. He wasn’t working, as it was the school holidays, so was left catering to the many whims of the Manriques – a tall order if ever there was one. Take, for example, an excerpt of a conversation between Veneranda and my father earlier that same morning:
‘Oh … is that bacon you’re cooking? Could we not have Greek yogurt and granola instead? Vicente and I are so very health-conscious, you see. We wouldn’t dream of having all that fried pork fat for breakfast.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no yogurt, Veneranda, but I’ve made you and Vicente some lovely vegetable omelettes here as well, see? You can just leave the bacon.’
‘Oh.’ A sniff. ‘I assume those eggs aren’t free-range?’
‘No, but unfortunately that’s the only eggs we have.’
‘Hmm, yes, well, Vicente and I would go and buy some Greek yogurt and granola ourselves for breakfast, but with our situation it’s best we lay low. Perhaps I ought to place a call to Román and see whether he can better attend to our needs? We really can’t be eating caged eggs and pig fat. We are so health-conscious, you understand.’
I’d imagined Veneranda patting her oil-drum of a belly as she bleated about her health-consciousness.
Román was now a constant threat hanging over my father’s head. That morning Vicente had even got Papá to upgrade our cable subscription by brandishing Román in his face. ‘Perhaps Román might know of some other host family more inclined to make their guests comfortable with suitable entertainment. We couldn’t find a thing worth watching without the film channels last night. We need more cultural stimulation than basic television, Hector, I’m sure you can understand.’ An extravagant sigh. ‘But Román wouldn’t be pleased to hear we want to move. That would be so much hassle for him. He wouldn’t be pleased one bit, would he, Veneranda?’
‘Oh no, Vicente, not pleased at all.’
‘And I wouldn’t say Román is someone I’d want to upset. I certainly wouldn’t want him to be upset with me, would you, Veneranda?’
‘Oh no, Vicente, certainly not. Román is the absolute last person I’d want to upset.’
There was nothing Papá could do but acquiesce. He’d only just managed to scrape his family out of Ugly’s line of fire and wouldn’t do anything to rock the boat now.
So that’s why I chose to sit in the car for twenty-five minutes while Mamá cleaned up. When she did eventually come out, her hair was slicked back into a chignon, make-up had been freshly applied, and
the nail-shavings-covered apron had been discarded for a smart white-cotton dress. Looked as though she’d never seen a day of stress in her life, like she’d been bathing in milk all morning long.
She got into the car and instantly flipped open her pocket mirror, examining her make-up for even the slightest slip.
‘Ready to go?’ I asked as I reversed out the driveway.
‘Always ready, mi niña.’
To look at her, you’d think that was actually true.
Later, lugging our purchases inside, I passed through the living room, behind the couch where the Manriques had been sitting since that morning. Veneranda’s stockinged feet were up on the coffee table while she flicked through the newly added movie channels and Vicente snoozed next to her. They didn’t turn when I came in and I’d be a moron to have expected any offer of help with our bags.
The drone of the weed-whacker coming in through the open porch doors told me Papá was hiding in his gardening. Zulema was in the kitchen again, sourly spooning granola into heaped bowls of – you guessed it – Greek yogurt. She grunted by way of a hello while I started unpacking the groceries. I heard Mamá greet the Manriques coldly (no reply from them) as she followed me into the kitchen carrying the rest of the food bags. We’d had to pick up almost double the ingredients she’d already bought for Christmas lunch, plus two extra turkeys. Since each household had received its own Christmas bundle of illegals, we’d all decided to include them in our Anglo-style festivities. It seemed like the right thing to do. But for the time being, my mother had forgotten this spirit of charity and was scolding Zulema through clenched teeth.
‘Why did you go out and buy that yogurt for them? Who do they think we are – their slaves?’
Zulema, annoyed but placid, sealed the bag of granola shut and covered the tub of yogurt. ‘Papá bought the yogurt. He just asked me to dish it out so he didn’t have to.’
One Year of Ugly Page 9