One Year of Ugly

by Caroline Mackenzie

  ‘Yeah? And she told me about you and Román under the mango tree.’

  Fuck. Didn’t see that one coming.

  ‘Ohhhh, so you don’t like it when people call you out, do you?’

  ‘It’s … it’s over anyway …’ I started sputtering.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he interrupted. ‘I know Román’s not all bad. We talked before, a heart-to-heart sort of thing when I was going through that rough patch. He was actually pretty decent about it, tried to help me out. And he did save Aunt Milagros. Look, I won’t say anything, but you need to shut your mouth about Vanessa. And she’s not pregnant with my kid. We never actually slept together until after she was pregnant.’

  Relieved as I was that Sancho would keep my secret, I couldn’t help making a face. ‘But she’s pregnant with someone else’s child. That’s so …’

  ‘Whatever, man. In Amsterdam pregnant prostitutes get good money just for being pregnant, and …’

  I waved my hands in his face. ‘Nope, no. Just stop. It’s weird and you know it.’

  He shrugged, but now I could see that he was embarrassed. I felt bad. ‘So do you love her or something?’ I asked, just to change the course of the conversation.

  ‘Or something,’ he snorted. But his cheeks were flushed. Whoa boy.

  ‘Sancho, she’s not even eighteen. You just turned thirty.’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Yola, I like her. Drop it. It’ll work out.’

  I doubted it.

  THE PINK PIE

  Not long after the cat incident, Román called a meeting of the Palacios houses to brief us on our new ‘assignment’ at the strip club. I found out about the meeting a few days beforehand and was wracked with insomnia all over again. There was the torment of being blackmailed into the choppy unknown of the sex industry for starters, but what really kept me awake was Román. I’d have to sit there surrounded by my family pretending to be completely normal, without giving the slightest hint of how badly I wanted to make amends for letting that red mist of fury overtake me in the car that day.

  I had no idea how I was going to get through it.

  Finally, the night before the meeting, I wrote him an apology letter, planning to slip it to him somehow. In it, I didn’t push for any reconciliation, knowing I didn’t deserve that, and knowing also that Ugly would be watching us more closely than ever with Román and Papá now in his bad books – a reconciliation would be too dangerous. So I just stated the facts of how ungrateful and unreasonable I’d been despite what Román had risked to save Aunt Milagros. All I could hope for was forgiveness.

  * * *

  The meeting was on a Saturday just after midday, the heaviest, stickiest time of day in the rainy season. Grossly hot, the sky a suffocating tarpaulin of black cloud. The entire family was gathered at Mauricio’s house waiting for Román to turn up. My insane father had asked him if Ugly were coming so he could confront him about the cat. No, it would just be Román. So Fidel was there too, since Saturday was just another day of servitude for Camille and there was no risk of Ugly coming to threaten the kid again. Vanessa was playing with him, practising for when her baby came in a couple months. Sancho was playing with Fidel too. Watching the three of them on the floor stacking building blocks, it was plain as day that there was something between Sancho and Vanessa.

  Sipping my G&T, I idly wondered if Sancho would adopt Vanessa’s baby. Though it was only lunchtime, we’d all had a drink already. (Sancho was on drink number four.) Everyone was edgy, especially my father and Mauricio, praying Ugly wouldn’t force their daughters to strip. Sure, Ugly had said he only needed staff, but if he changed his mind, what the hell could we do but don our G-strings, bend over and spread ’em?

  I was just as nervous as they were, but that was strictly Román-specific. I didn’t have the headspace to panic about the strip-club stuff and him. Folded into a tiny square, the letter was a hot coal in my pocket. I kept flitting to the bathroom to re-read it for the thousandth time, constantly on the brink of flushing it down the toilet. Why would he want a letter from me after how I’d acted? He’d probably tear it up in front of my face. I only stayed put after Mamá snapped: ‘You’re driving me crazy! Up and down, up and down like a yo-yo!’ So I sat, knees jigging, rattling the ice cubes in my second G&T. Waiting. Torture.

  Then a knock on the front door.

  Mauricio opened up and Román stepped into the house. I felt that lecherous cartoon wolf in my chest, pounding the table and whistling. Román looked good – wearing his standard jeans and T-shirt, but something was different. Could his shoulders be even broader? Was he taller? My mind was playing tricks on me, making the unattainable look even more appealing – the proverbial red apple gleaming waxy and full of saccharine promise on the Forbidden Tree.

  There were sunny hellos all around for Román the Saviour of Aunt Milagros. All eyes were on him. But when he lowered his sunglasses, the only place he looked was at me. He walked to the centre of the living room and sat on an ottoman directly opposite my seat on the couch. My stomach was more than in knots – it was one of those giant rubber-band balls that’s impossible to unravel. As he sat, our eyes locked like a couple of Lego blocks snapping into place. My cheeks flushed. I had to drop my gaze or I’d give myself away to the family.

  ‘Thank you for coming, everyone,’ he said in the dry tone of a company director kicking off a shareholders’ meeting. ‘I know things are sticky right now, but it’s all going to be okay once you do as instructed. I want to clarify first off that you will all be floor staff only. Waitressing, bartending, and so on. No stripping.’

  He paused to look around the room, waiting for any questions. When no one said anything, he continued: ‘The club is called The Pink Pie.’

  Sancho snorted. ‘The Pink Pie? Doesn’t leave much to the imagination.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Román, turning his palms up to show that the name hadn’t been his choice. ‘Anyway, The Pink Pie is where you’ll be working, but as far as the rest of the world knows, you’ll be picking up extra work at the Grosvenor Square Freemasons’ Executive Lodge.’

  Then he went on to explain it all. The Pink Pie would be hidden behind the front of an exclusive lodge. The highbrow businessmen and politicians or whoever would walk shamelessly in the front like they were going to attend a lodge meeting, and coming in through the back would be streams of Latina strippers – and all of us. No one would investigate or disturb an exclusive lodge, particularly one whose members were the cream of the political and corporate crop. By keeping the client base exclusive and catering to the local police and regiment as well, Ugly’s club would stay protected from the long arm of the law and from politicians’ meddling.

  The club would be open Thursdays to Sundays. We were all to work every night, from seven p.m. to four a.m., including Ava and Alejandra.

  ‘But we have school!’ Ava protested. She was in her final year, at the top of her class. She didn’t fuck around with her studies.

  ‘Everyone has to work,’ said Román. Then, more sympathetically: ‘I’ll see if I can get you Thursdays and Sundays off. Don’t get your hopes up.’

  The only ones who’d come into work later than seven were Mauricio and my father, who could come when the club opened at eight. Mauricio would be working as a valet. My father would be the on-call maintenance guy. The rest of us would be bar and wait staff, so we had to come early to set up before opening time. Seven p.m. – not a minute later or the general manager would report back to Ugly immediately.

  After he’d finished briefing us, Román stood and took a slip of paper from his back pocket. ‘This is the address.’ He handed me the paper. I looked up at his hand and remembered the feel of its rough palm running over my most delicate skin. I took the paper, felt his index finger lingering on mine. I still want you: that’s what that finger said. Then he stepped back, clearing his throat and leaving my finger burning. Just like whenever he’d press his thumb to m
y lip and I’d feel it for hours after, like a tingling jellyfish sting.

  ‘Ladies, you’ll all have uniforms,’ he said, addressing everyone. ‘But please come wearing black heels and a black bra. You’ll need that as part of your uniform. Yasmin, you won’t need a uniform, but you must dress in appropriate business attire. Gents – white shirts and black trousers, please. This isn’t a casual establishment. Make sure your appearance is sharp. Ugly is catering to Trinidad’s elite, so we have to deliver. Any sloppiness will be reported by the manager and there will be consequences.’ He shoved his hands into his back pockets. ‘That’s it, really. Yola has the address. Be there on Thursday night at seven. Questions?’

  No questions. My parents and Mauricio even looked pleased, they were so relieved that no one would have to strip.

  ‘Right,’ said Román, putting his sunglasses back on. ‘I’ll try to work it so there are no drop-offs for the next week or so, at least while you’re adjusting to the new work schedule. Though I can’t make any promises.’

  Papá went to him. ‘Thank you, Román. I also wanted to thank you in person for Milagros …’

  Román motioned brusquely for my father to stop talking. Papá gave an acquiescent nod as Román then turned and walked to the door. My palms were instantly clammy – he couldn’t leave! The letter! As he pulled the door open, time slowed, everything moving molasses-like. I had to stop him.

  He’d already stepped outside when I sprang to my feet. ‘Wait!’

  Now all eyes were on me, all eyebrows raised. Román froze in the doorway but didn’t look back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I … I have a question. Sorry, it only just came to me.’

  Sancho was staring at me wide-eyed, trying to tell me to shut up; I was showing the whole family my hand. I ignored him.

  ‘I, um, I’d rather ask you privately, though,’ I added.

  ‘Yola, you can ask right here in front of everyone. I don’t see why your question should be private,’ said my mother snippily. Verga. She’d smelled a rat.

  ‘No, no, not in private,’ I said, fudging for the right phrasing. ‘I just want to ask something about the uniforms, and well, it’s embarrassing. Can we just step outside for one second, Román?’

  I chewed the inside of my lip. If he said no, that was it, he was done with me. I was unforgiven. Now and forever. But if he said yes …

  ‘Sure.’ He jerked his head towards the front yard.

  A moment later the front door was shut and we were alone on the front step. I snatched the letter from my pocket.

  ‘Román, I’m so …’

  He pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for me to follow him onto the front lawn where we’d be out of earshot and could speak privately (thank God for whatever shoddy architect had designed Mauricio’s living room without front windows). I handed him the letter. The air was so moist and warm I could see the paper already softening into waves as he unfolded it. Rain was going to come busting out of those clouds any second.

  Thankfully, Román was a fast reader. In half a minute, he’d folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Followed by the pure agony of silence. He said nothing, just looked at me expressionlessly through the black of his sunglasses. I was going to have to apologize in person too.

  I let it all come spurting out like hot blood from a fresh wound. ‘I’m so unbelievably sorry. I was wrong to say what I did. I know how much you risked and how unfair my reaction was. And the things I said. I know I can’t take them back but I … I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean any of it, Román.’

  He took his sunglasses off and hooked them onto the collar of his T-shirt. Looked at me impassively. ‘I appreciate the apology.’

  I bit my lip. ‘I know there’s no way we could ever start up again but …’

  I couldn’t speak any more. A tear crept with humiliating slowness down my cheek. His expression softened then. He brushed the tear away gently, let me lean into his hand.

  ‘Yola …’ His voice had tightened and I knew then, at least, that this was hard for him too. I looked up at him, wishing I could figure out what to say to get things back to where they’d been, but knowing that they never would. And then every moment split into a dreamlike dichotomy of past and present: Román lowered his hand, surreptitiously scanning our surroundings before loosely linking his fingers in mine, and I was there in the pain of the present, but also in the jeep driving along the coast, sliding my fingers across the car seat to interlace them with his, laughing and singing along to whatever lyrics we knew to ‘Gimme Shelter’ and ‘Back in Black’.

  In a wildly reckless moment, Román pulled me against him and I was back to reality on Mauricio’s front lawn, throat painfully constricted with restrained tears as I heard Román breathe in the smell of my hair like he was taking a final olfactory snapshot of the coconut-scented shampoo he once told me he loved. But I was also lying against him on gritty sand blanched bone-white by the moon as he buried his face in my hair. ‘You smell like an island … like salt and coconut.’ I’d laughed: ‘The salt smell would be the ocean right over there and the coconut smell would be my shampoo.’ He’d shook his head and breathed me in. ‘No, it’s you. You’re my island.’ As we stood apart now, facing each other, his professional veneer back in place lest some family member should suspiciously crack open the front door, you’d never think he was capable of that sentimentality. Anyone else would just see the scarred forearms, the cage fighter’s build, the former street urchin’s toughness. No one would see what I knew of him – the dry humour, the unpredictable acts of tenderness that turned my insides to honey, the way he’d take his shoes off in the bush just because the earth under his bare feet made him feel grounded. His little idiosyncrasies like the holes in his socks that I always teased him about. His love of Archie comic books because they were one of the first things he’d managed to read cover-to-cover in English as a kid. His habit of keeping crackers and guava jam in his jeep for a quick bite so his fingertips often had a faintly guava-sweet scent.

  ‘Yola?’

  He’d been telling me something but I hadn’t heard a word of it.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I was saying this is hard for me too, but it’s too dangerous now for us. Do you remember I once told you Ugly wasn’t a trusting man? Well, he has an associate, they call him Mongoose. He’s keeping tabs on me now – not today – but he’s broken into my place, taken a look around, thought I wouldn’t notice. Ugly thinks I was slipping and distracted to let the Milagros fuck-up happen. And he was right. I was distracted.’ He sighed and lifted a hand as though about to stroke my face, but dropped it. ‘I need to be careful. So do all of you – Mongoose might be checking up on all the clients under my purview now. Call it Ugly’s new quality-assurance measures. You need to watch yourself, okay?’

  I nodded, swallowing back the tears I couldn’t allow to fall – not if I didn’t want my family wondering what was wrong with me when I went back inside – but I didn’t give a fuck about this Mongoose character monitoring us now. We were more than used to living with permanent whiplash from always looking over our shoulders. All I cared about was that this was the last time Román and I would be speaking privately to each other. Our last one-on-one conversation and it was on Mauricio’s lawn under the guise of a Q&A dialogue about strip-club uniforms. There’d be no goodbye kiss, no last-hurrah sex, no opportunity to at the very least have the harrowing, tear-soaked break-up talk where everyone cries and then yells and then cries some more and it’s awful and takes hours but at least by the end of it you’re so emotionally sapped that you’re ready to go home and grieve in peace.

  All I got was a two-second hug and a warning that some guy called Mongoose might soon be stalking me.

  ‘It’s better this way, Yola.’ The gentleness of his tone only made it all the more painful, shoved me headfirst into that vertiginous cleaving of past and present, where I was suddenly giddy with those very words, ‘It’s better this way, Yola,’ once said full of impish
teasing as I squealed à la Damsel in Distress in Román’s arms, being carried naked to the edge of a flat green river, to be tossed right in. ‘It’s better this way, Yola, trust me, none of this one toe in, adapt to the temperature shit. Come on, I’ll jump in with you. One, two …’

  ‘I know it’s better this way too,’ I mumbled, a guttural rumbling from the rainclouds pulling me back to the present.

  ‘Are you okay to go back inside?’ he asked. ‘They might get suspicious if you stay out here too long.’

  I nodded, but I wanted to stay outside as long as I could, drag out every single second even if it meant holding back the tears and doing all I could to stop myself throwing my arms around him and begging and pleading, doing all the things your gut screams at you to do when you know you’re facing the firing squad and it’s all coming to a bitter, bloody end.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I whispered tightly.

  ‘They’re going to want to know what secret question you had to ask. Tell them you wanted to ask about uniform sizing, you were worried about how skimpy they were. Say you were embarrassed about some specific body part to make it sound credible.’

  I nodded again, mute.

  A glance at the house, then he took my hand, pressed it to his mouth, eyes closed. Saying goodbye.

  Then he left.

  The yard swam around me. With a thunder crack, in a perfect display of pathetic fallacy, the clouds split. I stayed alone on the grass, letting the rain soak me through for a long moment, washing away the few tears I couldn’t hold in. Then I went inside, a ventriloquist, parroting off the lie Román had told me to tell, numb with the realization that it was really over between us.

  RODENTS IN MANGO SEASON

  The official split with Román left me a productive cadaver, translating, working out, writing, only managing to sleep thanks to sheer emotional exhaustion. Through the haze, I noticed an unobtrusive man in unobtrusive clothes standing unobtrusively on our street. I noticed him again a few days later. Same exact clothes. Same air of intentionally standing around doing nothing. My father noticed the man too, lingering at one of the schools where he dropped kids off. Then outside one of the houses where he tutored. Mamá saw him watching her in the grocery parking lot, Zulema on the street opposite the spa where she worked. I knew it was Mongoose, keeping tabs like Román had warned.