Hot Sur

by Laura Restrepo

  “‘Jesus Christ! How many more floors?’

  “‘Cheer up, girl, we’ve gone up five and have four more.’

  “And when Bolivia was all but out of breath, she heard the rumble of machinery coming from the back. And no human voices, as if the machines ran themselves. ‘We made it, we’re here.’ They opened a metal door and the burst of light blinded them, and once the images began to take form, Bolivia was able to note the silent presence of some twenty women, all young, huddled together around large tables, each one focused on her sewing machine as if the rest of the world did not exist. She thought they looked like zombies, and she had barely taken off her coat when they seated her between two of them, in front of her own machine. For each pair of jeans they had to make they were given twelve pieces of denim, six rivets, five buttons, four labels, one zipper, and her only instruction, which the boss said once and did not repeat, was that they had thirty minutes to finish each pair of jeans. The Dominicans had made the calculations, thirty minutes a pair of jeans, twenty jeans per worker for each ten-hour shift, minus mechanical failures, human errors, lunch break, eventual power failures, and breaks to go pee for a total of three hundred to three hundred and twenty jeans made and packed every day of the year.

  “‘God Almighty.’ Bolivia sighed. ‘Who is wearing all these jeans?’

  “She tried to remember the directions that her friends had given her about how things worked theoretically, made a sign of the cross, said this is for my daughters, and with her right foot pressed on the pedal, only to confirm that the industrial apparatus in front of her was a living monster, a stampeding horse that swallowed cloth and tangled the threads before she could even take her foot off the pedal. Sometimes the needle caught her fingers, but it did it so quickly that when she saw the bloodstains on the denim she didn’t even know where they came from. On the third day, Olvenis had called her into the office to give her a stern talking-to, shouting, cursing at her in that English of his that sounded too much like her native tongue, and although she couldn’t understand him, she could guess what it was about. They were firing her because she was a fake, a liar, because she had never operated any industrial machinery. The blood rose to her face but then dropped in an instant. She grew pale and her vision became cloudy; there was a ringing in her ears and she thought she was going to soil herself before she dropped to the floor unconscious, right there on the cement floor of the supervisor’s office.

  “‘What a ridiculous scene I put on,’ she cried to her friends that night, laid out on the mattresses and with alcohol compresses on her forehead.

  “In the morning, she went back to the old woman on West Fifty-Fifth to ask forgiveness for having left her without notice and to beg her for a second chance. But the old woman had already hired an Asian woman. And in any case, that night the Dominicans had good news back in the room in Jackson Heights.

  “‘That fainting worked well, Bolivia,’ they told her. ‘Olvenis felt bad, and he wants you to know you can come back, but only if you are willing to do the ironing.’

  “The ironing was the worst-paid job and the hardest, especially because of all the steam and heat. She had to iron blue jeans for the whole shift in a tiny room, hot as an oven, no windows, and very little ventilation. The blind windows were no accident, the owners wanted to make sure the factory couldn’t be detected from the outside. It was summertime and Bolivia suffocated amid the mountains of jeans. After a week, she thought she’d die; after two weeks, she came back to life; after a month, she faltered again. But the memory of her two daughters kept her standing. She couldn’t take it and decided to quit, but then didn’t. She had to hold on so that she could bring her daughters as soon as possible, whatever it cost. She was bringing them; even if she dropped dead, she was going to bring them. Once a month, she’d go by the Telecom Queens on Roosevelt Avenue, where dozens of Colombians lined up for the phone booths to call home. From there she’d talk to her older daughter and cry with her. Then she’d punch in another number to try to get in touch with her younger daughter, but she was never able to. The lady who cared for the girl made some excuse. Violeta wasn’t there, or she was sleeping, or was feeling shy. She told Bolivia, ‘You have to understand, it has been a long time since she has seen her mama. Getting her trust back isn’t going to be easy; it’s not going to happen overnight. Have patience with the girl. She’s confused, her head all messed up. Have patience, it will pass.’

  “And the next day, Bolivia would return to the sweatshop, and the iron, and the oppressive heat, from seven in the morning, with half an hour lunch break, just café con leche and donuts that a messenger brought and they had to eat right there, because they weren’t allowed to go down to the streets, and on top of that they had to pay for them from their own pockets, the same menu every day, café con leche and donuts, café con leche and donuts for all twenty workers every day of the week. Then in the afternoon Bolivia continued to work until five fifteen. And what was she doing there fifteen minutes later than everybody else?”

  Socorro told Rose that this was the subject of some of the seventeen pages that she had to burn.

  There in the factory, after five in the afternoon, when her friends the Dominicans had left, as had all the others, and Bolivia was done with her ironing, the poor thing had to take care of another kind of manual labor.

  “Olvenis?” Rose asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “A work slave and a sexual slave.”

  “This was her misfortune.”

  “And did she ever have fun, your friend Bolivia?” Rose asked. “Did she ever go to the movies? She must have gone dancing sometimes.”

  “Well, she needed all the money she could bring in.”

  “To bring her daughters.”

  “Yes, and please swear you won’t repeat this, but the truth is that at a crucial junction, Bolivia was even a teibolera.”

  “A what?”

  “Teibolera. I didn’t know the term either. Teibolera, a woman who dances on teibols, or tables. Topless, they call it, you know how it goes”—Socorro lowered her voice, as if she were whispering a secret—“with her tits in the air. Bolivia’s were very full and could well be exploited. And all for bringing her daughters.”

  “There’s something that doesn’t seem right,” Rose said. “Too much abnegation. Why had she left them in the first place?”

  “It wasn’t really because they were hungry. It wasn’t really one of those cases where the mother can’t feed her kids. Not that bad. Back in Colombia her life was alright, with a family that helped her, all those aunts and cousins with map names, plus two jobs, several boyfriends, including the anonymous fathers of her daughters, and, modesty aside, she didn’t really miss me. I had my resources and once in a while sent something.”

  “I see,” Rose said. “It wasn’t really an extreme case of hunger and misery.”

  “Look, Mr. Rose, what she wanted was a dream life. She chased that dream. You know people like that?”

  “But even to the point of leaving her daughters behind for five years?”

  “It happens.”

  “Could she have left her daughters behind because they were a nuisance?”

  “Please, Mr. Rose, how can you say such a thing? Bolivia killed herself all those years trying to bring them over.”

  “Abandoning your children could produce pangs of conscience in anyone. I know what I’m talking about. Bolivia punished herself working day and night, and so she banished the guilt of having left them. There are things one understands because one has lived them. But, not to be rude, I’m sure those missing seventeen pages said other things.”

  “They did say something else. The most horrible thing for me. Those pages mentioned my husband.”

  “Let me guess . . . Bolivia and Mr. Salmon? That’s where your fight with your friend stems from.”

  “Bolivia was a meddler. A
nd the older daughter is . . . like mother, like daughter, and I’m not making anything up. Before finishing off the poor cop, María Paz had skinned a few others.”

  “Are you sure of that, Mrs. Salmon?”

  “Well, not certain, can’t be certain, but it’s not hard to imagine. If she did it once, why not another time? Like I said, I have no proof, but that girl is something.”

  “You’re letting your anger get the best of you. I understand you’re still smarting. Bolivia hurt you, and you are taking it out on her daughter. Isn’t that it? It’s very important that I know the truth. Think it over, do you have any basis for what you are insinuating?”

  “Basis for what you are insinuating, good Lord, you sound like a detective. You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. I just need to be clear about what happened, but don’t worry, it’s for personal reasons.”

  “How about another tintico?”

  “Yes, another tintico, perfect.”

  “A little poison with it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you want me to boost the tinto with a little aguardiente?”

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Salmon, poison the tintico, but listen, María Paz’s lawyer says she’s innocent.”

  “Oh, Mother of God, that lawyer. He brought her here one day in that red sports car of his. If I were you, I wouldn’t put too much trust in that lawyer, who is not very professional to say the least.”

  “María Paz was riding around with the lawyer in a red sports car?”

  “Like I said, a red sports car.

  “While she worked in the sweatshop, Bolivia realized that no one ever came to the door of the ironing room. Nobody went back there. So one morning when the heat was terrible, she decided to take off her shirt while she worked. The next day she took off her shirt and her skirt, and each time she grew more audacious, until she was ironing in just her brassiere and undies, and soon she was ironing wearing nothing, her body soaked in sweat and her hair dripping.

  “Teibolera after all,” Socorro moralized. “My husband says you don’t play with that. Breasts are like mean dogs, you only let them loose in the house at night.

  “With the spray for the jeans, Bolivia misted herself on her face and back, and in the days when she was most suffocating, she even stood in a tub of cold water. She made herself at home in the little ironing room, the only place where she could feel fresh in the summer, and warm in the winter, while the others shivered in the hall without heat. And she had always liked ironing and had done it well since she was a child. Her grandmother America had taught her to moisten the cloth with starch, perfume it with lavender water, and go over it with one of those heavy irons filled with hot coals, because the grandmother insisted on using it even though someone had given her an electric one, and it was with that iron that she taught her granddaughter, who years later would use the skill to survive in that country of dreams, which happened to have the same name as her grandmother. So Bolivia, while she took care of the mountains of jeans in the tiny ironing room, remembered her grandmother and took pains that each pair of jeans came out perfect. ‘Look, abuela,’ she said aloud, ‘this one came out nice, only fifty more, abuela, and now forty.’ And the grandmother seemed to respond from the beyond, Way to go, mi niña, don’t fade, there’s only thirty now, twenty, ten, you’re almost done. Alone there, in that small and enclosed space, miraculously private, Bolivia could even afford to dream and think of her daughters, imagine a reunion, once and again and again, a thousand times envisioning each detail of the moment when they’d reunite and become a family anew.

  “But I’m testing your patience, sir. These women’s things must bore you—starch, ironing, lavender water, sewing machine. How can you be interested in all that?”

  “They’re important, it’s work, life. I’m not bored. It’s what a person does to survive. They’re not women’s things; they’re human things. Go on, Mrs. Salmon. How long did Bolivia work in that factory?”

  “Until she died, señor, until she died. My poor friend, Bolivia. I hope she has been able to rest in peace.”

  “One last thing. The most important thing. The main reason for this visit. Can you tell me where she is?”

  “Of course, she’s buried in St. John’s Cemetery. If you want to go visit, I’ll go with you. It’s been a—”

  “María Paz is dead?”

  “Not María Paz! God forbid! Bolivia. Bolivia died a while ago, and she is buried in St. John’s, St. John’s Cemetery in Queens.”

  “But María Paz is alive?”

  “Yes, as far as I know.”

  “Please tell me where I can find her. It’s very important for me, for reasons that are difficult to explain.”

  “You want to talk to her about the book, right?”

  “Not exactly, but if it were about the book, would you tell me where she is?”

  “Oh, my dear, if I only knew . . . I really have no idea, I swear. Didn’t I tell you that the last time I saw her was when I visited her in prison?”

  “Didn’t you say that the lawyer brought her here one day in a red sports car?”

  “Mr. Rose, pardon me, but perhaps it’s best if you go. I don’t mean to offend you. If it were up to me, I’d love to continue our pleasant chat. But my husband is about to arrive, you know . . .”

  On the return trip on the ferry from Staten Island, Rose went off on his own, away from the other passengers, his eyes fixed on the wide foamy wake the color of tar trailing the ferry. He had bought an extra-large bag of popcorn and was tossing it in the water piece by piece without eating a single one and when he was finished threw the bag as well and watched it get caught and swallowed by the whirlpool. That night, he stayed in the studio that his son had rented, a room with a bathroom, a closet, and a mini kitchen packed into an area of less than eighty square feet in a battered building on St. Mark’s Place. It had not been more than twelve hours since he had said good-bye to Socorro Arias de Salmon, or rather since she threw him out. The phone rang. It wasn’t yet dawn. Rose answered half-asleep, not knowing who the man’s voice could belong to at such an hour.

  “Are you asleep?” the voice asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Forgive me, my friend, but this is urgent. We have to leave in one hour,” someone, whom Rose finally recognized, ordered. It was Pro Bono.

  From Cleve’s Notebook

  Paz has become a disturbing creature with two heads. A kind of bicephalous monster that I need to figure out, just to understand the tangle of feelings that she sets off in me. The Paz of the first head comes from a distant world that once, over there in Colombia, opened its doors for me, someone who I feel is a lot like me, my equal or even my superior, a hardy and tough woman who lives life with more intensity than I do, who is skillful at dealing with the other side of the tapestry, and at the same time more vulnerable and joyous, someone with whom I’d love to have the liberty to sit and talk for a few hours. Or go to the movies with and then to dinner. Or share a bed, that above all. Why not, what’s so strange about madly desiring a pretty girl, even if she’s your student, or is a prisoner and a delinquent? Of María Paz of the first head, I can say she’s dark-skinned and dark-haired without fear of offending, dark-complexioned and dark within because she’s impenetrable and because of that she’s disquieting. She’s someone who tears me away from my usual weariness of struggling against the obvious, what’s clear and pure and cryptic. My friend Alan, who lives in Prague, invited me to visit him. “Come quick,” he hastened to say in the letter, “before capitalism polishes off everything.” Maybe that’s what I’m searching for in Paz, someone who has not been polished off by capitalism. I want to touch her skin, which is different, feel her dark skin on my fair skin, confront the threats and promises of such contact, submit myself to the dreadful and almost sacred initiation it implies. Cross the thres
hold. The Song of Songs talks about the union with a woman as “dark and beautiful . . . as the tents of Qedar.” That’s how I see this first Paz, dark like the tents of Qedar, dark like Othello, whom Iago calls the Moor (from which comes morena). I once read in a sports magazine a quote by Boris Becker, the tennis player who is white as milk and married a black woman, in which he astonishingly confessed that he had not realized how dark his wife’s skin was till the morning after their first night of love when he saw her naked on the white sheets.

  The matter of the second head is more complicated because it is rooted in old fears and prejudices from which I cannot honestly say I’m exempt. This Paz of the second head is the same as the other one but seen from a different perspective, and so there’s an abyss between us. She’s someone who comes from a distant and incomprehensible universe comprising impoverished, famished, violent lands that were never properly liberated. And she also belongs to another race, and there’s the key, someone with a sign on her forehead indicating her race, which is not the same as mine, and of a color different than mine. Someone whom I’d be afraid to take to bed because in private she might behave differently and would have other sexual customs, and perhaps would emit a strong and foreign odor. Someone who is nourished by things I don’t even dare put in my mouth. Someone with a pending debt to justice, capable of committing misdeeds I can’t even imagine. Another kind of human being altogether, like those who walk barefoot in the stone-paved streets of their towns in religious processions, who farm corn in tiny parcels to feed their countless children, who become guerrillas and are tortured by some military dictator. And if that were not enough, this María Paz of the second head has an intense gaze that goes right through me. Deep down for us folks with light-colored eyes, those black eyes can hold a wickedness, something perhaps beautiful but also wicked. Think of a trap; all you have to do is watch Penelope Cruz in a mascara commercial to understand that those types of eyes can hypnotize you then molest you, or at least steal your cell phone or wallet. You would think that someone with blue eyes like mine would think twice about trusting a child, or a credit card, to someone with eyes as dark as my Paz’s. Before I could think of her as a person, this second María Paz would be a foreigner, an extrañero, with all the implications of suspicion and neglect the word connotes, coming from the Latin extraneo, disinherited, and extraneus, external, from the outside, strange, unusual, something that is not familiar. She’s a foreigner, from the Latin foras, outside, from beyond, someone who has come a long way, someone who has come from far off, the exterior. Or forastera, from fouris, door, entrance, someone who remains on the other side of my closed door, who doesn’t cross my entrance. And forastera again, from the Latin foresta, forest, jungle, someone from the forest, a savage, a jungle beast, and as such a threat to the peace and security of my house and what is mine. Someone, in the end, who we keep in a prison like Manninpox, like thousands of other Latinos and Latinas and blacks, simply because they fit the type I have just described.