Issue 23

Julieta García González
Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Adriana bit her nails—most of them had jagged edges—circled around the table a few times, and sat down to wait. She held her coffee cup in both hands, stared at the powdered-milk mixture stuck to the bottom, turned on the light, and looked out the window. On the sideboard lay a letter. She grabbed it and tried to decipher the sender’s label, but again without success. She returned to her seat and became absorbed in her chipped cup and then in a piece of the darkening sky.

When José Luis came home, Adriana’s eyes filled with alarm. She was still in her work uniform, and some strands had fallen loose from her ponytail.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, hugging her. “What’s the matter?” A fly circling around the light bulb in the dining room caught his attention. It perched on the cup before Adriana spoke in a faint voice.

She had left work early at noon, she said at last. As she had the whole afternoon free, she felt like going to the movies or going shopping. While wondering what to do with the rest of her day, she wanted to buy panes dulces in a Chinese café—a few biscuits, sugar-crusted conchas, glazed campechanas, and pineapple-stuffed empanadas. The shop was near her office, so she decided to walk. With the bag of pastries under her arm, she was sorry it was still early. José Luis wouldn’t come home until eight, maybe nine in the evening; she would have to wait before they could enjoy the pastries together and talk. So she decided to walk with the brown paper bag in one hand and her hand-knitted artisan purse hanging over her shoulder.

She walked until she reached an unfamiliar neighborhood. Some houses looked pretty, and she stopped to gaze at them. She couldn’t resist any longer. She opened the bag of sweet pastries and ate one, leaning against the trunk of a tree. Her high heels were killing her feet. She sat on a bench under a large rubber tree whose shadow covered the entire street. By this time she wasn’t worried about going home nor did she check the time. It was swelteringly hot, and she had only one thing in mind—the sweat on her white crepe blouse. If it showed, she would have to wash it with Palmolive soap.

A gray-haired man stared at her. When she fidgeted a little on the bench, the man complimented her, and then made an obscene remark, sticking his tongue out to reveal his intentions. Adriana shrugged and ignored him—she was used to getting old men’s attentions.

Before long she got tired of sitting close to the man, so she walked back to catch a bus. She didn’t exactly remember the way she had taken to reach this bench and felt disoriented. She stopped at a kiosk and asked the storekeeper the time. A shiver went through her body. The pain in her feet got worse and made her feel desperate. She cursed under her breath at her erratic sense of time and her terrible sense of direction.

Despite the distress that seized her, she felt vaguely safe. At least, in a populated, beautiful neighborhood, with elegant buildings, she wouldn’t have trouble finding someone who could tell her how to go home. The treed scenery comforted her, as if those immaculate sidewalks could make her gait fast and efficient.

She put the bag of pastries into her purse, thinking her pencils, diary, and makeup case would later smell of dough. She tried to follow the same path she had taken to the bench, but her steps led her to a spacious park she didn’t recognize. If she kept going, she supposed, sooner or later she would find a crowded area where she could ask where she was and look for a way to get back to her apartment.

Leaving the park, she reached a tree-lined median strip. The amount of vegetation in the area surprised her, as her neighborhood wasn’t like that. The aroma of food wafting from a café made her mouth water; she held her purse tight and swore to herself—she wouldn’t eat another piece of pastry until she was with José Luis, the two of them smiling over steaming coffee cups. She stopped for a while, staring at the place where the smell came from, but a few thunderclaps struck the clouds and made the trees shake, heralding a storm and forcing her to move along. She quickened her steps. When she reached a street that looked familiar, she turned left.

She walked one more block and stopped at the corner. Big raindrops began to fall. First they were scattered, but suddenly they came down in a drape of water, forcing her to run for cover. A building with white marble walls was the only thing that offered shelter—a dark green awning covered the entire sidewalk and a gray carpet below. Like her, dozens of other people took cover under the awning. A few covered their heads with newspapers to stay dry; others, like her, tried to dry their hair, running their fingers through it.

Adriana stood by the entrance of the building that seemed to heave out gusts of cold air. She saw the name of the place printed on the gray carpet and then valet parking attendants were running with umbrellas to help people getting out of a van. As the rain intensified, more people arrived to take shelter under the awning. One of the parking attendants shouted, pleading to clear the way, to let him pass. He said only those who had come for a funeral service could stay. Adriana leaned against the wooden bars, which held a large flower arrangement. She didn’t feel like stepping out into the rain.

The large group of people getting out of the van walked toward the front of the building, piled up and tense, dressed in black. A few well-built men, very tall, blond, and fair-skinned, stepped in. A morbidly obese man passed, grazing her shoulder. When two youngish women, attractive and well-dressed, passed, the young man asked them to make room again. The mourners shook their heads in disapproval. Another man said, “Excuse me,” when he bumped into Adriana, who stood in the doorframe. Thunderclaps made the awning quiver and the spattering rain had soaked the feet of most of those sheltering.

Determined, she stood up and walked straight up to the man who had apologized to her. Another group had just joined the first one and all of them headed toward the elevator. Adriana followed them inside the metallic doors, surrounded by people clad in black.

When she sat on a black leather chair—she felt exhausted, had swollen feet, and had broken the heel on her shoe when she left the elevator—she was on the verge of tears. A black, silver-rimmed coffin lay a few meters away from the chair. The casket was open and every five minutes someone came to lean over and moaned loudly. A great number of flower arrangements adorned the lounge. The smell of tuberoses suffocated her. She tried to stifle a yawn, and shielded her purse with her body so as not to make noise, but the paper bag inside rustled loudly. Then she noticed a very short old woman staring at her from the other side of the lounge. Her gaze made Adriana aware of her broken heel and wet clothes. She tried to fix her hair, which had come undone in all directions and smoothed it down with both hands. She sank into the chair and adjusted her bra inside her blouse—her breasts kept slipping out of place, as her bra had lost elasticity over time.

In the confusion of people, flowers, and noises, and smoke from dozens of cigarettes, the old woman walked toward Adriana, coming closer with feeble steps. A chubby young man held her left arm. On her right forearm, the old woman had a black lacquer purse. She wore a mourning dress. Her skin was pale, fragile, wrinkled rice paper where blue, watery eyes danced. A dim halo tinged with silver and purple crowned her head, which gave her the strength to keep her chin up.

She laboriously reached the chair. The young man who accompanied her touched the shoulder of the mourner next to Adriana and asked him to let the old woman sit. She sat with slow elegance and leaned toward Adriana.

“How nice of you to come,” the old woman whispered, her breath smelling of cough syrup. “I thought you would be busy or uninterested, but I’m glad to see you here.”

Adriana looked at her for a while, astonished. Then she looked away and stared at a large candle next to the coffin. The flame burned down, and wax melted along the sides in fish-shaped threads of gold. The old woman smiled, balancing her head on her shoulders. Then she extended her hand carefully, as if reaching for a sick person or a baby, and touched Adriana’s lap. Her purse rustled, startling her. She thought with some anxiety about the pastries because they might have been crushed. José Luis would have crumbs for dinner. The old woman’s hand—barely touching, somewhat weightless—stayed in the same spot. She stared at her. Adriana willed the old woman, her words, and her motions to disappear, but nothing happened. The old woman coughed and her lips turned bluish.

The man who accompanied her helped her to her feet. They disappeared at the end of the lounge, out of sight of the mourners, into the small room reserved for the deceased’s immediate family. Adriana stood up and began to leave. She felt exhausted and scared. She couldn’t know it in that windowless room, but she was almost certain that the rain had stopped. It was time to go home. She tried to stand straight (even though the broken heel tripped her up), fixed her hair as best she could, smoothed down her skirt, and headed toward the exit. The sobbing became a distant murmur and no longer affected her, but she found herself in a sensitive state of mind as she jumped and bit the inside of her cheeks when a hand grabbed her arm. The man who had accompanied the old woman told her to follow him. She had no strength to disobey and walked behind him almost on tiptoe to make up for the missing heel, aiming to stand up straight.

The room was frugal and cold. The old woman pointed to an armchair.

“It’s so kind of you to accompany me,” she said. “Would you like something? You look tired.” Adriana shook her head; she hadn’t opened her mouth. She breathed in, and the old woman gave her a sweet look. They prolonged this awkward silence for several seconds, and then the old woman leaned toward her purse and took out a white envelope with initials on it.

“It’s for you,” she said. “It’s from Manuel. He wrote it before he died. That’s why I’m so relieved that you decided to come.” Adriana felt sick—the smell of wax had never agreed with her. She glanced at the envelope for a few seconds, then the chubby young man standing by the door, and finally the pale, sweet face of the old woman as she extended her wrinkled hand toward her face.

“Manuel?” she asked. The words escaped from her mouth. It was hunger.

She turned the envelope over in her hands a few times. She couldn’t make out what was scribbled on it, but she wanted it to be someone else’s name. She looked toward the door at the end of the small room and got up.

“Is that the bathroom?” she asked, and, barely waiting for an answer, staggered toward it—partly because of the missing heel, partly because of persistent nausea. She shut the door behind her and lifted her skirt. She peed slowly. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself for a moment—harsh, white light revealed stains she hadn’t noticed before, marks on the corners of her mouth, bags under her eyes, and her dull hair. First she tried to fix her ponytail, but some locks still remained unruly. Then she decided to wash her face to hide those features, and without drying herself well, she went back to the small room. The old woman waited for her with a smile.

“There you will find what Manuel wanted to tell you, his last will. After he became ill, he wanted to tell you everything that happened … You already know. Then I had no energy to call you; thank you for coming. Really.” A quiet sob briefly shook her old body. Then she coughed and regained control of her emotions. Adriana took the envelope again, brought it to her nose, and took a deep breath.

“Thank you,” Adriana mumbled, still standing and without knowing why. She picked up her hand-knit purse and sniffed at it. With one hand she smoothed out her skirt and with the other tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. Sad, she looked at her heelless shoe. In this room it looked more worn out than she remembered. “It broke when I came in,” she said, showing it to the old woman. “I keep it in my purse.” The old woman gave her an approving smile.

“Thank you,” the old woman said, got up, and took Adriana’s hand. Their faces came closer, almost touching. Adriana walked slowly toward the exit, the envelope clutched against her chest.

“And then?” José Luis asked, worried, his mouth full of a biscuit. The two of them sipped cups of steaming coffee.

“Nothing. That was it,” Adriana answered.

“What do you mean ‘nothing’? What does the letter say? Who’s Manuel? Didn’t you ask anyone there?” José Luis gazed at the envelope on the table, stained with the oil of the pastries. Then he went to one of the windows and opened it. The barking of dogs and the wailing of a distant siren came in; so did the air cut through by an invisible plane in the dark, contamination, and a thunderclap. Adriana breathed the air from the street and took off her blouse. She spread it against the lamp—two small stains under the armpits disheartened her.

“It’s hot in here. I thought the rain …” She trailed off and brought the envelope over her nose again.

“What does it smell like?” José Luis asked.

“I want to know if Manuel was an old man, from the smell.” Adriana’s answer was in her nose; she sniffed insistently, but her face didn’t reveal anything.

“So?” José Luis asked. Adriana stood up and walked around the table, barefoot and without her blouse; she lowered the straps of her bra, with her right hand rubbed her shoulders where reddish stripes showed, then frowned, closed her eyes, and felt the soft night air on her face, murmuring. It was as though she were invoking something. José Luis stared at his wife’s breasts, her bare feet, and her round face.

“No,” Adriana answered. “It doesn’t smell like anything I know, anyone I remember. The old woman made a mistake. She gave this letter to the wrong person.”

The table was covered with breadcrumbs. The paper bag had been torn and a piece of sponge cake had been left uneaten.

“Are we always messy eaters like this?” José Luis asked. They were seated face to face. Adriana sat down again and cupped her chin in both hands, her elbows on the table. Some breadcrumbs had fallen on the chair and dirtied her skirt. Others danced between her toes. She watched them, engrossed, feeling her belly expand from the bread. The letter was smeared with sugar. Closed, with doodles on the front, it seemed like a neglected piece of furniture, something ordinary, forgotten among the breadcrumbs. Adriana pulled off the rubber band holding her ponytail, let her hair fall down around her shoulders, and took off her old, worn-out bra. José Luis looked at her body reflected on the table and clicked his tongue when she got up and disappeared into the bedroom.

Adriana returned in a thin nightdress. José Luis had swept the floor, but without much success. He failed to make adequate use of the dustpan. When she went near him, he looked up and smiled. Now the letter was placed against the salt shaker—away from breadcrumbs, with stains blurring the letters—seeming to wait to be opened. Adriana leaned over it, held it up to the light, and made a poor exercise of decoding.

“Because you … still,” she said. José Luis went to the kitchen to empty the dustpan. He returned with a wet cloth and wiped the floor. Crouching, while he scrubbed the floor, he seemed little interested in the contents of the letter, but suddenly dropped his task and stepped toward her.

“Did you know him? Who’s Manuel?” He seized her fragile, sticklike wrist. She struggled to wiggle out for a few seconds and then became serious, looking him in the eye.

“I’ve got no idea. No idea who he is. I told you. What’s the matter with you?” Still looking at him, she dropped the letter on the floor, between her bare feet and José Luis’s dirty shoes.

The fresh air entered through the window. The rain and night had mitigated the intense heat, and the entire city seemed to heave a sigh of relief. A few cats meowed under their window. José Luis held his wife’s feet in his lap—sore and swollen—and gave them a rough massage. A couple of times Adriana made a grimace to tell him he was applying too much pressure.

“Why weren’t you curious?” José Luis’s question hid other doubts, buried distress. Adriana slowly lowered her eyelids.

“I don’t know,” she said and softly shook her head. He began to massage a wider area and pressed her calves with his thick fingers, then slowly moved up to her knees and rested his hands on her thighs.

“But didn’t the old woman tell you anything else?” José Luis insisted. Adriana flashed him an angry look, suppressing a yawn. Now his hands explored the most upper part of her thighs. She frowned and pulled down her nightdress, trying to keep her husband’s fingers from going beyond the fragile barrier of her underwear.

The city kept seeping through the window, but the noise gradually faded away. A pleasant breeze caressed her moist skin. She had let her guard down. José Luis’s fingertips, playful at first, traced circles through her pubic hair and searched for her wet folds. His fingers worked there long enough and caused Adriana to spread her legs open and forget about, for a few minutes, the old woman’s letter, Manuel’s pen strokes, and this feeling that drove her husband to grind his fingers inside her.

A thin layer of crystallized sugar and breadcrumbs covered the table. José Luis had cleaned only the floor. Adriana felt them against her back and in her untidy hair, in the locks brushing her face while he kissed her neck. They finished when silence fell over the night. José Luis walked away from her and went to wash his face. Then he headed toward the bedroom. Adriana stayed lying down on the table for a few more moments, with her face toward the open window.

José Luis called her from the bedroom. Half asleep, she straightened up and got up. When he called her name again, she murmured an answer, vague but soothing. She picked up the letter from the floor—the brightness of the night was enough for her to find it. She went into the kitchen with the letter and gazed at it for a while. José Luis began snoring loudly. For the last time, Adriana brought the envelope to her nose and breathed in. She closed her eyes, lightly frowned, and twisted her lips a little, trying to recall some remote past. Then she opened the burner, smelled gas, looked at the multicolored flame, and brought one corner of the envelope closer to the fire. Soon the words, the will written in this man’s hand, the old woman’s intention, and Manuel’s keepsake caught fire and curled up in the flame. She turned off the burner, waved her hands over the fragments of ash flying over the fire, and smothered them with a wet cloth. The odor of a burning cigarette and maybe the scent of aftershave reached her nostrils. Or the smell of saliva. In the dark air, she shooed away those smells and headed toward the bedroom.