Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

Although César’s mother had never heard Rosa sing for herself, she was already imagining what a delicious voice that girl must have. It was a shame to see something like that go to waste. Especially when it was well known that a pristine voice was a herald straight from Dios . She secretly hoped that such a voice would one day bless her own, which, despite her best efforts, carried sounds from the depths of the eternally suffering. To think that she could have this voice in her own house, singing God’s graces for her through the days. Better than the radio.

The way his mother saw it, it was nothing other than a holy sign that she should have such a peculiar son with “the artist’s gene” and right next door there should be such an ugly girl with an angel’s voice-box.

She knew her two other sons would bring her nothing of value with the women they’d end up marrying. She could already see what kind of woman her eldest Raul would choose. He’d somehow find himself a gringra blonde, a thin one, who was perhaps new to the culture. He could be very charming, Raul, can’t blame the gringra . His jawline and strong cheekbones alone would fool any one of those white women. And even when his aggressiveness started to show, it always came out with a bit of magic. His jealousy could be utterly hypnotising, God help those gullible women , the mother thought, dios, dios, keep them away from my house .

It wouldn’t be until after the wedding night that Raul would give his gringra her first slap across the face. Then, even if the girl sang a little, her song would be slapped out of her, year by year. César’s mother frowned at the thought of having a pouting, flimsy blonde hanging around the house.

As for her other son, Alonzo, he would end up with one of those older women who would be settling for any man to call her own. Alonzo, like Raul, had that strain of violence in him as well. But because he was not as handsome as Raul, it was harder for him to get away with such outbursts, as his aggression was just not nearly as elegant as his brother’s. Their mother was sure he would become more and more clumsy over his married years, and she’d have to have a daughter-in-law with black eyes or missing teeth.

This ageing wife would become sad and introverted, and this would show especially in her chores. Most importantly though, she would make awful conversation. And to think that she would most likely have to watch her tele-novellas with this woman.

César was her only hope. He had just the right soft melancholia to win over Rosa’s trust and make her share that delicious voice. If only César could stop spending so much time doing impersonations of all the tele-novella characters on TV perhaps he could get Rosa’s attention.

“And who do we have here…” his father would ask César when the restaurant had a slow moment.

“ No me toques! ” César cried out, smoothing his trembling fingers over his hairline with theatrical extravagance as he mimicked Estefania, the young beauty who realises her husband is in fact her sister’s murderer.

César’s father would smile and after a moment, he’d say, “…Do another…”

“ Cállate la boca, Doctor .”

“Shut your mouth, Doctor,” copying the newly widowed Laura’s attack on Arturo, the high-class surgeon who had reconstructed his own face to avoid prison.

“…Do another…”

“ Esto no es amor… esto es un crimen! ”

“This isn’t love… this is a criiiiiiime!” César roared, like Doña Carlota confronting the barely legal Alba about her relations with her uncle.

Although César’s mother was a bit embarrassed at how well her son managed to portray these women, her discomfort was always overcome by her immediate entertainment. The father listened with a proud smile, patiently waiting for the next instalment.

This made his brothers snort secretly.

“You think you’re some star now…” Alonzo would whisper to César.

Raul waited until his father left the room, then came up behind César and slapped him between his legs.

“This here’s the biggest pussy in all of Mexico!”

César el actor his brothers called him in front of their father, who took this as a sign that the brothers respected each other. César el gecko his brothers called him in the streets, to show the other kids that they did not share César’s strangeness. And on very special occasions, usually in the darkness of their shared bedroom, while César was asleep, the brothers took turns whispering into his smooth, boyish ear, César la puta . Beneath his closed eyelids, César’s eyes rolled back and forth as his brothers quietly chanted puta, puta, puta, pulling their penises out and circling them above César’s sleeping face.

When César announced he would not be staying at the family restaurant, nor would he be going to secondary school, nor would he be looking for other work around town, his mother’s face went white. “But what, then, will you do?” she said, looking at her husband for support.

“I’ll be moving to Paris,” César said. “I’m going to become a European actor.”

His mother’s face fell. His father, however, nodded and smiled quietly. This was the first step a boy of difference had to take to become a man of significance.

On the day of César’s departure, his brothers hugged him in front of their father. Alonzo squeezed him too tight and Raul hit his back twice. His mother asked what this meant for his marriage plans.

As he placed his suitcase in the trunk of the car, he looked up and happened to catch the velvet eyes of his neighbour Rosa who was standing in the window with her long, dark hair brushed around her face.

César lifted his hand and waved to Rosa. Perhaps it looked as if he was shielding his eyes from the sun. She didn’t wave back. The corners of her eyes pinched and her cheeks began to hollow.

That was years ago. A different continent. A different life.

Now in Paris, César had finished acting school, got an agent, learned French, and currently worked as a telemarketer in a little office that smelled of cardboard, off Rue de la Paix near the Opéra Garnier. He made calls in French and Spanish for various surveys. The French surveys were local and the Spanish were usually for offshore companies in Spain and Latin America. This was of course a part-time job, but it at least provided a steady workload. He supplemented these wages with ever-changing projects and small jobs he found on online ads. Among these were hanging posters in the metro with a bucket of sticky soap and large folded squares, pasted together upon the wall. He tried cleaning rental apartments for a while, but felt his lungs growing infested with those cleaning sprays. The easy option was teaching private Spanish classes. He had done this in the beginning, but the smooth-skinned French kids with their immaculately shaped upper lips spoke his language like heirs to some throne asking about the local prostitutes.

There was something about telemarketing that he liked best. And even his boss had to admit he was good at it. His only problem was that sometimes he would mix up the surveys and call a French household with a Spanish survey or vice versa. But usually he could catch himself and get back on track, and even sometimes endear his angered listener.

Even if he had to spend his daylight hours in a little office that smelled of cardboard, making endless calls for various surveys, he could have his cell phone next to him in case his agent had an immediate job for him. All his agent’s calls were for immediate jobs. Over the years César had scampered to various auditions for commercials and walk-on roles, but had yet to land one. However, his agent had a potent way of encouraging César. Every time César would build up the courage to tell his agent that things were not working out between them, he would leave the conversation somehow more excited than ever about his future with such professional representation.