Rafael Chirbes - On the Edge

“You’re not still going to see that clairvoyant, are you? You’re crazy. How can you believe anything that old witch tells you?”

“I miss all the people I left behind in Colombia and the ones who’ve passed away since, and the ones who died before I came here. I feel so alone here and frightened about what Wilson might do to us one day.”

“Look, love, say what you like, but I can’t see what pleasure there can be in contacting the dead, I don’t understand why you spend a fortune on paying that woman, why not spend it on jewelry instead, or, if you like, get yourself one of those Cuban boys you see on the TV. Talking to the dead is a complete waste of time and money. The ones who speak to you, assuming they do, are the poorest of the poor, they have absolutely nothing, they can’t give you a loan, you can’t even use them as guarantors, they’re useless. I can’t see why you bother. All that nonsense about how she’s seen your Aunt Manola or your cousin Purificación and even spoken to her, or your aunt from Barranquilla who drank too much brandy and died from bleeding of the esophagus, or chatted with Grandma Constanza, who often thinks so fondly of you and your brothers and is as happy as a lark up there in heaven; or worse, that she’s really fed up because some devil has taken a dislike to her and won’t leave her in peace and keeps prodding her with his trident day and night. What’s so interesting about all those disgusting things, those incurable diseases, those grudges that still rankle, people you used to avoid like the plague when they were alive? And you pay good money to be told all that garbage or other equally horrible things? Because the most those dead people can tell you is that they’re fine, thank you, and send their best wishes, and then what are you going to say? Hi, Aunt Corina, I’m glad to hear you’re well and that you’re praying for me, because we really need your prayers now that Wilson got fired and we’re about to be evicted. You pay money to say that crap? You’d be better off saving up for an emergency, because Wilson’s unemployment benefits will be coming to an end soon, and then what are you going to do, with him making a dent in the sofa 24/7, except, of course, when he’s in the bar, and with you scrubbing stairs with a three-month-old fetus in your belly, a present from his brother, who, very conveniently, has gone missing, having fled back to Colombia where he’s doubtless busy getting some other stupid woman knocked up, and is probably already planning to sell the baby to someone, because that’s what he’s like, always assuming he hasn’t ended up in prison or been shot and is lying bleeding in a gutter somewhere, because, from what you told me, he squandered half the money you sent him on getting drunk and on shirts and shoes. Liliana, you’d better just pray that Wilson doesn’t start putting two and two together and begin to suspect that the bump in your belly isn’t his. Luckily, he’s so vain that it wouldn’t occur to him to think that, having experienced the joy of sex with him, you would ever try your luck with someone else, so you’re fortunate in a way, or rather, unfortunate, because there’s no way you’re going to get rid of him; with those size fourteens of his on the sofa — I mean, you need a sofa with feet that size — what with the cans of beer, the day’s soccer match, your apartment is turning into a real hell, phone the Pope up and tell him, tell him you’ve found the hell he lost, and about the Devil pursuing you with his pitchfork, tell the Pope you have the Devil’s address, because Wilson really is a devil and he’s got it in for you, and there you are, frittering away your money on talking to the dead. You must admit it’s not exactly logical, talking to your grandma and your Dad and your aunties who died and are now in the next world, as if you hadn’t had quite enough of them when they were still in this world. Leave the dead in peace, and let’s just assume they’re all right because they haven’t shown any signs of life and haven’t come begging either. I don’t know why we poor people are so obsessed with the dead, the rich buy apartments, yachts, jewelry, stocks — they have no interest in talking to the dead, they want to live among the living. They’re just not interested, they haven’t got the time. And you haven’t even reported your husband for harassment and cruelty, and it’s high time you did. Did you know that if you make a complaint about physical abuse, they can’t deport you even if you’re here illegally? The State will then look after you, find you a safe apartment to live in, give you food and pay you a wage.”

“Yes, the old man told me that if you make a complaint, they’ll give you Spanish citizenship.”

“Liliana, you had the chance to leave him and the kids in Colombia and make a new life for yourself here; you could have started over. Your parents would have looked after the kids, because he certainly wouldn’t have, after all, your Mom was still alive then, and he’d soon have lost interest in you when you stopped sending him any money, you could have vanished and started all over. You’d been through the worst and could have started to enjoy life, but no, you paid for their airfare with the sweat of your you-know-what: you paid for your own misery, you little fool. Your husband didn’t want to know how you earned your money and so he pretended he didn’t know and never even asked. He pretended not to know because it suited him that way, but he must have known, just as he knew that his brother used you as a drug mule when you first came to Spain, how much did you bring in, by the way? And Wilson said nothing, because you were still sending him money, no, he said nothing and didn’t even tell you that, when he came to Spain, he had a few grams of drugs up his ass too, he kept you completely in the dark about that, and I bet he never said anything to you about how much he got for those drugs either. He kept any money to himself, for his nights out, for those Friday nights when no one knows where he’s been, but which he returns from smelling of sour sweat and other women’s perfume. And now he has you scrubbing stairs and wiping old men’s bottoms. You poor little girl. Come here and let me comb your lovely hair, let me touch it, it’s so soft, what a shame you’ve given it to a brute who doesn’t even appreciate it, let me unpin it, that’s it, let it cascade down, the way those femmes fatales do in soap operas, let me just fluff it out a bit so that it falls on your shoulders like shiny, curly, black water, and it smells so good too, hmm, let me bury my face in your hair, let me kiss your soft neck, what do you mean, it tickles? Doesn’t he ever kiss you there? The old man must have kissed you while you were working for him, I mean, he gave you those earrings and that lovely necklace, which you told me your husband got rid of in a matter of days, and how the old man kept saying he wanted to see you wearing them and you had to keep making excuses because you didn’t have them any more. Even the old man dumped you in the end, he obviously wanted to have sex with you too, but then he just got rid of you.”

“I can come and see you whenever you like now, because there’s no work any more and every bit of money helps, that’s what I told him on that last day, when the old man told me he couldn’t keep me on. I can’t pay you a wage, he said, and, please, call me Esteban. You don’t work here any more, so now we can be friends. I said: in Colombia we tend to address older people as Don or Doña. And he: I mean we can still see each other, just come by whenever you want, so that we can see you, so that we can see each other, I wouldn’t expect you to do any work, I can’t afford to pay for that now and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to again, but that’s all I want, Liliana, just for you to pop in now and then for a chat and a coffee, a tintico , that’s all: it’s my turn to cry today and your turn to console me. You see, I’m bankrupt, I don’t even have enough money to pay my mortgage, well, that isn’t exactly how it is, it’s a long story; but I’d be so grateful if you could come and keep me and my father company sometimes, now that we’re going to be so alone. Of course, Don Esteban, of course, I understand, but you know how busy I am and that I barely have time for me or my husband and my children, so it’s quite hard to find time for anyone else. I have to earn a living. I can’t come here if you don’t pay me. That’s what I said, and he opened his eyes very wide as if he was going to have an attack or something. The look on his face really frightened me. I thought he was either going to hit me or be ill, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, came this hard, gruff voice: Well, you’d better be off then. You don’t want to waste your time with me. Go somewhere where they’ll pay you. It really shook me. Did the soft old thing really think I’d go on wiping his father’s bum and chatting to him for no money? That’s what he expected, but I summoned up the courage to say: You just be thankful I never told my husband about you touching and kissing me, you know: give me a hug, give me a little kiss, go on. That’s between you and me. I left then, and he slammed the door behind me so loudly, I bet the whole street must have heard. The old fool started weeping when I said that. He probably just wanted me to feel sorry for him and make sure I didn’t say anything to Wilson, although I do understand how lonely those two old men are, but tough. I’d already pocketed the money he gave me as a kind of bonus for firing me, because he really wasn’t a bad old guy, and as for the money he lent me before, well, he’s in for a long wait before he gets that back.”