Laura Restrepo - Hot Sur

I knew better than anyone that to be mixed up with Sleepy Joe was playing with fire. But what could I do? He had become my vice. On his divine chest the double-beamed cross seemed all-powerful, almost horrific, as if it were a dark symbol of who knows what, while between the little breasts that had sprouted on Greg the cross looked pathetic. I know that as a young man, around the time he got the tattoo, Greg had the same athletic chest that his little brother had now, maybe even a little more tanned, and sturdier and more muscular, because Greg was the taller one with the wider shoulders of the two. But with the years, his double-beamed cross had taken on the appearance of a sad lamppost weathering a stiff breeze in the fog of so many gray hairs, and the peaks of the blue mountains in the background highlighted the rolls of fat on his belly. On the other hand, with Sleepy Joe… I’d dream at all hours about that cross tattooed on his chest. Shit, how I loved it, more with each passing day. Lightning over Tatras, may God forgive the lunatic lust I felt for my brother-in-law.

“The kapustnica has to boil for twelve more minutes, twelve minutes exactly, and then you turn it down to a low simmer. But be careful, don’t cover it completely or it’ll get smoky and be ruined. Or you know what, forget about it, don’t touch it, I’ll be back before the twelve minutes,” Greg indicated from the door, on the night of his fifty-seventh birthday as I have already told you, Mr. Rose. He was about to go out after having talked briefly to Sleepy Joe. Greg whistled for Hero to come with him, but we had already unattached his cart and I heard his helpless whines.

“Leave him alone, he’s already in bed,” I told Greg, my back still to him as I set the table. I never knew if he heard me or if he had already stepped out.

When the twelve minutes passed and he had not returned, I turned down the flame on the pot without covering it completely, just as he had instructed, and I took the opportunity to sneak a Swiss-cheese sandwich with mayonnaise, because I was starving and did not hold out much hope for the kapustnica. I’d have a few spoonfuls during dinner, trying to avoid any of the solid chunks, and as soon as Greg wasn’t paying too much attention, I’d tell him that I was going to the kitchen for bread or water and empty my plate in the pot. It had always been the same with the kapustnica, except for the first time, when we were not married yet, and he took me by surprise, so I had to gobble the whole thing down, not deceive the person who soon, bless the hour, would be my husband.

Ten more minutes passed and still Greg had not returned. So I went into the bedroom to fix myself up to surprise him; it was his birthday, after all, and for months he had been seeing me in the same attire, a blue suit that we had to wear as a uniform for work, except Saturdays and Sundays when I’d wear sweats around the house. So I decided I’d surprise him, put on a strapless, tight-fitting black dress, and a string of pearls that, although they were farmed pearls, would create that classic look I was going for, an impeccable flawless look à la Audrey Hepburn, and without even thinking about it the words to “Moon River” started coming out of my mouth, sung softly as she sang it looking out the window, “Moon river, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style someday.” And what a coincidence, Mr. Rose, the one who ends up telling Holly’s story is a young writer like you, or maybe it’s not a coincidence at all, but that down deep I’m searching you out above all so I could mimic Holly.

Whatever the case may be, that night while I fixed myself up, I sang Holly’s song, and why not, that had been my dream also, in style someday. Someday, someday, and why not that very day, that is, that very night, although Greg, my poor fat Greg looked more like Sally Tomato, the gangster who pays Holly, than Paul Varjak, the very handsome author who writes about her after she has left. That’s in the book; in the movie, it’s different because the author ends up getting married to her, and when I said in class that I preferred that ending, you thought about it a little bit and responded, “I’m not sure, I’m not sure, I think that for Varjak to remember Holly and write about her is his way of loving her even more intensely.” Wow! What a great phrase, Mr. Rose. You sometimes spoke so pretty.

That night while waiting for Greg to return, I put on a pair of high heels and went over the top a bit with a retro makeup job, like Holly’s. Remember that thick black line she drew above her eyelashes? Well, I did the same thing and I had a hell of a pair of eyes, then I put on some Anaïs, my favorite perfume at that time, pinned my hair back, letting a few strands fall carelessly over my cheeks, and, pushing Hero a bit to the side, I climbed on the bed to get a good look at my whole body in the mirror.

What a surprise awaited me. Just like Audrey Hepburn? Holly Golightly in person? What I saw in the mirror was a monstrosity. The strapless dress, which had fit me fine when I was single, now seemed way too tight. I looked like a Oaxacan tamale, with the thighs and belly all wrapped up, and if that were not enough, as it widened and stretched the dress rose up and revealed my knees, which had been pretty and shapely but now were swollen, unsightly. The neckline, which previously fell neatly in place, not revealing too much or too little, now was way too low and made me look cheap, like Bolivia but not as pretty, more like Maraya or Wendy Mellons, or at least that’s how I saw myself at the moment. So much for the classic look. Quite the makeover I had gone through. I knew I had gained weight the year and a half I had lived quietly with Greg, but I had never imagined it was so much. Shit, I said. Not a fat housewife. I shed the strapless dress before anyone other than Hero saw me in it. I buried it in a corner of the closet and resigned myself to the marine blue suit I had been wearing, which at least concealed the pounds. Ciao, Holly, maybe next time. I did leave on the high heels, and instead of the farmed pearls, I tied a fuchsia hanky around my neck that matched my lipstick. What the hell, I thought. All the same, generous Greg will think I’m a knockout no matter what.

I went back into the living room and looked at the clock. It had been thirty-five minutes since he had gone out the door. I hope he is not fighting with Sleepy Joe, I thought, that boy can sour his birthday. I examined the table I had set a while before and it seemed as if the tablecloth was wrinkled. I’ve told you that I’m obsessed with ironing. I detest wrinkles. It’s a hang-up I inherited from Bolivia and maybe from my grandmother Africa, and even life in jail hasn’t cured it. Because there are no irons here, I dampen my uniform at night and stretch it on the floor under my bed so that it is smooth in the morning, anything not to go around with wrinkled clothes. So that night I thought that maybe I could pass a quick iron over the tablecloth before putting back silverware, glasses, candelabra, bread basket — everything that I had set up so meticulously. I pulled out the ironing board and ironed the tablecloth, starching it with Blue Violet Linen Water Spray, just as Bolivia always did. I put it back on the table, reset it, and looked at the clock. Greg had been outside for more than an hour. I shut off the flame under the kapustnica, which was beginning to dry up, threw myself on the Reclinomatic in the living room, setting it to a gentle massage, and quickly realized how exhausted I was. I fell asleep at some point, and when I woke up it was eleven fifteen. Eleven fifteen! And no sign of Greg at all.

I called his cell number, something I generally didn’t do because he didn’t like for me to call him when he was dealing with his things, but this time the call was merited, something must have happened. Greg wasn’t the type of person who would abandon his kaputsnica for no good reason. I called his cell, Mr. Rose, and guess what rang in our bedroom? That little melody that worked my nerves, from ABBA’s “Mamma Mia,” just at the point where it goes, “I’ve been cheated by you since I don’t know when, so I made up my mind it must come to an end.” Greg had chosen it as a ringtone. Ridiculous: What connection could he have to that syrupy song and the brilliant white outfits the members of ABBA wore in the video, like idiot angels? Remember that ancient video? The blonde and the brunette, all in white, and particularly the two guys, not sure if they were the husbands, with the smiles and the perfect little salon hairdos? What connection was there between that and a crude, hairy cop like my Greg? How I jumped every time that phone rang. It seemed as if Greg had chosen that ringtone, that one specifically, to throw my affair with Joe in my face. Those lyrics, you can just imagine, Mr. Rose, how I thought they spoke directly to me. A warning, a call to order, an I know all about it, you bitch, and one day you will pay for this great betrayal.