The Barcelona Brothers (15 page)

Even so, she’d been on the point of turning around, skipping the interview, and going back to the apartment to pick up Percy. But then her sister appeared, raging and furious in the middle of the street, shouting so loud Jamelia was stunned. She tried to explain herself, but Tiffany wasn’t listening. She
never listens to anyone, least of all her dim-witted sister. Jamelia’s mother has told her and anyone else who would listen that it was the nurse’s fault. It was Papa’s fault for spanking her. It was the doctor’s fault. Doña Fortu’s unhappiness, her disappointments—it was their fault. For all those reasons, she says (the excuses vary according to her mood and the level of frustration in the house), Jamelia seems a bit slower, more withdrawn and silent, less impulsive than other girls, but Jamelia knows appearances are deceiving. Hasn’t this happened in every serial she’s ever seen on television, ever since she was little? The good girl’s bad, the ugly one’s pretty, the poor one’s rich. Only she knows how loving she’d be if she were alone with the right person, just as she alone knows how she changes when she shuts herself up in her room, puts on the radio, and starts to dance. She looks pretty, she thinks, dancing in front of the mirror, imitating Shakira or another of those young actresses who shake out their blond hair, gyrate their hips, and give boys an ultimatum:
Now or never
.

Jamelia stops in front of the supermarket offices, where her interview was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago. She knows that if she could think up a good excuse and present it with smoothness and conviction, she could still pull it off. One or two more steps and the doors will open by themselves. All she has to do is to go in and ask one of the cashiers where the personnel interviews are conducted. But she can’t. Petrified, she feels the echo of her sister’s mocking insult like another slap. And there’s also her smell, the smell of a perspiring woman, which perfume and cologne haven’t been able to
mask in her rush to get here. Maybe if she wouldn’t squirm around too much, if she wouldn’t raise her arms, if the room were very well ventilated. Actually, she’s just doing what everyone expects her to do: giving up, stepping away from the door that opens to the world of normal people.

But then she imagines herself going home and closing the apartment door behind her. She imagines her mother, bursting into the hallway while drying her hands on a kitchen towel, welcoming her with a smile from ear to ear, and asking her how it went. She’d be excited, her mother, she’d make her sit down and recount everything, right down to the tiniest detail. And Jamelia would begin to lie, speaking in generalities, but when she had to give details, the game would surely be up. You can’t trick your mother just like that. And then the disappointment would be all the greater. And sooner or later, Tiffany would subject her to fresh mockery. God would punish Jamelia’s lie by making sure she’d receive no more job offers and leaving her a spinster. It’s fate that’s brought her to this point. As in her soap operas, nothing happens just by chance. Everything’s written in the Lord’s kind hand. These thoughts make Jamelia change her mind. She tries not to notice how her whole body is trembling, tries not to stutter when she addresses a store worker, who has to concentrate to understand what this girl is asking. Fortunately, the worker’s a South American, too, and maybe that’s why she has sufficient patience to hear Jamelia out, raise what looks like an extremely long finger with a fuchsia nail, and point to one of the doors in the hall.

Jamelia walks toward it. It’s been a long time since she’s felt the way she does in these precise moments. Everything looks so nice. The waxed floors shine glossily, like a frozen lake. She knows the song that’s playing through the loudspeakers, just as she knows almost every song broadcast on the radio. It’s Chayanne. What a handsome guy he is! Even the people pushing their grocery carts along seem to be following an established choreography. Everything in its place. Located here and not there. Labeled. Pressed. Packaged in reds, greens, and yellows. It reminds her of going to the company store with Papa on paydays when she was a little girl. Standing at the wooden counter that could be raised and lowered like a drawbridge, her father—who was always so self-assured—would request the items his family needed: rice, lentils, milk, sugar. Then he’d put everything in a cardboard box and carry it home, and when they got there, he’d let her take all the packages out of the box and then put them back in again, or she could play the salesclerk, with invisible banknotes and garbanzo beans for coins.

Jamelia stands in front of the wooden door, which is painted blue, and knocks on it cautiously. Nobody responds. Finally, she turns the knob and enters. Fortunately, things are well behind schedule. Now she’s just one of several women, gathered in what seems to be a waiting room. There are women younger than she is, but some older ones, too. Women from the Maghreb, Spanish women, South Americans. Fat and thin. And there’s an empty seat for her. Jamelia inquires whether this is the waiting room for the interviews, and when
they answer affirmatively, she asks who’s the last person ahead of her. She takes a seat, very nervous but also very happy. Because of a lot of things. Because she hasn’t missed her turn. Because of the decision she made when she disobeyed her sister. Because of how delighted her mother will be to find out that she’s gone to the interview and gotten the job. And besides, she’s sure it won’t be long before she meets the love of her life, too. It’ll probably be the interviewer or the manager of the section where she’ll work. But above all, she’s happy to be one of many. A woman among women.

Jamelia doesn’t know that her mother’s been standing in front of the supermarket and watching her. Doña Fortu can hardly hold back her tears. She’s wrapped up in a black coat, clearly out of season, which obliges her to be quite hot. In her eagerness to remain inconspicuous, she draws the attention of everyone she passes. Made up, perfumed, and excited, Doña Fortu can’t stop looking at the automatic doors Jamelia went through. For a while it looked like the girl was never going to do it. Despite the distance separating them, the mother takes a bit of credit for having given her daughter a slight push right before she entered.

“Come on, babe,” her ex-husband, Jamelia and Tiffany’s father, says to her. “I don’t have much time.”

“Did you see her? She went in.”

“Yes, she went in.”

“Her first interview, and she went to it all by herself.”

“Come on, let’s go. Today we can walk in together—the guy on duty doesn’t know us.”

Couples aren’t allowed in the rooming house where he lives. Occasionally, depending on the time of day, the staff looks the other way. The two of them enjoy a few hours in his room, just for the pleasure of each other’s company. They make love now and then. But what they do most of all in their encounters is talk. About when they met, about when the girls were little, about what they’ll do when everything’s forgotten—even though Doña Fortu never knows what that “everything” refers to. He’s as loving to her as he was when they were courting, but sometimes he asks her for money. The man constantly has projects, deals, ideas in his head. Although he claims to be broke, he’s always very well dressed; then again, it’s true that she irons his shirts on the sly. Tiffany will never let them live together again, and Doña Fortu has often considered asking him some questions about that, but she fears the truth as much as the prospect of angering him. She’s afraid she could lose what she’s got merely by uttering Tiffany Brisette’s name.

When they enter his room, Doña Fortu stretches out on the bed and watches as he undoes his belt.

“Did you remember to alter my new pants?”

“Yes, they’re in that bag.”

“You can’t stay long today.”

“That’s all right. I’d really like to be home for when Jamelia gets back.”

“
PERCY, WE’RE GOING TO GET ALONG JUST FINE, YOU
and me.”

The little boy’s being stubborn. He’s determined to leave the apartment, he’s whining and whimpering, and a full-fledged crying fit can’t be far away. As for Epi, he has very little patience and even fewer resources for entertaining a child. As the hours have passed, Epi’s gradually lost the certainty he cherished early in the morning, when he thought he’d found a logical way to order his world. At that moment, which now seems so long ago, he figured Tanveer’s death would put all the pieces back in their proper places. But now, the murder itself—Thor the Avenger, his sinewy arm outstretched, holding up the
Moro
’s head—his flight from the barrio, and his love for Tiffany all seem less real than any fantasy Epi could have imagined. Panic has been rising in him ever since Tiffany’s reaction made the normal progression of events he’d
envisioned impossible. Now more than ever is the time when he needs Alex’s words, his ability to know what to do and to assess the damage Epi’s actions have generated.

“I wanna get out of here … Grandma! Grandma!”

If he could only rest for a little while, everything would be different when he woke up, he’s sure of that. The elves would have helped the cobbler, and everything would be finished and in order. The cocaine in Epi’s bloodstream has kept him alert, but he’s starting to notice something like red lights in his brain, switching on one by one. A nervous reflex runs through him from his molars to his chest and back, splitting his breastbone in two, and his injured foot is hurting worse and worse. He thinks about doing another little line, but he knows that’s not a good idea. He remembers that whenever he’s tried to suppress anxiety with more drugs, things have gone from bad to worse. In any case, he thinks there’s some tranquilizer or other in one of his pockets that will help him regain control.

“Mama, Mama, Mama!”

Epi tries to defuse Percy, who appears to be on the point of exploding. He’s flailing and screaming inconsolably, like a crazed windmill.

“Come here, kid … Look, I’ll let you play with my cell phone. Look, come closer, look at the neat things it can do …”

Percy squirts out of his hands like a bar of soap. The little boy’s a machine full of pins, with a superhuman ability to scream, cry, and move at top speed. Epi follows him from room to room until Percy enters the bedroom and the man throws himself on the mattress and catches him. Epi gets on
top of him and grabs the child’s wrists like a pair of shackles. Percy bawls and squirms nonstop, not listening to anything or anyone. He’s an enraged creature, a hurtful little varmint, like his mother: incapable of controlling himself, incapable of listening to anyone.

“Stop it, Percy, please. Shut up! Listen to me! Fuck!”

But the child pays no heed. Not until Epi releases his right hand and gives him a hard slap across the face. Followed by another, and another, and yet another. At this point the boy becomes quiet enough for Epi to tell him that his mother’s about to arrive. That the two adults are going to talk, and that as soon as they’re through, Percy can go back home with his mother. And as soon as this miserable day is over, he, Epi, freshly showered and handsome as can be, will come and get them—just like he used to do—and they’ll stroll through the fair and the car show, and Percy will be able to have anything he wants.

The child twists from side to side, but now with the single goal of protecting himself. His reddened face bears the marks of Epi’s fingers. His hair’s messed up. Saliva runs down his cheek and onto the mattress. Epi’s not sure if the idea that occurs to him is proper or not, but he executes it before he can change his mind. He takes a tranquilizer out of his pocket and bites the pill in two. One piece stays in his mouth, and he puts the other piece, which is smaller, hardly more than a quarter of the whole, into Percy’s. It can’t hurt him.

“Come on, don’t tell me you don’t like candy. Swallow it. Then you can stay here and rest for a while. Come on.”

The child stops resisting, but Epi doesn’t trust him. So he doesn’t get up; instead, he keeps straddling the boy and waits for the Tranquimazín to take effect. In the meantime he takes advantage of the opportunity to get his cell phone out of his back pants pocket. He presses the red button, taps in the password—the day and month of Tiffany’s birth—and checks to see whether his message has been correctly sent and received. It has, but Alex hasn’t answered yet. So then all he can do is wait.

Percy lies on the mattress whimpering but not moving much. Soon his eyes will begin to close. Epi doesn’t anticipate any more problems with the boy. He hopes the marks he’s left on the little face will have disappeared by the time Tiffany Brisette shows up.

At this moment, having realized that the only solution is to return to the apartment and collect her son, the girl’s angrily walking back there. Two blocks to go. It’s just crazy-making, the way things have become so mixed up this morning. When she gets home, she intends to take out all her rage on Jamelia, on her mother, and on Tanveer, if he should deign to put in an appearance. She crosses the street with rapid steps, reaches the entrance to the apartment building, and hesitates. Her thoughts are scattered, but she needs to make a smart decision. It occurs to her to call Tanveer Hussein. Now she’s got a good excuse, a weighty reason that will allow her pride to remain unscathed: her son is being held prisoner by a madman who’s lost his head because of the cock wielded by Tanveer himself. Surely, Hussein won’t turn his back on her, he’ll come
to her aid, he’ll play the hero with the kid, and while he’s at it, the big lunkhead will fall back under Tiffany’s spell. This whole wretched affair will let them add one more chapter. She wants to get him back so that she can dump him into the pit of oblivion when he least expects it. As far as what may happen to Epi is concerned, she doesn’t care. Whatever it is, he has it coming. Maybe now he’ll leave her in peace. Standing in the entrance, she dials Hussein’s number and hears the beginning of his recorded answer. She hangs up, cursing heartily. Then she immediately dials the number again, but this time she leaves a message.

“I don’t know why I’m calling you. All right, I do. It’s because you and Epi are friends, and I want to see if you can get it into his skull that no means no, and when I say I’ve had enough, it’s over. The son of a bitch is holding Percy in your apartment. I’m sorry to be doing this, but I’m going to call the police and have them come and take care of him unless you get here soon and give me a hand.”