by Susana Aikin
I ran downstairs. Julia and Alina stood in the patio beside an ancient-looking woman. The three of them looked toward the pool in silence. I relaxed.
Julia turned around. “Didn’t know you were here. You look like you just woke up from a hundred-year nap. This is Señora Virginia,” she said introducing the old woman, and then motioning her head toward the water, added, “and her daughter Delia.”
“I saw her from the window; it gave me a fright,” I said.
Señora Virginia sighed. Myriad wrinkles surrounded her mouth and eyes, but a sharp gaze shone above the dark-skinned cheekbones. She seemed out of a photographic history book on rural life in the nineteenth century, something about her weather-beaten appearance, her old-fashioned dress, the way her long gray hair was tied up at the back of her head.
“No need to be so paranoid. People jump in the pool all the time,” Julia said with a smirk.
“People jump in the pool in bathing suits,” I said.
“And sometimes without . . .” Alina said, looking at Julia with mischief. She was dressed in a short saffron tunic over her round thighs. Her short pixy hair glistened with pomade, and her eyes were accented with thick eyeliner. In contrast, Julia wore denim shorts with an old T-shirt and shaggy Converse shoes. Both looked out toward the pool, while Alina stood closely behind Julia, combing her hair with her fingers. I disliked Alina; she engulfed my sister to the point of estranging her from everyone else. Particularly from me. Julia had been my closest sister, my best friend, all my life. It was always Julia and me. Marion was my heroine growing up, but Julia, my accomplice, my partner in crime. But when Julia met Alina three months back at the Escuela de Bellas Artes, the Madrid art school, where they both studied painting, something instantly switched. Julia became nothing short of intoxicated with her newly found friend, and wasted no time plunging into a steamy affair. From that point on the two became inseparable—they even seemed to walk around as if they were conjoined Siamese twins. Every effort on my part to befriend Alina, and retain access to my sister, failed. Everyone, and everything, had become excluded from their private bubble of paradise.
I clicked my tongue and walked toward the pool. When my shadow darkened the edge of the water, Delia opened her eyes and squinted at me, shaping her thin lips into a crooked smile. “I was too hot—I didn’t make it to the changing room.” She closed her eyes again and moved her arms to paddle around the water.
Julia and Alina settled Señora Virginia in a chair in the shade and motioned me toward the kitchen. Once there, Julia opened the liquor cabinet.
“Anna, would you hide all these under the kitchen sink while we get Virginia some water? She’s asked us not to give Delia any alcohol. The woman has a problem. So no matter what she says or does . . .” Before I could open my mouth to protest about this bizarre request, Julia and Alina dashed out carrying a tray with cups of water. But in those days I’d still do anything Julia asked, so needy I felt for her approval, particularly now that Alina had come between us.
I started moving the bottles under the sink, when I felt a shadow fill the door space behind me. Turning around I saw Delia standing at the threshold, water dripping all over into widening pools at her feet, and wondered how she’d gotten out of the pool, bypassed Julia and Alina, and made it so quickly to the kitchen. Her white dress clung to her flesh, revealing her curves, her underwear, and her dark nipples. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulders, drip-dripping, like thin, dark, twisted hoses. She stared at me hypnotically, onyx pupils shimmering inside long slit lids.
“All you girls are so beautiful, each one attractive in a different way,” she drawled in a suave Cuban accent. “But you, you’re special.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She reminded me of a black Madonna statue or a kachina doll, with an ageless sort of beauty. She could have been thirty-five or sixty.
“Do you need to change into some dry clothes?” I asked.
“First I need something to drink. I am very thirsty.”
“Can I get you coffee? Water with ice?”
“Actually, I have low blood pressure and need something with lots of sugar right now.” She pointed to the bottle in my hand. It was an old, half full bottle of anisette that had been in the cabinet for as long as I remembered. Most of its contents were crystallized around the neck.
“This is due for the garbage,” I said, feeling tension mounting in my arms and shoulders.
“Not really.” She stepped into the kitchen. I watched her small feet bringing in a trail of water. “I just need a shot to balance out.”
In one unexpected, graceful leap she was by my side. She put her hand on my arm. “Your skin is so smooth, almost like silk,” she said. “And that blue dress really enhances your figure.”
She was very close, and the proximity of her beauty increased my strange sense of intoxication. She had an oval face with high cheeks and a delicate nose. Her lips were crimson-red and very thin, like the curved blade of a small scimitar. I looked into her eyes, but they were hard and shiny, like a dark mirror, impenetrable to the gaze. With one swift movement she grabbed the bottle’s neck. But I didn’t let go of the body. For a moment we got into a tug of war.
“Be kind, and let me have a sip,” Delia pleaded.
“I can’t,” I said, securing my grip further.
Delia licked her lips. “I’ll tell you your fortune if you do.” Small beads of sweat formed along her hairline. “I don’t need to look at your hands to know that you will have lots of money. Lots! And I see a lover, a beautiful man. How passionately you will love him. But, oh no, there’s conflict!” She pierced my eyes with her pitch-black stare and I began to feel dizzy.
“I don’t believe in that nonsense,” I said.
“You don’t believe in your destiny? You’re a strange girl!”
That instant Julia and Alina burst into the kitchen, and Delia pulled the bottle out of my hands. She stepped back, and put it to her lips.
“Delia, you promised!” Julia said, while Alina gave me dirty looks.
“I’ll just take a very small shot,” Delia said. Julia and Alina lunged toward her, but Delia was already drinking. She closed her eyes as the thick transparent liquid slid into her mouth. When she reopened them, the dark mirror of her pupils had been replaced by a mischievous glint. Julia sighed, and yanked the bottle away from her. Alina clicked her tongue.
I stepped outside into the patio. A few feet ahead, the velvety surface of the pool rocked softly, dappled with the shade of bushes and trees, and the sky was turning pink behind the blue line of distant mountains. Virginia sat at the table cooling herself with a small lacquered fan. Her face was drawn, forlorn, with a sort of crippling fatigue, as if she had lived far too long on this earth.
* * *
“For God’s sake, isn’t this woman a consummate drunk?” I say when I get back to Julia, who’s still getting things out of the car.
Julia ignores me. She gathers a stack of old newspapers and loads them onto my unwarned arms. “We’ll need these for wrapping.”
“Julia! I just asked an elemental question.”
She sighs. “Yes, she did have an alcohol problem, but she pulled herself together in the end. And she got handed down the gift after her mother’s death. Now she’s a powerful healer, even more so because she’s had to overcome an addiction.”
I’m aghast. “Great. We just bought a gazillion bottles of liquor, and this woman is going to drink them all and bless the house.”
Julia eyes me with fury. “What’s the matter? Can’t people have a past? I told you she’s clean now. It is some kind of poetic irony that someone who’s been immersed in shit would come to cleanse our house, don’t you think? After all, it takes knowing one’s demons to be able to lug someone else’s out. Specially when it comes to big, fat, hairy, and thoroughly revolting specimens like our own.”
Julia has her moments with words, when she rises above her grouchy persona and puts together metaphors that can be sh
arp and amusing. But today she’s just full of crap.
“Look,” I say, exercising my utmost patience. “Let’s rethink this for a moment. We can still call it off. We’ll pay her, of course; make her some coffee and take her back home. In exchange, I promise to devote all my energy in the coming months to moving this sale along. I’ll look for another agency, advertise it independently on the Internet, hire someone to give an overall coat of paint and fix a few things here and there. And of course, do a thorough clean-out of the property.”
Julia eyes me with disdain. “What, you think that with all your brilliant business skills you’re going to solve the problem?”
“I’m sure that if I put my mind to it, and if we adjust the price, we’ll sell. Yes.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Julia scans my face with narrow eyes. “Don’t you realize this whole thing is beyond us? Have we even sorted out the damned place in these two years? I’m not even sure we’ve emptied the refrigerator all this time. Don’t you see? We can’t deal with it, we’re petrified.”
She pauses for a beat and looks away.
“He’s still here, you know.”
“C’mon Julia, isn’t that going a bit too far?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
We lock eyes. I feel the skin on my arms contracting into goose bumps. I say, “Sure he’s here. So is Mother. And anyone else who’s ever lived in the house is also imprinted somewhere in its memory.”
“Don’t compare. Mother is here as an angel. Possibly the only angel the house has known. But he’s quite a different matter.” Julia lowers her voice. “Listen. I had to come last week to let the electric company in and I could hardly walk through the rooms. I just wanted to scream. Even the electricians made a comment on the weirdness of the place. I didn’t even dare open the door to Father’s study.”
I take a deep breath. I’m too overwhelmed to say anything. It’s been a long time since the thought of the study crept into my mind and overshadowed my mood. But I totally see how Julia couldn’t open it up. That room was the last bastion of Father’s desperation, the last refuge of his self-hounded mind. It is the darkest room in the house.
“Anna, can’t you stop questioning everything to the last detail? Why does your opinion always sound so weighty, so practical, so know-it-all? Just suspend judgment and trust me for once, will you? Just this once.”
I stare at Julia and realize I’m beginning to feel exhausted with all this arguing. I wonder if it’s worth keeping up my resistance. The reality is that all three of us have been unable to approach the house. We still haven’t managed to remove the smallest piece of furniture, not even one book, a trivial ceramic vase, or a washcloth. The closets in Father’s room are intact, his old electric shaver sits in the bathroom; his coat still hangs on the peg behind the door. The house is exactly as it was the day he was taken to hospital, a preserved mausoleum. This might actually be an opportunity for the three of us to regroup and start sorting things out in good old practical fashion.
“All right, let’s just go through with it then,” I say.
* * *
Back in the kitchen, Delia is sitting at the table in a large chair. At her side stands a short man dressed in white. Julia and I deposit all the bags on the table, and the small suitcase at her feet.
“This is Constantine,” Julia says, casually. “He’s going to be helping Delia today.”
Constantine looks at me, and nods. He is a youngish fellow, with a small chubby body, scanty light brown hair, and a peculiar face that sort of ends up in a pout. The skin over his cheeks is marked with acne scars, and he has a squint on his right eye that makes it stare off toward the wall; a sort of strabismic eye, with an independent life of its own. It adds to his disquieting appearance. Where has Constantine come from? Was he in the back of the car minutes ago? How come I hadn’t even seen him when I was helping Delia out?
“Constantine,” I echo.
“Yes, that’s me,” he says, perking up. “I’m sort of the sorcerer’s apprentice.” His strange face breaks into a shy, candid smile.
Delia snorts with laughter. “Sorcerer’s apprentice! That’s a good one! Come on, Constant, get to work, there’s a lot to be done. We have to hurry if we want to finish by today. I can already feel this is going to be a big job.” She seems to be totally at home, sitting here in our kitchen as if she owns the place. She turns to me. “One thing I’m going to need, dear, is a large pot of real strong coffee, with this heat and all. In Cuba we never used to start anything without first drinking coffee. The sacred brown liquid that sanctifies all action under the scorching sun.”
As I set about making coffee, I sense a strange, deep unease. Something in me is conscious of an inevitable drift already pulling us all onto the tracks of an unknown adventure ahead. A thought pricks my mind. This is my last chance to turn around, pick up my bag, and walk out of the house.
But I don’t.
Instead, I pour the coffee into the filter basket and snap down the lid.
CHAPTER 3
Julia sits at the table across from Delia. “Can you give us a rundown on the day’s plan?”
Delia’s eyes gleam with restrained laughter. “Oh, Julia, my dear, beautiful, ravishing Julia, how impatient you are, how much in a hurry to sell your house. How can I give you the day’s plan when we are working with Los Santos, the Saints, and El Espíritu Santo, the Holy Spirit? You can’t tell them when to do things, they decide the time and the place, when to start and when to finish. So, NO!” Delia bangs her fist on the table, making us both jump. “From now on there is no schedule and you’ll just need to wait until THEY decide it’s over. All right?”
I place a cup of coffee and a sugar pot on the table in front of her, and she stirs three spoonfuls of white granules into her cup.
She savors her first sip. “That having been cleared up, I shall give you a rundown on the rules of the day. Number one, from now on, nobody touches anything related to el trabajo—the job—unless I request it. Number two, nobody drinks alcohol or smokes inside the property until we are done. And most importantly, number three, nobody—NOBODY, you hear? Nobody follows us into the rooms where Constant and I are working—under no circumstance. And nobody goes into any of the rooms that have already been cleaned. All right? So now, clear off somewhere else, because Constant and I are going to build the altar right here in the kitchen. I’ll call you down when it’s ready.” Delia stands up from her chair and grabbing her cane, pokes Julia playfully to prompt her to get up and leave. “Oh, and one more thing—bring me another bunch of flowers from the garden.”
Julia gasps. “More flowers?”
“You’ve been cheap with the flowers,” Delia says. “We need more. Don’t you know they will represent Los Muertos, the spirits of the dead that inhabit and bless the house? Do you want them to feel short-changed? Off you go!”
“But, Delia, the garden is barren; it hasn’t been watered for a couple of years. There’s no flowers left,” Julia says in a whiny voice.
“Bring anything green then, tree branches, something.”
“The only flowers left are oleanders,” I say. “They survive drought.”
Delia stares at me for a moment, pensive. We all wait on her, full of suspense.
“But, Delia, aren’t oleanders . . .” Constantine starts to say with a small voice.
Delia lifts a hand to indicate he should hold his thought. Then she says, “Oleanders will be fine, given the circumstances. Please bring in a decent bunch of them.”
Julia and I fumble around the kitchen drawers for a set of clippers, but only find a set of large shears, and we make for the garden. Constantine closes the kitchen door behind us.
We walk along the veranda toward the giant willow tree where a bunch of old wicker furniture basks in the shade under its long, sweeping branches. At the far end, tall boxwood hedges border the rows of oleander bushes sprinkled with bright flowers that shimmer in the
sun. I trail behind Julia and observe her long body, her slim, tanned legs, her sandaled feet brushing over the parched lawn. Her strawberry-blond hair blazes against the sunlight, refracting golden rays that spill over her orange shirt and white capri pants. There is something especially radiant about Julia today, an unusual sheen that speaks of change, of some new opportunity ahead. But at the same time she looks wrapped up in herself, forlorn. I want to ask her many questions, I know she’s going through something, I know she’s thinking about Alina. But it’s not easy to get Julia talking; she tends to be a miser with personal information these days. I just follow behind, shears heavy in my hand.
When we get to the oleander bushes, we stand for a moment, unsure of how to approach felling the thick stems with their clusters of fuchsia-colored flowers. If Spain had to have a national flower, at least the south of the Peninsula, and more recently in the central plain, it would be oleanders. Their beauty combined with their hardiness have made them popular in landscaping, not just in private gardens, but also along hundreds of miles of highways and roads. They sway in the wind along roadsides and freeways as one whizzes past in cars, their flowers gleaming under the sun, their stalks rooted deep in arid, rainless soil. But viewed from close by, there’s a hostility about them. Their dark green leaves grow in clusters and are narrow and leathery; their stems are covered with an oily, sticky substance that gives out a rancid stench, contradicting the sweet, intoxicating scent of the flowers.
