The man by the counter clucked his tongue, ran a finger under his nose, and called out, “You hear what she said, Belcacem?”
The Arab turned around, “Shut up. Look what the girl’s doing out there.”
His companion went over to him, and they stared at the girl through the strings of bamboo beads that served as a curtain. She was seated quietly under the arbor with an empty bottle in front of her. It had been filled with gasosa, a lemon-lime soda water. Her eyes were closed, and her hand was inside her blouse, touching her breast. The old woman turned on the faucet again. When the girl outside heard the sound of water, she opened her eyes and glanced around with a frightened look.
“She asked for an anise,” Violeta said, all excited. “When I asked if she wanted it straight or with water, she gave me a strange look, like she just dropped from the moon. I don’t think she’s all there.”
The old woman came out from behind the counter and looked through the beaded curtain at the girl.
“She must not be from around here,” Violeta said. “I asked her again how she wanted her anise and she said, ‘Bring me some gasosa.’ Must’ve changed her mind. As I was walking away, I turned back, ’cause I thought she said something. But it wasn’t to me.” She paused, raised her head, and looked at the men. “She was talking to herself.” Violeta stopped drying her hands on her apron and started laughing, a squeaky laugh that sounded like a rat.
“I’ll get her chattering, mestressa, you’ll see. Bring us some wine. Come along, Belcacem.”
He pulled aside the bamboo beads and walked out, the Arab following him. When they reached the table, the girl skittered like a frightened animal.
“No reason to be scared, princess. He’s black, but he’s got a good heart.”
They sat down at her table. She stared at them. One of her eyes had a burst blood vessel, and her black, oily hair fell across her face. She brushed it aside with a bony hand, her fingers extended as if they were made of stone. A rose petal floated down onto the table. The thick smell of burning oil wafted from the kitchen, blending with the perfume of evening and roses.
Violeta placed three glasses and a bottle of wine on the table. She went back inside, but stopped at the threshold, staring curiously at them, her mouth open, eyes round. She slipped a hand under her skirt and absentmindedly scratched her thigh. The beaded strings of the curtain flapped against each other, making a sound like the clacking of lace bobbins. It kept her from hearing anything outside. She watched the Arab hand the girl a glass, but she shook her head. After the two men had drunk and refilled their glasses, the girl picked up hers and raised it to her lips. It seemed as if she were going to hold it there forever, but finally she downed it in one sip, her eyes shut. Belcacem whispered in her ear. Only the back of the other man was visible. From time to time his shoulders shook as if he were laughing.
The old woman came out of the kitchen and went behind the counter, locked the drawer, and pocketed the key.
“So is that how you help me fix supper, Violeta, you lazy good-for-nothing? Leave the men alone; they’re in the mood for playing around.”
Reluctantly Violeta walked away and entered the smoke-filled kitchen. She took off the white apron she used for waiting on customers and put on the navy blue one hanging behind the door. She lifted the lid on the frying pan and stirred the potatoes. Some had burned. Through the window the sky was mauve-colored with a band of pink in the distance. The patio was darkening. The old woman switched on the light. The glasses on the sideboard and the aluminum pans hanging on the wall started to glimmer.
Suddenly, outside, they heard cries and the sound of breaking glass.
“You beast!”
Violeta ran out of the kitchen, followed by the old woman, and they stood at the door to the patio. The Arab had both hands around the girl’s arm and was twisting it, to make her drop the broken bottle. She was struggling, hitting his face furiously with her free hand. The other man was wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. There was blood on the table and on the ground. “You beast!” Finally the broken bottle dropped. “Leave her alone. Can’t you see she’s got the devil in her? Leave her alone.” The girl let out a scream as she stood there panting, rubbing her hurt arm. Then she slowly walked away. When she reached the road, she took off running. Violeta felt her head spinning, but the old woman gave her a shove, “Come on, clean the table, and make it snappy.” When she saw the blood up close, her eyes filmed over and everything whirled about. She could hear a distant voice, “Just what we needed, a beast like her.” Then she heard nothing more.
•
She lay on the ground, facing the river, beneath the iron bridge. Everything was dark: sky and water. Slowly, the damp air spread a thick fog that enveloped the darkest shadows in a milky sea. Her hair was wet, her legs cold. A green light from the bridge wounded the water near her feet. She removed a handkerchief from her pocket, unbuttoned her blouse, and placed it between her breast and the wet blouse. Feeling better, she closed her eyes.
The river made a dull noise, like someone breathing, broken occasionally by a secret splash. Not even the hum of an insect or the screech of a bird could be heard. Far downstream, muffled by the weight of the air, the intermittent echoes of a motor reached her, creating the impression of a pulsing shadow. From the other side of the bridge came the clear whistle of a maneuvering locomotive and the metallic clank of freight cars hitting each other. The silence had unshackled the sounds and lessened her unease, leaving her with only a slight tension in her stomach and an acid taste behind her parched lips.
She opened her eyes and noticed that at the very back of the sky, beyond the river, a reddish aura had permeated the fog. She felt as if she could again hear the wood crackling in the fire, the smoke choking her. For about a month she had been sleeping alone in a shack on the edge of an unused strip of land near the road to the base. She’d lost her job and her house, and the dishwasher in the restaurant where she had worked had offered her the key. It was a late September evening, foggy like tonight, but a foul-smelling, fluid fog rose from the marches, thick with angry mosquitoes. She didn’t hear the two men enter. They must have used a wire to open the door. When she awoke she glimpsed two shadows by her bed. Both of them covered her — first one, then the other. She knew one of them slightly, but she’d never set eyes on the other. Both stank of wine and machine oil. They argued in the dark about who would be first. The door stood open and the wind carried in the fog, conveying the nervous sound of hammering from the base. Then they left. She heard them roaming around outside; they seemed to be laughing. Just as she was about to fall asleep, a gust of smoke made her cough. At first she thought it was the fog. A tentative red glow was coming from the corner where she kept her trunk. By the time she realized that the shack was on fire she could hardly breathe. She had to jump out of the window, unable to salvage anything. The following day at the police station they asked her one question after another. The officer was a young, abrupt man who wanted to know why she was sleeping in the shack, how she had gotten in. She explained about the two men. An inspector accompanied her to the base to see if she could recognize them. She spotted one of the men standing by a crane but didn’t say anything. As they walked along, the inspector kept telling himself, “She ain’t very attractive now.” One morning a month or two later, she vomited for the first time.
•
Suddenly she realized that the wind had stopped. She heard footsteps and held her breath. When she opened her eyes, she saw a shadow approaching. Her heart pounded. The beat was quick and irregular, like a frightened, trapped animal. The man stopped beside her.