“Oh,” asks Carlos. Just like that, without a question mark, without the least bit of curiosity. He only looks toward the far end of the street, wishing he could just disappear.
“Well, the authorities also wanted to prohibit them, amazingly enough, because it seems a few fairies had started wearing them too. What do you say to that?”
“Fairies?”
“Sure, fairies — pansies, you know. Imagine that: nancies dressing up as coquettish young ladies so they could snag a kiss or three from strapping suitors. Droll, isn’t it?”
Carlos’s expression freezes over, but the Professor keeps talking. He is smiling strangely, the sort of smile generally seen only on madmen and clairvoyants.
“Men dressing up like women!” He squeezes Carlos’s shoulder even harder. “What do you make of that? It’s like something out of a book, isn’t it? Tell Georgina about it for me when you see her, which I’ve no doubt will be before too long. And, of course, give her my compliments on that exquisite handwriting of hers.”
He lets go of Carlos’s arm, still smiling. Before moving off, he gives him two indulgent pats on the shoulder. It is a quick, familiar gesture that Carlos recognizes instantly. The sound of a man’s hand on the shoulder of a child.
~ ~ ~
◊
It’s a narrow bed; with a great deal of effort and a fair bit of discomfort, the three of them barely fit into it. Luckily, they rarely go to bed at the same time. Cayetana retires quite early, just after midnight, once it becomes clear that blind Señor Hunter and the old men won’t be coming, or maybe they have come but are interested in something else that night.
Mimí goes to bed at about four in the morning, and by then she’s already taken care of three or four customers. She’s fast. She knows all the tricks to make men climax as quickly as possible and just the right words to say afterward, as they lie in bed, to make them remember their wives or children and want to return home. Tricks of the trade for a whore in 1905—in all likelihood, they are not too different from the tricks of the trade a century later.
But she doesn’t go to bed until daybreak. At least not on the nights that Carlos comes calling. She climbs the stairs to the attic with her shoes in her hand and wipes off her lipstick in front of the broken moon of the mirror. By then, the sun’s first weak rays are bending in through the rafters, and she starts to get undressed without lighting the oil lamp. Cayetana half opens her eyes and glances silently at the girl’s youthful body, the naked heat of her pale skin in the blue dawn. Then she tries to fall back asleep. Sometimes she can’t.
The bed has seemed narrower of late, and the contact with the other girls’ skin more uncomfortable. Mimí and Cayetana take up the whole mattress, and she has to fight a little to carve out a space. Every night is the same thing. She didn’t mind in the past, but now, for some reason, she does. Even the attic seems smaller. And then there are the bars, which she’s never thought about before. She feels as if she can’t breathe, like a bird gasping in the hollow of a closed fist. It annoys her that Mimí snores and Cayetana gets up early to make coffee for the girls. It most especially annoys her that Cayetana dreams so often and so badly, and tosses, and kicks, and sometimes cries out. Afterward she says she was dreaming about the blind man again.
Because she has a hard time falling asleep, she often finds herself pushed to one side of the bed as Mimí and Cayetana fight to stretch out their arms, and she tries to think about happier things. She thinks, for example, about the Holy Week celebrations, when the policemen come to seal up the door of the brothel—“You whores are an affront to Christ every day, but especially so the week He was crucified”—and then she and the rest of the girls get to spend seven days doing whatever they like. She thinks about the days when no customers come at all and they play bingo into the wee hours, and Mimí has to help her fill up her cards. About the sweltering afternoons when Madame Lenotre agrees to take them to a cove in Barranco, two long miles of beach where the wealthy bathe in the sea — they may even come across a man they know, accompanied by his wife and children — and they all leap into the ocean naked, laughing and splashing. She thinks about things like that, images full of sun and afternoon naps and dried beans filling the bingo cards, and if she’s lucky she falls asleep.
But on other nights she can’t help it: the happy memories quickly fade away, to be replaced by thoughts of Madame Lenotre’s account book. Behind her closed eyelids she can almost feel the pages of the book turning, marred with sums and debts she does not understand. She wonders how long it will take her to pay them all before she can be free, and she tells herself maybe one or two years longer. It’s a lucky thing she doesn’t know how to read, much less do sums. If she knew basic addition and subtraction, she would discover that her debt has grown to three hundred sixty-two soles, and that paying off such a figure would take exactly seven years and one hundred forty-eight days, assuming she satisfied three customers a night. And that’s not counting the food or clothing or the annual visit from the doctor to look for — and inevitably find — symptoms of syphilis.
Nine years and two months if she doesn’t work Holy Week and other religious holidays.
Thirteen years and seven months if she continues to eat and drink.
Seventeen and a half years if she gets it into her head to use spermicide.
Twenty-one if she decides to fall ill a couple of times.
Thirty-nine if she bathes every morning.
Forty-five if she’s pregnant even just once.
One hundred fourteen if Mimí finally manages to teach her to read and she too makes a habit of buying the latest installment of The Prince and the Odalisque of the Southern Seas every week.
But luckily she doesn’t know how to count. So she can keep smiling and serenely close her eyes, unaware that every day she lives and breathes means yet another coin owed to the house. Some nights she is so happy, despite the narrow bed and the window bars, that she even ends up thinking about that which cannot be contemplated. She remembers the silver knob on Carlos’s walking stick and wonders whether it would be worth enough to pay her debts, should the young gentleman wish to spend the money on her. She dreams about what she would do if she were free, and finally, before drifting off — though she’s a little embarrassed to admit it — she closes her eyes again, and instead of the account book she sees the young man in a turban. How amusing, Master Carlos in a turban instead of a hat, carrying a saber instead of a walking stick, crossing the fathomless southern seas and then battling his way into the palace harem. Doing everything to reach her and take her away with him. Far from the evil sultan; far from Madame Lenotre.
~ ~ ~
◊
It happens one summer night.
For this scene, the one of repentance and forgiveness, Carlos had frankly expected different circumstances. It would take place in his parents’ mansion. Outside, it would be pouring rain, and beneath the sheets of water José would bang the door knocker and wait. The butler would take one look at his muddy shoes and usher him in through the service entrance. Then a servant would inform Carlos. But he would not come down immediately. In his fantasy there was some reason for the delay, one unrelated to pride or cruelty. The pretext changed from day to day as he reimagined the scene. The other ingredients would remain unchanged: the night, the rain, the muddy shoes, the maid’s scornful expression. He could see himself descending the stairs so clearly that he was even able to identify the suit he was wearing and the title of the book he was holding in his right hand. And as he reached the bottom — after making him wait a very long time — he saw José standing in the parlor, soaked to the bone. José looking at him imploringly, then starting to speak.