2
It all started on an unremarkable Thursday in April, which also happened to be my birthday. That week, I received some terrible news, but I also met a ghost for the first time.
It”s funny how people sometimes die suddenly when you least expect it. You get up and go to work with nothing to suggest that it won’t be a day just like any other. You wake up alive and, by sundown, have joined the ranks of the dead.
Plants never did that to me, which is why I preferred them to people.
“Martha, bring two coffees when you can,” Pedro said down the phone. Behind him, the large window of his office offered a spectacular view of the dense morning traffic on one of the main arteries of the capital. I sat across from him in my pencil skirt, holding my blue pen in my hand and pretending to take notes on everything he said.
A few minutes later, Martha came in with the coffee. She diligently served Pedro his coffee but practically threw mine at me, spilling half the contents of the cup over the saucer.
“Sorry,” Martha apologized with a fake smile before she left, slamming the door behind her.
My boss watched her leave with a mysterious, almost seductive smile, and I sighed resignedly.
Ah, Pedro.
The man had many virtues and two defects.
Among his virtues was a gaze capable of melting away the suspicions and uncertainties of any woman, the voice of a radio presenter, and the ability to make you forget your name if you ended up in his bed―something that, given all of the above, had happened to me more often than I would have wanted.
His two main flaws, in no particular order, were his fickle nature and that he was married.
“Martha hates me,” I commented, trying to sip my coffee without dripping it down my blouse.
“She may not be the most courteous person I know, but she’s probably the best secretary in Asemad and certainly the most discreet.”
“And I thought I held that title,” I said with a half-smile.
Our brief morning coffee was known to the rest of the insurance company as a coordination meeting, although I preferred to think of it as a date without wine. It had become our daily custom, our secret ritual, and I treasured it as my favorite part of the day. It was the only time when Pedro”s office door would close just for me, and he would allow me half an hour to talk to him tête-à-tête before diving back into the daily grind.
“Shall we have dinner together tonight,” I asked with a wink.
“I can”t today,” he answered. “I promised Almudena I’d be home soon. She”s going to make huevos a la flamenca[2]. You know I can’t resist eggs with ham.”
“Ah. Okay.” I frowned. As always, the other woman”s name was like a dagger in my chest, although from an objective point of view, the other woman was me. “But today is my birthday...”
“I”m sorry, I really am.” He looked at me with melancholy, almost with empathy. “But you understand that I can”t make up an excuse every two days, or Almudena might get suspicious.”
“Of course.”
Of course, my ass.
There were many things I didn”t understand about this world. A good example, which I saw every day at work, was the people who spent their salary on reserving a plot in the cemetery instead of squandering it on roses and champagne while they still could. It was shocking and hard to explain, though not as hard as the mystery of why Pedro was still with Almudena if he didn”t love her. It would have been easier to explain the meaning of E=mc2 or the enigma of the pyramids.
Pedro used to describe his wife as a bored housewife who spent her days reading the tabloids, trying bizarre weight loss diets she didn”t need, and attending spinning classesin 1980s-style Lycra outfits. However, nothing in his attitude indicated that he intended to ditch her any time soon. Almudena was a thorn in my side, but one of those that become entrenched, and all you can do is plaster on a smile for the rest of the world whether you like it or not.
Of course, Almudena was stunning. I was funny, quirky, cute, and all those things that describe girls who aren’t ugly enough to be defined as interesting, but not pretty enough to be officially beautiful. Almudena was beautiful. Not only that, she was also refined and elegant, basically everything that I was not. But unlike me, she wasn’t young or daring.
“Vesna, you know that I’ll think of you all night long, wherever I am,” said Pedro in a hoarse voice.
He got up to check that the door was firmly closed. Then he grabbed my wrists and sat me on the photocopier: a photocopier that, in the last few months, had seen everything. He pulled up my skirt and kissed me ardently, stroking his hands up my stockings from my ankles as if trying to make up for the rebuff he’d just given me on my actual birthday. I pulled back with a groan and inadvertently pressed one of the buttons. The noise of the blank copies coming out of the machine startled us, ruining the moment, and I slipped out of his embrace, smoothing down my skirt and tugging up my stockings. I was in no mood for kisses.
“We both have a lot of work to do,” I replied, blowing him a kiss over my shoulder as I turned the doorknob to leave.
He shrugged, knowing my tantrum wouldn’t last long, as usual.
When I walked into the office I shared with Martha, she looked at me as if I were a sewer rat that had just snuck into the room.
“You could at least button your blouse,” she hissed.
Tutting, I shook my head. I hadn”t even noticed. Pedro”s ability to work his way underneath women”s clothing was Houdini-like. I straightened the collar of my shirt and readjusted my shoes: stilettosthat I could never have afforded on my paltry salary and which, of course, had been a gift from Pedro.
“How can you sleep at night with a clear conscience?” Martha muttered, glaring at me.
“Has the mailman come by yet?” I retorted, ignoring her question.
“I don”t know what it is that you give him,” she continued, like a jackhammer, “but his wife is much prettier than you, and unlike you, she”s an honest lady.”
“Maybe that”s precisely the problem.”
Sometimes, my tongue was faster than my brain. I regretted playing along right away.
“You’re nothing but a pathetic corporate climber, Vesna. Everyone at Asemad knows it. But sleeping with your boss isn”t the best way to build a career unless you”re interested in... other career fields.”
“Mind your own business, will you?” I said dismissively. But despite my feigned indifference, I felt tears threatening to well up. I stood up before she noticed. “I”m going downstairs to get Pedro”s newspaper. I”ll be right back.”
I managed to keep my dignity for the rest of the day and was thankful when it was finally time to leave. I walked to the subway on auto-pilot and waited as usual at Menéndez Pelayo station. When the train pulled in, it was full, so I found a pole to hang onto. As the train set off, I reflected on the course my life had taken in the last few months. Since my arrival in Madrid almost a year ago, I hadn’t made friends with anyone, except for the strangers Pedro attracted whenever we went to a bar: people who shared adventures that one rarely wanted to remember the following morning.
At that moment, squashed between dozens of faceless strangers in the stifling carriage, I would have given anything to be with my good friend Indira. To share my woes and cry on her shoulder.
The train lurched, and the man in front of me stumbled. Without thinking, I dropped my bag and grabbed his arm as he fell.
“Are you alright?” I asked, helping him up.
“Vesna?”
The man turned around and looked at me in surprise. He was wearing jeans and a fancy coat and had a remotely familiar air about him.
“José María?” I asked uncertainly.
“Yes.” He bent down to pick up my bag and handed it back to me. “It”s been a long time.”
“It has,” I commented, finally recognizing him as a classmate from high school. “What a coincidence. What brings you to Madrid?”
“I came for the Tourism Fair. I work in a travel agency now.”
“Then you have the wrong train,” I replied with a smile. “This one doesn”t go to IFEMA. ”
“Don”t worry; it”s not the first time I’ve been to the capital. And you? Why are you here? You look really well, by the way.”
“I”ve been working here for a year.”
His eyes widened, and he looked expectantly at me.
“Really? Did you finally set up your own flower shop?”
He probably still remembered the Vesna who collected dandelions on her way to class and made wreaths for her friends. The one who dreamed of decorating weddings and events, running a chic flower shop in the center of town.
José María couldn’t have known that this girl had been dead for a decade, buried under the weight of her dire past and erroneous decisions.
“Oh, no... I”m a secretary in an insurance company. I work in the… funeral department. Burial expenses, booking the plots in cemeteries... all very cheerful. But we have black tulips in the bathroom, and sometimes I order fresh flower wreaths for clients,” I added as if that justified my sudden interest in the funeral world.
“Interesting,” he lied politely, unable to hide his disappointment. “Well, I guess it”s not so different from a travel agency.”
I smiled, but there was no joy in my smile.
“It”s a journey we all end up taking, that’s for sure.”
A tinny voice announced the next stop: “Attention, curved station. Please pay attention to the gap as you disembark.”
“Well, this is my stop,” José María said, kissing me on the cheek. He thrust a business card into my hand and then turned. As he pushed past two teenagers with backpacks, he looked back at me. “Call me, we can meet for a drink. I”ll be here until Monday.” I nodded, watching as the doors closed behind him, and thought about Jose Maria and my high school days for the rest of the drive. When I got home, the only things that greeted me were my plants and a pile of unpaid bills on the hall table. In the mailbox, there was also a notice from my landlord informing me of the rent increase starting in June.
Fantastic. I could barely afford the apartment as it was on my salary.
I started watering the begonias, which had managed to bloom despite the lack of light in the apartment.
“Hello, my pretties,” I said, “How was your day? “
They didn”t answer me, but I knew they were listening.
I turned on the television, trying to create the illusion that there was someone else with me beside the begonias. I found a chicken breast in the fridge, slightly slimy. I sniffed it: it didn’t smell off, so I tossed it into the pan and reveled in the comforting sizzle of the oil, with one ear on the news in the background.
“The body of Soledad Rodríguez was found yesterday afternoon in her apartment in Mostoles, Madrid. The widow, seventy-two years old, had died several days ago from a cardiac arrest. The neighbors had complained about the smell and alerted the police...”
I quickly changed the channel and put on some music: the plants liked it.
On the screen, a singer pretended to commit suicide in the bathtub after being abandoned by her lover.
I growled in frustration and turned off the TV.
I pulled my phone out of my purse, and my finger hovered over Pedro”s name.
Pedro, who at that moment would be sharing a plate of eggs and ham, and who knows what else, with his wife.
Pedro, whom I was forbidden to call between six in the evening and eight in the morning.
I poured myself a glass of wine and toasted the ghosts of the past, the only guests at my party.
“Happy birthday, Vesna,” I said to myself.
Chink, chink. Through the paper-thin walls, the sound of the neighbor’s laughter filtered in as if mocking me and my pathetic existence.
I sighed and went to get my purse.
I typed in the number on the card without much hope.
“Vesna?” answered the voice on the other end, doubtful.
“Jose Maria, it”s me... I was thinking... What are you doing tonight?”
* * *
José María showed up laden with a tray of sweet Bartolillo[3] pastries.
“I always buy them when I come to Madrid,” he said, placing the offering on the kitchen table, “I don”t know if you eat sweets, but...”
I put a finger on his lips, silencing the unnecessary chatter. I hadn”t called him for conversation; I thought my message had been clear enough. He nodded, surprised but not annoyed. I broke a Bartolillo in half and let the cream drip down my hand, licking it as I stared into his eyes.
His smile widened. He bit into the other half, and white power smeared his face.
“I like them,” I said without taking my eyes off him.
He approached me, his lips dusted with powdered sugar.
We were interrupted by the buzzing of my phone.
“Pedro,” was my first thought. “He”s changed his mind because it”s my birthday.”
I looked at José María, embarrassed, and moved to the corner beside the fridge before answering the phone.
“Vesna...”
I collapsed against the wall when I realized that it wasn”t Pedro, but my mother. I hadn”t heard from her in six months, and she’d been ignoring my birthday for years.
“Mom, it”s not a good time,” I muttered, glancing sideways at the stranger eating pastries in my kitchen.
“I know, but...”
“I”ll call you back,” I said curtly.
Six. Months.
After six months of silence, six hours of waiting would not kill her.
She hadn’t even said happy birthday.
José María approached me with feline stealth and moved the device away from my ear, sliding it onto the bench.
“Your mother?” he whispered with a raised eyebrow.
“No. I no longer have a family.”
“Well, then, you can call her later,” he said, his eyes boring into mine.
We didn’t make it to the bedroom with our clothes on.
The whole time, I thought of Pedro, imagining him in bed with his beautiful yet boring wife. Sex with José María was quick and straightforward, as sweet as a cinnamon roll filled with vengeance. In his eyes, almost as dark as Pedro”s, I could almost see an old memory playing. A memory of the night I had been dragged into a game that I would never win: the night Pedro drove me back home with far too much alcohol in his system, dropped to one knee, and swore to leave Almudena for me. All because another man had looked at me one too many times at the disco, which had enraged Pedro, and I had given him the first false ultimatum of many that would follow.
“Let me find the right time to tell her...” he had whispered in my ear that night. “I will, Vesna, I swear. But don”t leave me in the lurch afterward. Promise that you’ll always be faithful to me. Only to me,” he had begged in a tone so unbecoming of him.
Always faithful.
The audacity.
A chuckle escaped me, bringing me back to the present.
“What was that?” José María whispered, sounding fearful.
I wondered if he had realized that I’d been seeing someone else”s features on his face all night.
“Nothing, I just remembered a joke,” I replied smoothly, covering his nakedness with the sheet.
“No, not that,” he said with a tremor in his voice. “I saw something move, and then I heard two laughs at once. One was yours, but the other came from... from that corner.”
He sat upright and pointed a trembling finger at the chair, which was piled high with a mountain of unfolded clothing vaguely resembling a human form.
“Even the chairs have no respect for me.” I shook my head.
“I”m sure it wasn”t the chair,” he replied somberly. “I swear there was something there.”
“You can leave whenever you want, you know…”
It wasn”t the first time a man had made excuses to get the hell out of there as soon as possible, but this was definitely the weirdest one I”d heard so far.
I turned away from him, letting him decide for himself. He knew where the door was.
I fell asleep instantly and didn”t wake up until dawn when I was startled by the shrill ringtone of my phone that I’d left in the kitchen. If it was Pedro, he could rot for all I cared. At least until nine o”clock, when I would have to take his damn coffee to the office.
I continued to ignore the call, but whoever it was, they were persistent. I was surprised to see that Jose Maria was still lying under the blanket despite the supposed paranormal presence that had scared the life out of him so much the night before. I shuffled down the hallway in my underwear, rubbing my eyes, and picked up the phone.
It was Indira. My best friend from childhood who had lived next door to me when I lived in Valencia, two hundred miles from Madrid. “Another one who forgot my birthday,” I thought bitterly.
“God, it’s early,” I grunted as I answered the phone. “What’s up?”
“Vesna,” she replied in a somber tone, “Have you heard from your mother?”
“My mother?” I stifled a yawn, still half asleep. I heard water running in the bathroom. José María, coming back from the dead. “She called me last night, yes... I have to call her back now that you mention it.”
Silence.
“Indira? Are you still there?”
“Vesna... your mother...” I heard her swallow. “She”s in Requena hospital, at least I think she is....”
“Requena? What the hell is she doing in a hospital an hour away from her house? What’s happened to her?”
“The police came looking for you this morning. Because no one answered, they knocked on my door, asking for Beatriz and for you. They didn”t want to tell me what it was about, so I called a colleague in the emergency room. But she couldn”t give me much information because I’m not family.”
“But why is she there? What happened? I didn”t know she was sick.”
“No, she’s not sick, Vesna... She’s had an accident, and...”
“And what?” I asked, almost shouting at her.
“Well... I don”t know if she survived… and I think you should come home.”