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Fiction

Ancient Plumbing

By Milagros Socorro
Translated from Spanish by Rosalind Harvey
Milagros Socorro shops for personalized customer service.

On the islands of the Caribbean, the afternoons are long and silent. The little islands, where no one speaks Spanish and which don’t look like countries, either. Just islands. Patches of earth wreathed in sunlight.

A few years ago, residing in one of these places, could be found Ana Cristina Arzolain, celebrated in certain circles in Caracas for having refused to take part in the Miss Venezuela contest, despite the main organizer’s assurances that the crown was hers and that all she had to do was model a gauze dress. Her mother had notoriously interrupted the messenger in the middle of his sentence and, without raising her voice, dispatched him from her big rambling house with several stories in Altamira.

This afternoon, the sun was beating down on the world so fiercely that the leaves on the trees looked as if they’d just been dipped in liquid gold. The difference in temperature between the outside and the inside of the premises of the luxury store where Ana Cristina was the manager might easily have been 20 degrees. Sheer madness. The interior assistant, as the shop’s only employee was curiously known (perhaps to indicate that his responsibilities did not include conveying packages to customers’ vehicles, something he did, in any case, do), was making the most of the lack of customers to take from his pocket a woolen cloth, much like a rag that had been washed many times, and carefully polish the edges of the alcoves in which, locked away like relics, the most opulent items of stock were arranged. This week the new collection of bags and purses had arrived from the parent company in Europe, articles whose distinguishing feature was the—as it were—equine tone of their design. The men’s wallets as well as the women’s purses and the overnight bags all had the imposing look of leatherwork typical of a stable; straps everywhere, long strips of fabric to be worn across the chest, bronze rivets, dark leather that looked as if it had been liberally bathed in the foamy sweat of beasts.

In the glass display cabinet at the back of the store were the sunglasses; veritable jewels, almost all of them incrusted with precious stones. Each pair rested on a kind of mirrored tray raised up on a pedestal, so that the spectacles looked like the appurtenances of saints. Purses, cases, and glasses were all surrounded by a series of tiny lamps, whose light was reflected in the metallic details and many faces of the gemstones. Otherwise, the shop’s illumination tended toward semi-darkness, a circumstance favorable to Ana Cristina, the sight of whose faded beauty testified to the clumsy advances of a wicked man and several periods of exile.

The interior assistant was a young fair-haired man. He had been on the Cuban fencing team until he’d defected during his first trip abroad. One afternoon he slipped away from the group of athletes and amused himself by looking in the window of the shop run by Ana Cristina. His mother had told him about such wonders in their house in Vedado, but he had never before seen anything like them The objects were beyond compare, but what made him catch his breath was the image of Ana Cristina, standing out against a mustard-colored valise, seated at her fine wooden desk, and gazing into the middle distance, as if quizzing fate about why she had failed to defy her mother and become a beauty queen. Why her father’s fortune had been frittered away, and why her ex-husband had played such an enthusiastic part in such devastation. The lack of expression freed her face from its usual beauty. Her hair fell to her shoulders, vying with the magnificent purses. Her pale complexion, the lashes like silken spears that fell languidly over the dark shadows beneath her eyes; her eyes themselves, of an indeterminate color between olive green and Carúpano rum, and her neck sprinkled with tiny moles; it all announced the presence of a great lady who—God knows how—had arrived on this little island where apparently no one appreciated the splendor of solitude. If he was going to be a castaway, he would be so in the shadow of this woman. He went in. He introduced himself. He asked for work. He made it clear that he would never go back to Cuba, or to his previous life. Moreover, he would not go back to life, period, after hearing her upper-class Caracas accent (like that of little girls determined to be so for ever). His name was Saúl Espí and he would occupy the establishment’s only vacant position, that of interior assistant, filled until now by women; American women, to be precise, and all rather fond of gin, which was what had led to their successive dismissals. And so when Saúl Espí introduced himself as an athlete, Señora Arzolain hired him on the spot, figuring that at least she wouldn’t have to deal with any more hangovers. Another factor in his recruitment was the Cuban’s way of moving and his precise way of handling things. The shop needed someone like that.

Noon was not far off. It was Friday and the month also ended this weekend. Ana Cristina looked toward the door of the shop as she ran a finger up and down the small groove connecting her nose to her upper lip. She still hadn’t closed the deal she’d spent several days preparing the ground for. Outside, the sidewalk and the big square in front of the shop’s façade shimmered in the heat. She thought no one was going to venture out here in such conditions. At that moment, the telephone rang, with a buzzing sound directed more toward the carpet, which would quickly absorb it, than at the irritable ears of the clientele. It was a ringing designed to complete the sensation of luxury by creating the ambience of a voyage: it had something of a distant, transatlantic feel to it, at once marine and remote.

“No, Mamá,” Ana Cristina murmured. “As soon as I have the money, which will be very soon, I’ll deposit it and I’ll call you.”

“. . . ”

“That can’t be right. What did the men say to you?”

“. . .”

“That repair’s still under warranty. Call them, please. Complain. I paid them a fortune only the other day. Do you have a number for these people? No? Mamá, for God’s sake. Get Obdulia on the phone.”

“. . .’”

“Hey, Obdu, what’s wrong?”

“. . .”

“Did you have time to get all the carpets up?”

“. . .”

“Did you at least manage to take the paintings down?”

“. . .”

“Why didn’t you call Cristóbal? OK, well open the windows. And you could also take the pedestal fans upstairs and leave them switched on until Monday.”

“. . .”

“Upstairs? My God, Obdu. Stay with Mamá on the first floor. Make up the guest bedroom and stay in there with her. Give the phone to my mother, please.”

“. . .”

“Mamá, Obdulia says the lights on the second floor were giving off sparks when you tried to turn them on. Honey, what on earth? There could have been a dreadful fire.”

“. . .”

“Don’t worry. We can fix all that.”

“. . .”

“No, Mamá. That’s not going to happen, I promise.”

“. . .”

“Don’t cry, please. It’ll all be OK, you’ll see. Did you take the clothes out? Don’t forget all our documents are in the same box.”

“. . .”

“You see? Not everything’s been ruined. We’ll sort it out, just you wait and see.”

“. . .”

“I’ll call you in a bit.”

Saúl, who had kept his back turned while Ana Cristina spoke in a barely audible voice on the telephone, turned around now and looked at her, his chin almost touching his chest, his eyebrows raised: the shop bell had sounded, activated by the official. She was back. Ana Cristina pressed the button that released the latch on the door. The woman entered, followed by two bodyguards dressed identically (camouflage pants and red jackets with the Venezuelan flag embroidered on the back), with two cell phones, one in each hand like the infamous gunslinger Juan Charrasqueado. Ana Cristina was about to stand up to go and serve her, but the new arrival made a brisk movement with her hand to detain her.

“How are you, Saulito?” she said.

“Very well, thank you, Ma’am,” Saúl replied, approaching her, his trousers barely rustling.

For the first time ever, she was accompanied. On the first occasion, Ana Cristina had not even moved from her seat, letting Saúl take care of what she thought would be a surgical strike, as the two employees called it in their secret jargon: when someone entered the shop then left straight away. The manager took pride in being able to tell with just a glance who were the potential customers and who had merely come to ogle. If the latter insisted on asking questions, pointlessly taking up her time, the solution was to reply, “too much . . .” when they asked how much something cost. One had to intone the phrase just so, leaving the tail end of the sentence “for you” hanging in the air. But the message had to be clear: “it’s too much for people like you.” And this is what Ana Cristina had said to this woman, still without rising from her chair, the first time she had come into the shop. Very soon she would realize that the woman’s finances were not as precarious as one might deduce from her manners and appearance, nor as buoyant as the official herself had come to believe in light of the sudden increase in her income, which grew almost at the pace she signed her name on more documents. “It’s a lot of money,” Ana Cristina had chosen, that first time, to inform her, walking catlike over to the little clutch bag the official was examining greedily. “It costs five thousand five hundred dollars.”

It was, in truth, too much. Even so, the woman came back. And she looked at everything again, at great length, without asking the cost. She was spellbound by the shop, by all the treasures that could be hers. So much so that she had returned a third time.

The junior minister walked decisively over to a set of suitcases that went with the purse displayed in a privileged position in the shop window. With evil sensuality, Espí set to unzipping the largest case and holding it open in front of the official’s eyes so that she could see the compartments, the pockets, the secret sections, the linings of varying thicknesses . . . He put on a pair of woolen gloves to remove a snakeskin purse from its case and show it to her without sullying it with his fingerprints. He showed her all of the sunglasses, letting her try them on and listening to her daydream about the possibility—oh!—of buying a few little tokens for the people who had helped her get where she was. The bodyguards traipsed around the shop, peering outside lethargically every now and then, their gaze catching on the polished edges of the display cases where they observed each other out of the corners of their eyes. Ana Cristina was fascinated by the woman’s hair, dyed a burgundy color with flashes of tobacco, something she had only ever seen before in a French wine her father had been saving for a special occasion and which, when it was uncorked on the day of her engagement, had turned out to be completely ruined. But the color was unique. A bit like oxidized blood in a test tube. Exactly the same tone as the junior minister’s hair.

“Son of a gun!” howled one of the bodyguards, “look at this!”

The woman turned her head, but only long enough to make clear the disdain she felt for her subordinates and, at the same time, her irritation at having been bothered.

From her desk, Ana Cristina followed the choreography of the two restless bodyguards, whose familiarity with their boss baffled her. A second ring at the door shook her from her thoughts. There she was again. The one they’d all been waiting for.

On the sidewalk outside, a woman was wiping the sweat from her face. And pressing the doorbell insistently. Her Lycra leggings looked as if they’d been galvanized onto her thighs by the sun’s blowtorch. She pushed the door open the second she heard the click as it was unlocked from inside.

“Hello, darling,” she shouted from the threshold in Ana Cristina’s direction.

“How are you?” the manager sighed, placing herself a thousand miles away from the woman, whose hair was three quarters blonde and one quarter—the one attached to her skull—black.

At that moment the telephone began to ring again, as if a tiny submarine were plying the depths of the carpet. With a swift movement, Ana Cristina raised the handset.

“Mamá, I can’t talk now.”

The two visitors froze on the spot and spun around toward the manager to listen to her conversation. Ana Cristina turned her back and lowered her voice still further.

“Tell Obdulia to shut off the stopcock,” she murmured.

“. . .”

“Mamá, a bed can’t float away. Let me speak to Obdulia, please.”

Taking three strides in her cork clogs, the woman in Lycra placed herself beside the junior minister, who greeted her as if they were good friends. They were not. Their dealings with each other were restricted to three previous encounters: two in the shop, and one in the café with little tables in the square outside.

“What’s wrong now, Obdu?”

“. . .”

“Did you cover it with newspaper?”

“. . .”

“OK, let me think . . . put the tablecloths down. And get the sheets out and lay them on the floor. Let me speak to my mother again.”

“. . .”

“Mamá, just let Obdulia do what I’ve told her. On Monday we’ll start doing the repairs. Trust me.”

“. . .”

“Nobody was going to use that christening robe.”

“. . .”

“Take them out of the album and put them in the sun. They’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

“. . .”

“It’s not going to fall down, Mamá. I promise. That’s what pipes always sound like when they’re old.”

“. . .”

“Antique, you’re right. So, just remember, you’re not to start pushing the bed, because you’re . . .”

“. . .”

“Not a recent operation, no, but you’re still frail.”

“. . .”

“Move into the next room.”

“. . .”

“OK, Mamá, well move into Obdulia’s room, then.”

“. . .”

“What’s wrong with it? Please . . . You’re driving me crazy. Does she have scabies or something? Honey, well you’re not exactly . . . Hello . . . Mamá? Hello?’

Saúl watched her from one end of the shop, waiting for her authorization. The woman in Lycra was whispering to the junior minister and now the latter was requesting they open the door to the alcove which housed the Pegasus, probably the most beautiful purse that had ever landed in the Caribbean.

A faint, ingratiating smile appeared on Ana Cristina’s face, and she nodded slightly. Saúl put his hand into the pocket of his vest and took out a little gold key. The glass door with its bronze frame was opened and the junior minister removed the Pegasus with a ceremony reserved for a sacred chalice. The bodyguards approached as if drawn by a secret palpitation (that of the horse’s heart encased within this undeniably exceptional object).

“What a beautiful thing,” the junior minister murmured.

“It is very special,” conceded Ana Cristina, looking down at the tips of her shoes.

“Take a look at this,” the woman in Lycra yelled suddenly, grabbing the Pegasus from the vice-minister’s hands and turning it over to point out a stamp almost hidden in a fold of the leather. Her nails were decorated with tiny little stickers made to look like frost. She used them to drum on the bottom of the purse, then put it back in its place. Then she began to chew her gum again with renewed vigor. It was futile, both the shop’s staff knew, to mention the ban on chewing gum in the establishment.

The Pegasus had returned to the hands of the official, who was swinging it with the gentle lilt used when one dances to San Benito. Saúl waited patiently. The woman in Lycra was strolling round the shop, her charm bracelet jangling noisily.

The telephone rang again, giving the impression of a tiny whale courting its partner underneath the shop floor. Ana Cristina tensed. The junior minister tried to look at the desk where the telephone was, the manager of the shop standing beside it, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Pegasus, by that point back in its case. Saúl looked at Ana Cristina and winked ever so slightly, a sign that the Pegasus had found an owner.

Ana Cristina picked up the phone and, with rare good humor, began telling her mother to hold on just a little longer, that by next week she would have excellent news. But at that moment she fell silent. She had seen the woman in Lycra whispering in the official’s ear, and the latter seemed impressed . . .

“Shall we wrap it for you?” Ana Cristina said, rubbing her hands together halfheartedly, addressing the vice-minister.

The junior minister looked at the Pegasus. She stroked the glass with the tips of her fingers as if it were an animal’s neck. She took a deep breath. And she headed for the door, followed by the woman in Lycra. She didn’t even reply.

A few minutes later, the telephone chimed once again. Ana Cristina let it ring and signaled to Saúl not to bother. She walked over to the desk, but only to pick up her purse. She went out in the direction of the square and headed for the last table of the café, from where she could watch what was going on in a store of some size that sold embroidered tablecloths, lighters, pens, watches, glasses, purses, and suitcases, all designer labels. All fake. The woman in the Lycra moved through the overcrowded space, absolutely in her element. And, flocking around her, a look of bemusement on their faces, were the junior minister and the two bodyguards. They had lost the reverent air of a little earlier, and were passing each other things as if they were melons on their way from farm to truck.

From her table, Ana Cristina could clearly see the ostentatious display being put on by the woman in Lycra to get the potential customers from the “standard showroom” into the one “reserved for special customers,” a tiny space with a glass wall that looked out onto the square, and in which were displayed almost all the same things as in the rest of the store, but at five times the price. A little room, incidentally, where nearly all the exclusive objects from her shop were replicated. A vile offense capable of deceiving anyone not a true connoisseur of the work of the master craftsmen devoted to the best European traditions. The woman in Lycra turned a bag upside down, evidently with the intention of pointing out a stamp “identical” to the one on the original Pegasus. One of the bodyguards removed his red jacket. It was as if the monstrous impending purchase had raised his temperature. He was sweating. He’d get something out of such a prodigious frenzy of acquisitions. Ana Cristina had had enough. She left a bill on the table and walked away.

The taxi dropped her off in front of the Indian restaurant, its quality unnoticed by the tourists. Perhaps it didn’t appeal due to the rundown area it was in, far from anywhere approaching sophistication and from all the urban clean-up initiatives. Nor was it near any of the sites frequented by foreigners. During the taxi ride, Saúl had called her cell phone to give her the details. Her compatriots, the junior minister and the bodyguards, had made several trips to the official car to transport the outrageous number of purchases they had made. The woman in Lycra had blown them kisses from the door of the store, and then danced her way inside. “Reggaeton, to be precise.”

The waiter took the woman from Caracas’ order: two baingan bhartas. And a whisky on the rocks, for now. Ana Cristina was sucking her ice cubes noisily, something she let herself do when she was alone, when the person she was waiting for arrived. She signaled to the waiter to bring a beer over, and leaned back in her chair as her guest sat down in the chair across from her. They looked at each other for a moment. And then, with a melancholy smile, Ana Cristina began to laugh, too, just as the woman in Lycra had started to do the minute she’d flopped onto her seat as if exhausted after a long battle with a solar storm.

“Tuberías Vencidas” © Milagros Socorro. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Rosalind Harvey. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

On the islands of the Caribbean, the afternoons are long and silent. The little islands, where no one speaks Spanish and which don’t look like countries, either. Just islands. Patches of earth wreathed in sunlight.

A few years ago, residing in one of these places, could be found Ana Cristina Arzolain, celebrated in certain circles in Caracas for having refused to take part in the Miss Venezuela contest, despite the main organizer’s assurances that the crown was hers and that all she had to do was model a gauze dress. Her mother had notoriously interrupted the messenger in the middle of his sentence and, without raising her voice, dispatched him from her big rambling house with several stories in Altamira.

This afternoon, the sun was beating down on the world so fiercely that the leaves on the trees looked as if they’d just been dipped in liquid gold. The difference in temperature between the outside and the inside of the premises of the luxury store where Ana Cristina was the manager might easily have been 20 degrees. Sheer madness. The interior assistant, as the shop’s only employee was curiously known (perhaps to indicate that his responsibilities did not include conveying packages to customers’ vehicles, something he did, in any case, do), was making the most of the lack of customers to take from his pocket a woolen cloth, much like a rag that had been washed many times, and carefully polish the edges of the alcoves in which, locked away like relics, the most opulent items of stock were arranged. This week the new collection of bags and purses had arrived from the parent company in Europe, articles whose distinguishing feature was the—as it were—equine tone of their design. The men’s wallets as well as the women’s purses and the overnight bags all had the imposing look of leatherwork typical of a stable; straps everywhere, long strips of fabric to be worn across the chest, bronze rivets, dark leather that looked as if it had been liberally bathed in the foamy sweat of beasts.

In the glass display cabinet at the back of the store were the sunglasses; veritable jewels, almost all of them incrusted with precious stones. Each pair rested on a kind of mirrored tray raised up on a pedestal, so that the spectacles looked like the appurtenances of saints. Purses, cases, and glasses were all surrounded by a series of tiny lamps, whose light was reflected in the metallic details and many faces of the gemstones. Otherwise, the shop’s illumination tended toward semi-darkness, a circumstance favorable to Ana Cristina, the sight of whose faded beauty testified to the clumsy advances of a wicked man and several periods of exile.

The interior assistant was a young fair-haired man. He had been on the Cuban fencing team until he’d defected during his first trip abroad. One afternoon he slipped away from the group of athletes and amused himself by looking in the window of the shop run by Ana Cristina. His mother had told him about such wonders in their house in Vedado, but he had never before seen anything like them The objects were beyond compare, but what made him catch his breath was the image of Ana Cristina, standing out against a mustard-colored valise, seated at her fine wooden desk, and gazing into the middle distance, as if quizzing fate about why she had failed to defy her mother and become a beauty queen. Why her father’s fortune had been frittered away, and why her ex-husband had played such an enthusiastic part in such devastation. The lack of expression freed her face from its usual beauty. Her hair fell to her shoulders, vying with the magnificent purses. Her pale complexion, the lashes like silken spears that fell languidly over the dark shadows beneath her eyes; her eyes themselves, of an indeterminate color between olive green and Carúpano rum, and her neck sprinkled with tiny moles; it all announced the presence of a great lady who—God knows how—had arrived on this little island where apparently no one appreciated the splendor of solitude. If he was going to be a castaway, he would be so in the shadow of this woman. He went in. He introduced himself. He asked for work. He made it clear that he would never go back to Cuba, or to his previous life. Moreover, he would not go back to life, period, after hearing her upper-class Caracas accent (like that of little girls determined to be so for ever). His name was Saúl Espí and he would occupy the establishment’s only vacant position, that of interior assistant, filled until now by women; American women, to be precise, and all rather fond of gin, which was what had led to their successive dismissals. And so when Saúl Espí introduced himself as an athlete, Señora Arzolain hired him on the spot, figuring that at least she wouldn’t have to deal with any more hangovers. Another factor in his recruitment was the Cuban’s way of moving and his precise way of handling things. The shop needed someone like that.

Noon was not far off. It was Friday and the month also ended this weekend. Ana Cristina looked toward the door of the shop as she ran a finger up and down the small groove connecting her nose to her upper lip. She still hadn’t closed the deal she’d spent several days preparing the ground for. Outside, the sidewalk and the big square in front of the shop’s façade shimmered in the heat. She thought no one was going to venture out here in such conditions. At that moment, the telephone rang, with a buzzing sound directed more toward the carpet, which would quickly absorb it, than at the irritable ears of the clientele. It was a ringing designed to complete the sensation of luxury by creating the ambience of a voyage: it had something of a distant, transatlantic feel to it, at once marine and remote.

“No, Mamá,” Ana Cristina murmured. “As soon as I have the money, which will be very soon, I’ll deposit it and I’ll call you.”

“. . . ”

“That can’t be right. What did the men say to you?”

“. . .”

“That repair’s still under warranty. Call them, please. Complain. I paid them a fortune only the other day. Do you have a number for these people? No? Mamá, for God’s sake. Get Obdulia on the phone.”

“. . .’”

“Hey, Obdu, what’s wrong?”

“. . .”

“Did you have time to get all the carpets up?”

“. . .”

“Did you at least manage to take the paintings down?”

“. . .”

“Why didn’t you call Cristóbal? OK, well open the windows. And you could also take the pedestal fans upstairs and leave them switched on until Monday.”

“. . .”

“Upstairs? My God, Obdu. Stay with Mamá on the first floor. Make up the guest bedroom and stay in there with her. Give the phone to my mother, please.”

“. . .”

“Mamá, Obdulia says the lights on the second floor were giving off sparks when you tried to turn them on. Honey, what on earth? There could have been a dreadful fire.”

“. . .”

“Don’t worry. We can fix all that.”

“. . .”

“No, Mamá. That’s not going to happen, I promise.”

“. . .”

“Don’t cry, please. It’ll all be OK, you’ll see. Did you take the clothes out? Don’t forget all our documents are in the same box.”

“. . .”

“You see? Not everything’s been ruined. We’ll sort it out, just you wait and see.”

“. . .”

“I’ll call you in a bit.”

Saúl, who had kept his back turned while Ana Cristina spoke in a barely audible voice on the telephone, turned around now and looked at her, his chin almost touching his chest, his eyebrows raised: the shop bell had sounded, activated by the official. She was back. Ana Cristina pressed the button that released the latch on the door. The woman entered, followed by two bodyguards dressed identically (camouflage pants and red jackets with the Venezuelan flag embroidered on the back), with two cell phones, one in each hand like the infamous gunslinger Juan Charrasqueado. Ana Cristina was about to stand up to go and serve her, but the new arrival made a brisk movement with her hand to detain her.

“How are you, Saulito?” she said.

“Very well, thank you, Ma’am,” Saúl replied, approaching her, his trousers barely rustling.

For the first time ever, she was accompanied. On the first occasion, Ana Cristina had not even moved from her seat, letting Saúl take care of what she thought would be a surgical strike, as the two employees called it in their secret jargon: when someone entered the shop then left straight away. The manager took pride in being able to tell with just a glance who were the potential customers and who had merely come to ogle. If the latter insisted on asking questions, pointlessly taking up her time, the solution was to reply, “too much . . .” when they asked how much something cost. One had to intone the phrase just so, leaving the tail end of the sentence “for you” hanging in the air. But the message had to be clear: “it’s too much for people like you.” And this is what Ana Cristina had said to this woman, still without rising from her chair, the first time she had come into the shop. Very soon she would realize that the woman’s finances were not as precarious as one might deduce from her manners and appearance, nor as buoyant as the official herself had come to believe in light of the sudden increase in her income, which grew almost at the pace she signed her name on more documents. “It’s a lot of money,” Ana Cristina had chosen, that first time, to inform her, walking catlike over to the little clutch bag the official was examining greedily. “It costs five thousand five hundred dollars.”

It was, in truth, too much. Even so, the woman came back. And she looked at everything again, at great length, without asking the cost. She was spellbound by the shop, by all the treasures that could be hers. So much so that she had returned a third time.

The junior minister walked decisively over to a set of suitcases that went with the purse displayed in a privileged position in the shop window. With evil sensuality, Espí set to unzipping the largest case and holding it open in front of the official’s eyes so that she could see the compartments, the pockets, the secret sections, the linings of varying thicknesses . . . He put on a pair of woolen gloves to remove a snakeskin purse from its case and show it to her without sullying it with his fingerprints. He showed her all of the sunglasses, letting her try them on and listening to her daydream about the possibility—oh!—of buying a few little tokens for the people who had helped her get where she was. The bodyguards traipsed around the shop, peering outside lethargically every now and then, their gaze catching on the polished edges of the display cases where they observed each other out of the corners of their eyes. Ana Cristina was fascinated by the woman’s hair, dyed a burgundy color with flashes of tobacco, something she had only ever seen before in a French wine her father had been saving for a special occasion and which, when it was uncorked on the day of her engagement, had turned out to be completely ruined. But the color was unique. A bit like oxidized blood in a test tube. Exactly the same tone as the junior minister’s hair.

“Son of a gun!” howled one of the bodyguards, “look at this!”

The woman turned her head, but only long enough to make clear the disdain she felt for her subordinates and, at the same time, her irritation at having been bothered.

From her desk, Ana Cristina followed the choreography of the two restless bodyguards, whose familiarity with their boss baffled her. A second ring at the door shook her from her thoughts. There she was again. The one they’d all been waiting for.

On the sidewalk outside, a woman was wiping the sweat from her face. And pressing the doorbell insistently. Her Lycra leggings looked as if they’d been galvanized onto her thighs by the sun’s blowtorch. She pushed the door open the second she heard the click as it was unlocked from inside.

“Hello, darling,” she shouted from the threshold in Ana Cristina’s direction.

“How are you?” the manager sighed, placing herself a thousand miles away from the woman, whose hair was three quarters blonde and one quarter—the one attached to her skull—black.

At that moment the telephone began to ring again, as if a tiny submarine were plying the depths of the carpet. With a swift movement, Ana Cristina raised the handset.

“Mamá, I can’t talk now.”

The two visitors froze on the spot and spun around toward the manager to listen to her conversation. Ana Cristina turned her back and lowered her voice still further.

“Tell Obdulia to shut off the stopcock,” she murmured.

“. . .”

“Mamá, a bed can’t float away. Let me speak to Obdulia, please.”

Taking three strides in her cork clogs, the woman in Lycra placed herself beside the junior minister, who greeted her as if they were good friends. They were not. Their dealings with each other were restricted to three previous encounters: two in the shop, and one in the café with little tables in the square outside.

“What’s wrong now, Obdu?”

“. . .”

“Did you cover it with newspaper?”

“. . .”

“OK, let me think . . . put the tablecloths down. And get the sheets out and lay them on the floor. Let me speak to my mother again.”

“. . .”

“Mamá, just let Obdulia do what I’ve told her. On Monday we’ll start doing the repairs. Trust me.”

“. . .”

“Nobody was going to use that christening robe.”

“. . .”

“Take them out of the album and put them in the sun. They’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

“. . .”

“It’s not going to fall down, Mamá. I promise. That’s what pipes always sound like when they’re old.”

“. . .”

“Antique, you’re right. So, just remember, you’re not to start pushing the bed, because you’re . . .”

“. . .”

“Not a recent operation, no, but you’re still frail.”

“. . .”

“Move into the next room.”

“. . .”

“OK, Mamá, well move into Obdulia’s room, then.”

“. . .”

“What’s wrong with it? Please . . . You’re driving me crazy. Does she have scabies or something? Honey, well you’re not exactly . . . Hello . . . Mamá? Hello?’

Saúl watched her from one end of the shop, waiting for her authorization. The woman in Lycra was whispering to the junior minister and now the latter was requesting they open the door to the alcove which housed the Pegasus, probably the most beautiful purse that had ever landed in the Caribbean.

A faint, ingratiating smile appeared on Ana Cristina’s face, and she nodded slightly. Saúl put his hand into the pocket of his vest and took out a little gold key. The glass door with its bronze frame was opened and the junior minister removed the Pegasus with a ceremony reserved for a sacred chalice. The bodyguards approached as if drawn by a secret palpitation (that of the horse’s heart encased within this undeniably exceptional object).

“What a beautiful thing,” the junior minister murmured.

“It is very special,” conceded Ana Cristina, looking down at the tips of her shoes.

“Take a look at this,” the woman in Lycra yelled suddenly, grabbing the Pegasus from the vice-minister’s hands and turning it over to point out a stamp almost hidden in a fold of the leather. Her nails were decorated with tiny little stickers made to look like frost. She used them to drum on the bottom of the purse, then put it back in its place. Then she began to chew her gum again with renewed vigor. It was futile, both the shop’s staff knew, to mention the ban on chewing gum in the establishment.

The Pegasus had returned to the hands of the official, who was swinging it with the gentle lilt used when one dances to San Benito. Saúl waited patiently. The woman in Lycra was strolling round the shop, her charm bracelet jangling noisily.

The telephone rang again, giving the impression of a tiny whale courting its partner underneath the shop floor. Ana Cristina tensed. The junior minister tried to look at the desk where the telephone was, the manager of the shop standing beside it, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Pegasus, by that point back in its case. Saúl looked at Ana Cristina and winked ever so slightly, a sign that the Pegasus had found an owner.

Ana Cristina picked up the phone and, with rare good humor, began telling her mother to hold on just a little longer, that by next week she would have excellent news. But at that moment she fell silent. She had seen the woman in Lycra whispering in the official’s ear, and the latter seemed impressed . . .

“Shall we wrap it for you?” Ana Cristina said, rubbing her hands together halfheartedly, addressing the vice-minister.

The junior minister looked at the Pegasus. She stroked the glass with the tips of her fingers as if it were an animal’s neck. She took a deep breath. And she headed for the door, followed by the woman in Lycra. She didn’t even reply.

A few minutes later, the telephone chimed once again. Ana Cristina let it ring and signaled to Saúl not to bother. She walked over to the desk, but only to pick up her purse. She went out in the direction of the square and headed for the last table of the café, from where she could watch what was going on in a store of some size that sold embroidered tablecloths, lighters, pens, watches, glasses, purses, and suitcases, all designer labels. All fake. The woman in the Lycra moved through the overcrowded space, absolutely in her element. And, flocking around her, a look of bemusement on their faces, were the junior minister and the two bodyguards. They had lost the reverent air of a little earlier, and were passing each other things as if they were melons on their way from farm to truck.

From her table, Ana Cristina could clearly see the ostentatious display being put on by the woman in Lycra to get the potential customers from the “standard showroom” into the one “reserved for special customers,” a tiny space with a glass wall that looked out onto the square, and in which were displayed almost all the same things as in the rest of the store, but at five times the price. A little room, incidentally, where nearly all the exclusive objects from her shop were replicated. A vile offense capable of deceiving anyone not a true connoisseur of the work of the master craftsmen devoted to the best European traditions. The woman in Lycra turned a bag upside down, evidently with the intention of pointing out a stamp “identical” to the one on the original Pegasus. One of the bodyguards removed his red jacket. It was as if the monstrous impending purchase had raised his temperature. He was sweating. He’d get something out of such a prodigious frenzy of acquisitions. Ana Cristina had had enough. She left a bill on the table and walked away.

The taxi dropped her off in front of the Indian restaurant, its quality unnoticed by the tourists. Perhaps it didn’t appeal due to the rundown area it was in, far from anywhere approaching sophistication and from all the urban clean-up initiatives. Nor was it near any of the sites frequented by foreigners. During the taxi ride, Saúl had called her cell phone to give her the details. Her compatriots, the junior minister and the bodyguards, had made several trips to the official car to transport the outrageous number of purchases they had made. The woman in Lycra had blown them kisses from the door of the store, and then danced her way inside. “Reggaeton, to be precise.”

The waiter took the woman from Caracas’ order: two baingan bhartas. And a whisky on the rocks, for now. Ana Cristina was sucking her ice cubes noisily, something she let herself do when she was alone, when the person she was waiting for arrived. She signaled to the waiter to bring a beer over, and leaned back in her chair as her guest sat down in the chair across from her. They looked at each other for a moment. And then, with a melancholy smile, Ana Cristina began to laugh, too, just as the woman in Lycra had started to do the minute she’d flopped onto her seat as if exhausted after a long battle with a solar storm.

“Tuberías Vencidas” © Milagros Socorro. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Rosalind Harvey. All rights reserved.

Tuberías vencidas

En las islas del Caribe los mediodías son largos y silenciosos. En las pequeñas islas, donde no se habla español y tampoco parecen países. Solo islas.  Porciones de tierra rodeadas de sol por todas partes.

En uno de esos lugares se encontraba residenciada desde hacía unos años Ana Cristina Arzolain, célebre en ciertos círculos de Caracas por haberse negado a participar en el Miss Venezuela, a pesar de que su principal organizador le aseguró que la corona era suya y que solo tenía que desfilar con un traje de gasa. Era fama que su madre había interrumpido al emisario en mitad de la frase y lo había sacado sin alzar la voz de su caserón de varios pisos en Altamira.

Ese mediodía el sol se abatía sobre el mundo con tal fiereza que las hojas de los árboles parecían recién bañadas en oro líquido. La diferencia de temperatura entre el exterior y el local donde funcionaba la tienda de lujo donde Ana Cristina se desempeñaba como gerente, podía ser de 20 grados centígrados. Una auténtica locura. El ayudante de interior, como curiosamente se llamaba el cargo del único empleado de la tienda (quizá para remarcar que entre sus responsabilidades no estaba el acarreo de paquetes hasta los automóviles, cosa que, de todos modos, hacía), aprovechaba la ausencia de clientes para sacarse del bolsillo un trapo de lana muy parecido a un pañal repetidamente lavado y pulir cuidadosamente los marcos de los nichos donde se encontraban, encerrados como reliquias, los artículos más lujosos del inventario. Esa semana había llegado de la casa matriz, en Europa, la nueva colección de maletines y bolsos cuya particularidad era el acento, digamos, hípico, del diseño. Tanto las carteras de hombre como las de mujer y los maletines de viaje tenían el aire imponente de la marroquinería propia de las caballerizas: correas por todos lados, largas cintas para terciar sobre el pecho, remaches de bronce, cueros oscuros como regados largamente con espumoso sudor de bestias.

En la vitrina del fondo del local se exhibían los lentes de sol, verdaderas joyas; casi todos, con incrustaciones de piedras preciosas. Cada par reposaba en una especie de bandeja cubierta con un espejo y elevada sobre un pedestal, de manera que las gafas parecían pertenencias de santos. Bolsos, maletines y lentes tenían alrededor una serie de mínimos candiles cuya luz iba a rebotar contra los detalles metálicos y las diversas caras de las gemas. Por lo demás, la iluminación de la tienda tendía a la  semipenumbra, eventualidad que favorecía la visión de Ana Cristina, cuya antigua belleza evidenciaba el beso desmañado de un mal hombre y varios exilios.

El ayudante de interior era un muchacho rubio. Había pertenecido a la selección de esgrima de Cuba, hasta que desertó en el primer viaje al extranjero. Una tarde se descarrió del grupo de atletas y se distrajo mirando la vitrina de la tienda que dirigía Ana Cristina. Jamás había visto nada parecido a aquellas maravillas de las que le hablaba su madre en su casa del Vedado. Los objetos eran incomparables, pero lo que detuvo su respiración fue la imagen de Ana Cristina, recortada sobre una maleta de piel mostaza, sentada en su escritorio de madera fina y mirando hacia la nada como si estuviera interrogando al destino por qué no se atrevió a desafiar a su madre y convertirse en reina. Por qué la fortuna de su padre se había disipado y por qué su ex marido había contribuido de manera tan entusiasta en tal disolución. La falta de expresión dejaba su rostro librado a su belleza de siempre. El cabello le caía hasta los hombros rivalizando con las espléndidas carteras. Su cutis pálido, las pestañas que de forma acompasada caían sobre sus ojeras como lanzas de seda, sus ojos de un color indeciso entre la aceituna y el ron de Carúpano, el escote regado de mínimos puntos encarnados, todo proclamaba la presencia de una gran dama que vete a saber cómo había llegado a aquella pequeña isla donde, al parecer, no había quien apreciara el esplendor de la soledad. Si iba a ser un náufrago, lo sería a la sombra de aquella mujer. Entró. Se presentó. Pidió trabajo. Dejó claro que no volvería a Cuba ni a su vida anterior. Más aún, no volvería a la vida, a secas, después de oír el acento de clase alta de Caracas (como de niñas determinadas a serlo por siempre). Se llamaba Saúl Espí y ocuparía la única vacante del establecimiento, el puesto de ayudante de interior, hasta entonces desempeñado por mujeres; norteamericanas, para más señas, y muy aficionadas a la ginebra, lo que había ocasionado sus sucesivos despidos. Por eso, cuando Saúl Espí se presentó como atleta, la señora Arzolain lo contrató de inmediato con la idea de que al menos no tendría que lidiar con más resacas. Influyó también en su contratación la manera de moverse del cubano y su precisión para manipular las cosas. La tienda necesitaba alguien así.

Faltaba poco para el mediodía. Era viernes y también el mes terminaría ese fin de semana. Ana Cristina miraba hacia la puerta de la tienda mientras con un dedo se recorría el canalete del bigote que conecta la nariz con el labio superior. No había cerrado el negocio que venía preparando desde hacía varios días. El suelo de la calle y de la gran plaza frente a la fachada del local reverberaban con el calor. Pensó que nadie se aventuraría por allí con semejantes condiciones. En ese momento sonó el teléfono con un zumbido más destinado a la alfombra, que rápidamente lo absorbería, que a los irritables oídos de la clientela habitual. Era un pitido de teléfono concebido para completar la sensación de lujo con una atmósfera de viaje: tenía algo de trasatlántico lejano, algo al mismo tiempo marino y recóndito.

-No, mamá –dijo Ana Cristina en su susurro-. En cuanto tenga el dinero, que será muy pronto, te deposito y te llamo.

-…

-No puede ser. Y qué te dijeron los tipos.

-…

-Esa reparación todavía está en garantía. Por favor, llámalos. Reclama. No hace nada les pagué un dineral. ¿Tienes el teléfono de esa gente? ¿No? Mamá, por dios. Pásame a Obdulia para darle el teléfono.

-…

-Hola, Obdu, qué pasa.

-…

-¿Te dio tiempo a quitar las alfombras?

-…

-¿Por lo menos pudiste bajar los cuadros?

-…

-Por qué no llamaron a Cristóbal. Bueno, dejen las ventanas abiertas. Otra cosa que podrías hacer es subir los ventiladores de pie y dejarlos encendidos hasta el lunes.

-…

-¿Por las escaleras? Obdu, por vida de Cristo. Quédate con mamá en el primer piso. Arregla el cuarto de huéspedes y te quedas con ella allí. Pásame a mi mamá, por favor.

-…

-Mamá, me dice Obdulia que las lámparas del segundo piso echaron chispas cuando las quisiste prender. Chica, cómo es posible. Se ha podido producir un incendio horrible.

-…

-No te preocupes. Todo eso se puede arreglar.

-…

-No, mamá. Te aseguro que eso no va a ocurrir.

-…

-Por favor, no llores. Todo va a salir bien, ya verás. ¿Sacaste las prendas? Mira que en la misma caja están los documentos.

-…

-¿No ves? No es verdad que todo se perdió. Lo vamos a arreglar, tú vas a ver.

-…

-Te llamo en un rato.

Saúl, que había permanecido de espaldas mientras Ana Cristina hablaba en voz casi inaudible por teléfono, se volteó y la miró pegando la barbilla al pecho y levantando las cejas: el timbre de la tienda había sonado por acción de la funcionaria. Había regresado. Ana Cristina hundió el botón que hacía saltar el pestillo de la puerta. La mujer entró, seguida de dos guardaespaldas vestidos igual (pantalón de flux y chaqueta roja con la bandera de Venezuela bordada en la espalda) con dos teléfonos celulares, uno en cada mano como Juan Charrasqueado. Ana Cristina fue a levantarse para ir a atenderla, pero la recién llegada hizo un enérgico gesto con la mano para detenerla.

-¿Cómo estás, Saulito? –dijo.

-Muy bien, gracias, señora –respondió Saúl mientras se acercaba a ella sin hacer ruido ni con el roce de sus pantalones.

Por primera vez venía acompañada. En la primera ocasión, Ana Cristina ni siquiera se había movido de su asiento y había dejado que Saúl se ocupara de lo que creyó sería una incursión tipo puñalada de pícaro, como decían los dos empleados en su jerga secreta: una entrada con salida inmediata. La gerente se jactaba de saber, con solo echarles un vistazo, quiénes eran los clientes potenciales y quiénes los simples mirones. Si estos últimos insistían en preguntar y en ocupar inútilmente su tiempo, la solución era responder “es demasiado dinero…”, a sus preguntas con respecto al precio. Había que recitar la frase dejando en el aire la coletilla “para usted”. Pero el mensaje debía estar claro: “es demasiado dinero para gente como usted”. Y eso era lo que Ana Cristina le había dicho a esta mujer, aún sin moverse de su escritorio, la primera vez que estuvo en la tienda. Muy pronto se daría cuenta de que las finanzas de la mujer no eran tan precarias como se deducía de su apariencia y modales, ni tan boyantes como la propia funcionaria había llegado a creer ante el súbito incremento de sus ingresos, que crecían casi al ritmo en que ponía su firma en algún papel. 

-Es mucho dinero –optó Ana Cristina, entonces, por decirle, dirigiéndose con paso felino al pequeño bolso de noche que la funcionaria miraba con codicia-. Cuesta cinco mil quinientos dólares.

Era, en verdad, demasiado. Sin embargo, la mujer regresó. Y volvió a mirar todo, detalladamente, sin preguntar por el costo. Estaba hechizada por la tienda, por los tesoros que podían ser suyos. Tanto, que la visitaba por tercera vez.

La viceministra se dirigió sin titubeo a un set de maletas que hacía juego con la cartera exhibida en lugar privilegiado en la fachada de la tienda. Espí se encargó de descorrer con malvada sensualidad el cierre de la maleta más grande y de despatarrarla ante los ojos de la funcionaria para hacerle ver los compartimientos, bolsillos, vericuetos, forros de distinto grosor. Se puso guantes de lana para sacar un monedero de piel de serpiente de su estuche y exhibirlo sin empañarlo con las huellas dactilares. Le enseñó todos los lentes, le permitió ponérselos y la escuchó soñar despierta con la posibilidad, ay, de tener unos detallitos con personas que la habían ayudado a surgir. Los guardaespaldas se paseaban por la tienda y cada cierto tiempo echaban un vistazo hacia afuera con mirada remolona que se quedaba enganchada en los bordes repulidos de las vidrieras, donde se contemplaban de reojo. Ana Cristina sentía fascinación por el cabello de la mujer, pintado de un borgoña con destellos de tabaco que solo había visto en un vino francés que su padre atesoraba para un momento especial y que al descorcharlo el día de su compromiso se reveló completamente estropeado. Pero el color era único. Una especie de sangre metalizada en el tubo de ensayo. Exactamente el tono de la viceministra.

-¡Hiroshima Kimberley! –gimió uno de los guardaespaldas- mira esto.

La mujer volvió la cara, pero solo el tiempo suficiente para evidenciar condescendencia hacia los subalternos y, a la vez, fastidio por haber sido importunada.

Ana Cristina seguía desde su escritorio la coreografía de los inquietos espalderos, cuyas familiaridades con la funcionaria la dejaban perpleja. Un segundo timbrazo la sacó de concentración. Ahí estaba otra vez. La que faltaba.

Una mujer se enjugaba el sudor en la calle. Y apretaba el timbre con insistencia. Los pantalones de lycra parecían galvanizados en sus muslos por el soplete del sol. Empujó la puerta nada más oír el chasquido activado desde el interior.

-Hola, mi amor –gritó desde la puerta en dirección a Ana Cristina.

-Cómo está usted –suspiró la aludida poniéndose a mil kilómetros de la mujer, cuyo cabello era tres cuartos rubio y un cuarto, el que va pegado al cráneo, negro.

En ese momento volvió a sonar el teléfono como si un pequeño submarino surcara las profundidades de la alfombra. Ana Cristina levantó el auricular con ademán raudo.

-Ahora no puedo, mamá.

Las dos visitantes se paralizaron en sus lugares y giraron hacia la gerente para escuchar la conversación. Ana Cristina se puso de espaldas y bajó aun más la voz.

-Dile a Obdulia que cierre la llave de paso –susurró.

-…

-Mamá, una cama no puede salir flotando. Por favor, pásame a Obdulia.

La mujer de las lycras dio tres zancadas con sus zuecos de corcho y se ubicó al lado de la viceministra, que la saludó como si fueran íntimas. No lo eran. Su trato se restringía a tres encuentros previos: dos en la tienda y uno en el café con mesitas en la plaza.

-Obdu, ahora qué pasa.

-…

-¿Lo cubriste con periódicos?

-…

-Bueno, a ver… pon los manteles. Saca las sábanas también y extiéndelas en el piso. Pásame a mamá.

-…

-Mamá, deja que Obdulia haga lo que le dije. El lunes comenzamos los arreglos. Cuenta con eso.

-…

-Ese faldellín no lo iba a usar nadie.

-…

-Sácalas del álbum y ponlas en el sol. Verás que no les pasa nada.

-…

-No se va a caer, mamá. Te lo aseguro. Son ruidos normales, que hacen las cañerías cuando están muy viejas.

-…

-Antiguas, tienes razón. Bueno, ya sabes, no te vayas a poner a empujar la cama, mira qué tú…

-…

-Recién operada no, pero estás delicada.

-…

-Múdense al otro cuarto.

-…

-Bueno, mamá, al de Obdulia.

-…

-Qué tiene de malo. Por favor. Me vuelves loca. ¿Acaso Obdulia tiene sarna? Chica, es que tú también… Aló. ¿Mamá? ¿Aló?

Saúl la miraba desde el extremo del local en espera de autorización. La mujer de la lycra cuchicheaba con la viceministra y ahora ésta exigía que le abrieran la puerta del nicho que atesoraba la Pegaso, probablemente la cartera más hermosa que hubiera tocado puerto en el Caribe.

Ana Cristina esbozó una media sonrisa obsequiosa y asintió levemente. Saúl se llevó una mano al bolsillo del chaleco y sacó una llavecita de oro. La puerta de vidrio con marco de bronce quedó abierta y la viceministra sacó la Pegaso con la ceremonia que se reserva al copón bendito. Los guardaespaldas vinieron como atraídos por una palpitación secreta (la del corazón del caballo encerrado en aquel objeto desde todo punto de vista excepcional).

-Qué vaina tan bella –murmuró la viceministra.

-Es muy especial –concedió Ana Cristina mirando la punta de sus zapatos.

-Fíjense en esto –gritó de pronto la mujer de la lycra, al tiempo que arrebataba la Pegaso de las manos de la viceministra y la volteaba para indicar un sello casi escondido en un pliegue del cuero. Tenía las uñas decoradas con mínimas calcomanías que imitaban la escarcha. Con ellas tamborileó en la base de la cartera y luego la regresó a su posición. Entonces reanudó con renovado vigor la mascada de chicle. Ya se sabía que era inútil mencionarle la prohibición de comer chicle en el local.

La Pegaso había regresado a las manos de la funcionaria, que la bamboleaba con la suave cadencia con que se baila a San Benito. Saúl aguardaba pacientemente. La mujer de la lycra daba un paseo por la tienda y su mascoteo resonaba estentóreo.

El teléfono volvió a sonar y dio la impresión de que una ballena minúscula cortejaba a su pareja en el subsuelo de la tienda. Ana Cristina se crispó. La viceministra quiso mirar hacia el escritorio donde estaba el teléfono y en cuyo borde se pararía la gerente para hablar, pero no logró quitarle el ojo a la Pegaso, en ese momento de regreso a su arca. Saúl miró a Ana Cristina y esbozó un guiño mínimo, indicador de que la Pegaso había encontrado dueña.

Ana Cristina levantó el teléfono y con inusitado buen humor comenzó a decirle a su madre que aguantara un poco, que la semana siguiente tendría excelentes noticias. Pero en ese momento se quedó muda. Había visto a la mujer de la lycra hablándole al oído a la funcionaria, y ésta parecía convencida…

-¿Se la envolvemos? –dijo Ana Cristina, frotándose las manos sin mucho énfasis, en dirección a la funcionaria.

La viceministra miró la Pegaso. Acarició el vidrio con la punta de los dedos como si se tratara del pescuezo del animal. Respiró hondo. Y se dirigió a la puerta, seguida por la mujer de la lycra. Ni siquiera contestó.

Unos minutos después, repicó el teléfono. Ana Cristina lo dejó sonar e hizo señas a Saúl de que no se molestara. Fue hacia el escritorio, pero solo para recoger su cartera. Salió en dirección a la plaza y fue hacia la última mesita del café, desde donde podía observar lo que ocurría en un almacén de considerables dimensiones, donde se vendían manteles bordados, encendedores, bolígrafos, relojes, lentes, carteras y maletas, todo de grandes marcas. Todo de imitación. La mujer de la lycra se movía por el atestado lugar como pez en el agua. Y alrededor de ella, con expresión de perplejidad, bullían la viceministra y los dos guardaespaldas. Habían perdido el aire de sacralidad de la víspera. Y se pasaban las cosas como melones que van de la huerta al camión.

 Desde su mesa, Ana Cristina pudo ver con toda claridad el ampuloso teatro desplegado por la mujer de la lycra para hacer pasar a los potenciales clientes del “salón común” al “reservado para clientes especiales”, un cuartico con pared de vidrio que daba a la plaza, donde se exhibía casi lo mismo que en el resto del almacén pero con precios quintuplicados. Un cuartico, por cierto, donde estaban reproducidos casi todos los exclusivos objetos de su tienda. Una vileza capaz de engañar a quien no fuera un auténtico conocedor de la obra de los maestros artesanos apegados a las mejores tradiciones europeas. La mujer de lycra volvió un bolso patas arriba, evidentemente con el fin de señalar un sello “igualito” al de la Pegaso original. Uno de los guardaespaldas se quitó la chaqueta roja. Era como si la inminencia de una compra bestial le subiera la temperatura. Estaba sudando. Algo le tocaría del frenesí de adquisiciones prodigiosas. Ana Cristina tuvo suficiente. Dejó un billete en la mesa y se marchó.

El taxi la dejó frente al restorán indio, de calidad desapercibida para los turistas. Quizás no resultaba atractivo por la fealdad de la zona donde se encontraba, aislada de toda sofisticación y de las iniciativas del aseo urbano. Tampoco quedaba cerca de los centros frecuentados por los extranjeros. Durante el trayecto en el taxi, Saúl la había llamado al teléfono celular para darle detalles. Sus compatriotas, la viceministra y los guardaespaldas, habían hecho varios viajes al carro oficial para acarrear la barbaridad de cosas que habían comprado. La mujer de la lycra les había lanzado besos desde la puerta del almacén y después había entrado haciendo pasos de baile. “De reguetón, concretamente”.

El camarero tomó la orden de la caraqueña, un baingan bharta para dos. Y un whisky en las rocas, de momento. Ana Cristina chupaba un hielo haciendo ruido, como se permitía hacer a solas, cuando llegó la persona que esperaba. Hizo señas al camarero para que le trajera una cerveza. Se recostó en el asiento mientras su invitada ocupaba la silla de enfrente. Se miraron por un instante. Y entonces Ana Cristina se unió con una sonrisa melancólica a la carcajada que había iniciado la mujer de la lycra, nada más caer en la silla como extenuada tras larga lidia con una tormenta solar. 

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