Ernesto’s behaviour as any worse than getting stressed, smoking or over-eating? Not to mention other addictions. They are all just different kinds of vice. A woman has a duty to try to understand. Besides, in spite of his vice, Ernesto had always come home. Like that Monday.
The final straw was when he said to me: “Inés, did you remember to get my grey suit from the dry-cleaner?” And the question caught me completely off guard; I couldn’t find an answer.
“I told you that I must have it for tomorrow, without fail, Inés!”
There he was: the same old Ernesto. Mummy would have said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots, my girl!” But she’s very negative, she’s been so badly treated in life. Not me. And in the midst of so much darkness, to see the light and realize what was important really scared me, because I had played a part in bringing disaster closer.
Ernesto poured himself a drink and sat down in the armchair opposite me. He put his feet on the coffee table, beside the blue folder in which I had placed the cuttings from newspapers which had been published over the weekend about the death of “Truelove”. Or rather “ex-Truelove” or “the one I thought was Truelove”. I couldn’t help staring at his shoes, resting inches from the folder. Finally I could contain myself no longer: “Alicia’s been found,” I said. Ernesto froze. “They found her body yesterday.” I leant towards the coffee table and nudged the folder over to him. Ernesto opened it, then began to read the cuttings chronologically, exactly as I had arranged them. The folder was shaking in his hands. I felt sorry for him; he was like a child. Lali came in, barely acknowledging us. She didn’t look well; doubtless she’d been living it up all weekend with her friend, not sleeping and all that stuff girls her age get up to. But this wasn’t the moment to educate her. What was happening to her father and me was too serious. Anyway, by now we had already devoted too many years and too much effort to her education. Not to mention money! Ernesto had totted all of it up once. By the time she finished secondary school we would have spent, on fees alone, nearly eighty thousand dollars. If you add in geometry sets and so on, uniforms, books, school excursions, the blessed leavers’ trip, the odd private tutor etc, etc, you’re not getting much change out of one hundred thousand dollars. Mind-boggling. And, as Ernesto used to say, all so that she can turn round one day and say she wants to be a model. Or a housewife; that was what I said, because the thought of his daughter ending up as a housewife never even crossed his mind. “She’s better than that,” he said.
Ernesto’s first thoughts were always for Lali, but that day, holding the blue folder in his hands, I believe that he was thinking only of himself. And rightly, too. Because thinking of himself meant thinking of us all, of his family. A sleepless night here or there wasn’t going to change Lali’s life. She stood staring at us for a moment, as hard and dour as always, and then she went upstairs. Ernesto seemed incapable of speaking to her. Worse than that – he started to say, “I couldn’t get your perfume,” but his voice broke, and the remark sounded like something out of a soap opera. Halfway up the stairs Lali looked back at him, then continued upwards. It was a blessing, actually; there are times when those silences adolescent children use to punish us come as pure relief. And she’ll come and talk to us when she needs something, sure enough. “If she knew what her poor parents are going through!” I said. And Ernesto said: “Leave her be, she’s just a child.” Typical of him always to be defending her.
Ernesto waited until Lali had disappeared up the stairs before continuing to read the contents of the folder. As he read, his face contorted. His Brazilian tan seemed to drain away. “Lali mustn’t find out about anything,” he said. His eyes
The final straw was when he said to me: “Inés, did you remember to get my grey suit from the dry-cleaner?” And the question caught me completely off guard; I couldn’t find an answer.
“I told you that I must have it for tomorrow, without fail, Inés!”
There he was: the same old Ernesto. Mummy would have said, “A leopard doesn’t change its spots, my girl!” But she’s very negative, she’s been so badly treated in life. Not me. And in the midst of so much darkness, to see the light and realize what was important really scared me, because I had played a part in bringing disaster closer.
Ernesto poured himself a drink and sat down in the armchair opposite me. He put his feet on the coffee table, beside the blue folder in which I had placed the cuttings from newspapers which had been published over the weekend about the death of “Truelove”. Or rather “ex-Truelove” or “the one I thought was Truelove”. I couldn’t help staring at his shoes, resting inches from the folder. Finally I could contain myself no longer: “Alicia’s been found,” I said. Ernesto froze. “They found her body yesterday.” I leant towards the coffee table and nudged the folder over to him. Ernesto opened it, then began to read the cuttings chronologically, exactly as I had arranged them. The folder was shaking in his hands. I felt sorry for him; he was like a child. Lali came in, barely acknowledging us. She didn’t look well; doubtless she’d been living it up all weekend with her friend, not sleeping and all that stuff girls her age get up to. But this wasn’t the moment to educate her. What was happening to her father and me was too serious. Anyway, by now we had already devoted too many years and too much effort to her education. Not to mention money! Ernesto had totted all of it up once. By the time she finished secondary school we would have spent, on fees alone, nearly eighty thousand dollars. If you add in geometry sets and so on, uniforms, books, school excursions, the blessed leavers’ trip, the odd private tutor etc, etc, you’re not getting much change out of one hundred thousand dollars. Mind-boggling. And, as Ernesto used to say, all so that she can turn round one day and say she wants to be a model. Or a housewife; that was what I said, because the thought of his daughter ending up as a housewife never even crossed his mind. “She’s better than that,” he said.
Ernesto’s first thoughts were always for Lali, but that day, holding the blue folder in his hands, I believe that he was thinking only of himself. And rightly, too. Because thinking of himself meant thinking of us all, of his family. A sleepless night here or there wasn’t going to change Lali’s life. She stood staring at us for a moment, as hard and dour as always, and then she went upstairs. Ernesto seemed incapable of speaking to her. Worse than that – he started to say, “I couldn’t get your perfume,” but his voice broke, and the remark sounded like something out of a soap opera. Halfway up the stairs Lali looked back at him, then continued upwards. It was a blessing, actually; there are times when those silences adolescent children use to punish us come as pure relief. And she’ll come and talk to us when she needs something, sure enough. “If she knew what her poor parents are going through!” I said. And Ernesto said: “Leave her be, she’s just a child.” Typical of him always to be defending her.
Ernesto waited until Lali had disappeared up the stairs before continuing to read the contents of the folder. As he read, his face contorted. His Brazilian tan seemed to drain away. “Lali mustn’t find out about anything,” he said. His eyes
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