and deformed toenails badly painted with white polish. He strokes her legs and arms, touches her nose, which flares when she breathes. I just want to get to know you, he explains, but she can’t understand. Osembe gets up and shakes her ass comically up to Leandro’s face. She moves her gluteal muscles up and down just by changing the muscle tension, happy as a girl who’s proud of being able to wiggle her ears. You like my ass? Leandro studies it in front of his face, high, weightless, muscular.
No. I like you. And then he kisses it and she laughs and pulls away.
You want to pay more? asks Osembe when the time is up. You can pay for another hour. Osembe fondles her breasts, sticking her hands under the bra she hasn’t taken off. Whitish stretch marks peek out.
Okay, says Leandro.
11
Lorenzo had painted the kitchen when Sylvia was seven years old. He remembers this now, sitting in front of the cordless phone. The wall is tiled halfway up and crowned by a blue braided stencil. The rest is painted by him. Salmon, said Pilar. But as Lorenzo made the first brushstrokes, she said, that isn’t salmon, it’s orange. They argued about the tones and the true color of some salmon slices they had eaten days before. They were like this, said Lorenzo pointing to the wall. No, salmon is salmon, she said. Then Pilar went to pick Sylvia up from school. The little girl went into the kitchen and saw her father up on a ladder, brushing a second coat into a corner. The kitchen looks so pretty painted orange, Sylvia said to him. Pilar smiled. I swear I didn’t tell her anything. He never knew if Pilar had mentioned something about it to her on the way home. He does remember that they laughed. Those were other times.
The orange color had faded somewhat, as had the kitchen. A tile was still chipped from the day he had tried to screw in a hook to hold a rack for pots and pans. On the floor, a piece of the terrazzo was broken where Sylvia had dropped the flour tin while helping her mother make a cake. The door to one of the cabinets had been replaced, and the new one wasn’t the exact same shade of white as the others.
Scars.
In the phone book where they kept frequently called numbers, many had accumulated that they had long since stopped calling frequently. Sylvia’s pediatrician, various offices, the home phone number of a secretary, the babysitter they used to call when theywent out for the night, three or four deceased relatives who remained in the limbo of the phone book, someone completely forgotten, some friend of Pilar’s whom they didn’t see anymore, the number of the school Sylvia used to go to, and there, under the letter p, were Paco’s numbers. Home, cell, in-laws, and the summer place in Altea. Lorenzo inhaled before dialing the digits into the telephone.
The previous days had been intense. His mother in the hospital, his father fearing she’d never walk again, Sylvia’s accident, Pilar’s arrival. He spent two days in a row with her at the clinic. He offered to let her stay at the house. No, I can stay with a friend, she told him. Pilar asked how everything was going for him, if he was still looking for work, if he needed money. No, no, I’m fine, he lied. And then he said, did you hear about what happened to Paco? He was killed at home, it was in the newspapers. Pilar was silent. The news seemed to affect her. Lorenzo had decided that he could talk about it, that he should. He mentioned it to his father, to his friend Lalo; he told Sylvia about it.
Tuesday around noon, he had found a message on the answering machine. A detective named Baldasano identified himself as a part of the homicide team and left a phone number. When Lorenzo called, the man was very brief. I just want to ask you a few questions, he said. We know that you were Mr. Garrido’s partner. Yes, of course, I found out from the newspapers, said Lorenzo. You understand that we want to have a little consultation with you. The word sounded
No. I like you. And then he kisses it and she laughs and pulls away.
You want to pay more? asks Osembe when the time is up. You can pay for another hour. Osembe fondles her breasts, sticking her hands under the bra she hasn’t taken off. Whitish stretch marks peek out.
Okay, says Leandro.
11
Lorenzo had painted the kitchen when Sylvia was seven years old. He remembers this now, sitting in front of the cordless phone. The wall is tiled halfway up and crowned by a blue braided stencil. The rest is painted by him. Salmon, said Pilar. But as Lorenzo made the first brushstrokes, she said, that isn’t salmon, it’s orange. They argued about the tones and the true color of some salmon slices they had eaten days before. They were like this, said Lorenzo pointing to the wall. No, salmon is salmon, she said. Then Pilar went to pick Sylvia up from school. The little girl went into the kitchen and saw her father up on a ladder, brushing a second coat into a corner. The kitchen looks so pretty painted orange, Sylvia said to him. Pilar smiled. I swear I didn’t tell her anything. He never knew if Pilar had mentioned something about it to her on the way home. He does remember that they laughed. Those were other times.
The orange color had faded somewhat, as had the kitchen. A tile was still chipped from the day he had tried to screw in a hook to hold a rack for pots and pans. On the floor, a piece of the terrazzo was broken where Sylvia had dropped the flour tin while helping her mother make a cake. The door to one of the cabinets had been replaced, and the new one wasn’t the exact same shade of white as the others.
Scars.
In the phone book where they kept frequently called numbers, many had accumulated that they had long since stopped calling frequently. Sylvia’s pediatrician, various offices, the home phone number of a secretary, the babysitter they used to call when theywent out for the night, three or four deceased relatives who remained in the limbo of the phone book, someone completely forgotten, some friend of Pilar’s whom they didn’t see anymore, the number of the school Sylvia used to go to, and there, under the letter p, were Paco’s numbers. Home, cell, in-laws, and the summer place in Altea. Lorenzo inhaled before dialing the digits into the telephone.
The previous days had been intense. His mother in the hospital, his father fearing she’d never walk again, Sylvia’s accident, Pilar’s arrival. He spent two days in a row with her at the clinic. He offered to let her stay at the house. No, I can stay with a friend, she told him. Pilar asked how everything was going for him, if he was still looking for work, if he needed money. No, no, I’m fine, he lied. And then he said, did you hear about what happened to Paco? He was killed at home, it was in the newspapers. Pilar was silent. The news seemed to affect her. Lorenzo had decided that he could talk about it, that he should. He mentioned it to his father, to his friend Lalo; he told Sylvia about it.
Tuesday around noon, he had found a message on the answering machine. A detective named Baldasano identified himself as a part of the homicide team and left a phone number. When Lorenzo called, the man was very brief. I just want to ask you a few questions, he said. We know that you were Mr. Garrido’s partner. Yes, of course, I found out from the newspapers, said Lorenzo. You understand that we want to have a little consultation with you. The word sounded
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