Sweet Money by Ernesto Mallo

the kitchen counter has turned into a restless mass of ravenous ants. Maisabé hates these industrious and tiny insects that, in all the years they’ve lived in this apartment, they’ve never managed to exterminate. She picks up a small pot, turns on the hot water tap and places the pot under it. With a familiar groan, the flames of the instant hot-water heater spread a blue hue over her movements, and as the pipes heat up the water they emit a painful cry. While the pot fills with water she observes the ants carrying their crumbs, rushing to and from the
food, crossing paths, stopping briefly, as if to chat. They are ruled by an orderly frenzy. She places the pot next to the edge of the counter and, using a kitchen towel, pushes the sandwich and the ants into the pot. The insects stop moving the second they touch the hot water. She, on the other hand, can touch it without getting burnt very much at all. She throws the water and the dead ants down the sink, picks up the remains of the wet bread and ham and throws it in the trash can. The hot water streaming out of the tap washes the cadavers down the drain, and the yellow rag finishes up those who are dispersed and disoriented, dazed. One last ant crawls around the counter in circles. Maisabé looks at it and, once it finally decides on a direction, smashes it with her thumb, the exoskeleton making a cracking sound as it breaks. She looks at the remains, the internal organs squished on her fingertip, and she is tempted to put it in her mouth. Instead, she rinses it off under the water. She takes out the cutting board and places a slab of meat on it. She picks up the wood meat pounder and brings it down on the meat, watching as the small veins break apart and the meat fibres bleed.
    Her mind travels to a future after Giribaldi is dead, Aníbal has left and Roberto… who knows? She imagines herself alone in the world, alone in life, making the first, only, and last free choice: to swallow an entire bottle of sleeping pills. In her mind’s eye she sees herself as an old woman, lying down on her bed to die. She sees herself dead. The ants, in patient procession, come to devour her. Her body will be communion for those indefatigable creatures whose only god is hunger. By the time someone finds her, there will be nothing left
but bare bones; her flesh will have become part of that despicable army of obedient and minuscule beings who will remain in the house to torment its next residents as they have tormented her. In the end, the ants will be the victors, no matter how many she kills.

14
    Alone. Lost. Confused. Wandering the streets. Surrounded by rushing strangers. Pursued. Hunted. Dressed as a construction worker and carrying a bag loaded with disorderly bundles of dollar bills. Trying to catch his breath, to calm down. Trying, without success, to quiet the wild beating of his heart, which is making him dizzy. Gasping for breath. The sirens of the police cars bounce off the buildings full of respectable white-collar workers. The adrenaline courses through his blood, prevents him from thinking, readies him for only fight or flight. Rage clouding his vision. His awareness that this state of mind is his perdition. Just when he feels his last edge of sanity cracking under his step, thunder echoes and it begins to pour. Strong, furious, as if it will never cease. A dense, ferocious rain, one that seems determined to wipe the human race off the face of the Earth. A rain that slows the rush and increases anxiety, that destroys the makeshift hovels of the poor and spoils the parties of the rich. A rain that forces suits paid out in six instalments to take refuge under the eaves and balconies, and their contents to look up to the sky, begging for a reprieve that will allow them to get to work on time. That’s when Miranda the Mole begins to walk under the
downpour. Refreshed, renewed, composed. He thinks about Duchess. As if she had sent him this storm to abate the squall within. He