place shut down, the owner had gone to spend a few days at her family’s house in Vic, and had left Mercedes in charge of the empty building.
Mercedes was very grateful to the owner, who had picked her up on the street before the family she was working for delivered her to the Foundation for the Protection of Women so that she could be locked up in a refuge for ‘fallen’ women. They were willing to make a large donation to rid themselves of the ‘lost woman’ who had got knocked up by the boss. No impropriety from a client could compare to what she’d heard you could expect from the wardens in the internment centres. Mercedes was grateful, and loyal.
As they went up to her room, she told him why they’d been closed down.
‘Thank goodness the inspection didn’t happen on the owner’s niece’s first day on the job.’
‘Underage?’
Mercedes nodded.
‘Twelve.’
‘Twelve? Just a girl!’
‘It was with a big boss from Social.’
‘But twelve years old…’
‘If they want girls, we give them girls. There are some people you can’t say no to.’
‘But…’
‘Look, we all win. Her parents, who need the money; the client, who needs a hairless pussy and us, because the last thing we need are problems.’
‘But what about the girls?’
‘They have to put up with it, just like we all do! Their turn will come.’
She opened the door and they went in.
Mercedes’s room was kept almost as white as a convent cell. White sheets, white curtains, white pillows, white upholstery on the armchairs. On a dresser rested a photo of her parents, who still lived in a town in the Extremadura region. There was also some sort of little altar with a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary filled with holy water and topped with a screw-on crown against which leaned a photo of her son, Alvarito, whom her parents were raising.
‘A couple of girls ended up in jail because they challenged the policemen who came to close the place down. We got shut down for two weeks, and a fine.’
‘Why?’
‘Formalities. We don’t register customers the way we’re supposed to.’
‘That was the reason?’
‘Partly, but the truth is that one of the inspectors has a thing for the new girl, the one from Majorca, and he wants too many freebies.’
‘Two weeks isn’t so bad.’
‘You think we eat air? Or love?’
‘You must have something stashed away…’
‘If I did I wouldn’t tell you about it.’
‘I don’t want money, just a bed and a roof over my head.’
‘Well, you should have said so. I can give you a bed and a roof, but only at night. We can’t have a man around during the day; they might think we aren’t meeting the terms of the ban.’
‘That’s fine.’
It was fine for both of them. They had met on one of Abel’s visits to the brothel, and Mercedes had offered him a bed any time he was in Barcelona on one of his business matters, whatever they might be; she didn’t seem too curious. She didn’t seem too curious about anything Abel did outside of her room, for that matter. A fortune teller had predicted that the man of her life would arrive by ship, so he wasn’t the one, but, while she was waiting, she had to have a good guy in her bed every once in a while, and practise having a boyfriend who would take her out for a bite to eat or a drink.
As for Abel, he was happy not to have to spend the night in a boarding house. That way, the time he spent in Barcelona didn’t appear in any registers.
‘Abelín, you must be the son of nobility,’ Mercedes said on Tuesday morning, stretching ostentatiously. And she added, in a version of the madam’s phrase, ‘What art! What attention to detail!’
Then, as she had done on Monday, she put him out on the street. Abel had another day of wandering the city before him. He was still dazed, directionless, overwhelmed by everything that had happened, first at home, then in Barcelona, at Mariona’s house.
Since Mercedes had given him a little money in the
Mercedes was very grateful to the owner, who had picked her up on the street before the family she was working for delivered her to the Foundation for the Protection of Women so that she could be locked up in a refuge for ‘fallen’ women. They were willing to make a large donation to rid themselves of the ‘lost woman’ who had got knocked up by the boss. No impropriety from a client could compare to what she’d heard you could expect from the wardens in the internment centres. Mercedes was grateful, and loyal.
As they went up to her room, she told him why they’d been closed down.
‘Thank goodness the inspection didn’t happen on the owner’s niece’s first day on the job.’
‘Underage?’
Mercedes nodded.
‘Twelve.’
‘Twelve? Just a girl!’
‘It was with a big boss from Social.’
‘But twelve years old…’
‘If they want girls, we give them girls. There are some people you can’t say no to.’
‘But…’
‘Look, we all win. Her parents, who need the money; the client, who needs a hairless pussy and us, because the last thing we need are problems.’
‘But what about the girls?’
‘They have to put up with it, just like we all do! Their turn will come.’
She opened the door and they went in.
Mercedes’s room was kept almost as white as a convent cell. White sheets, white curtains, white pillows, white upholstery on the armchairs. On a dresser rested a photo of her parents, who still lived in a town in the Extremadura region. There was also some sort of little altar with a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary filled with holy water and topped with a screw-on crown against which leaned a photo of her son, Alvarito, whom her parents were raising.
‘A couple of girls ended up in jail because they challenged the policemen who came to close the place down. We got shut down for two weeks, and a fine.’
‘Why?’
‘Formalities. We don’t register customers the way we’re supposed to.’
‘That was the reason?’
‘Partly, but the truth is that one of the inspectors has a thing for the new girl, the one from Majorca, and he wants too many freebies.’
‘Two weeks isn’t so bad.’
‘You think we eat air? Or love?’
‘You must have something stashed away…’
‘If I did I wouldn’t tell you about it.’
‘I don’t want money, just a bed and a roof over my head.’
‘Well, you should have said so. I can give you a bed and a roof, but only at night. We can’t have a man around during the day; they might think we aren’t meeting the terms of the ban.’
‘That’s fine.’
It was fine for both of them. They had met on one of Abel’s visits to the brothel, and Mercedes had offered him a bed any time he was in Barcelona on one of his business matters, whatever they might be; she didn’t seem too curious. She didn’t seem too curious about anything Abel did outside of her room, for that matter. A fortune teller had predicted that the man of her life would arrive by ship, so he wasn’t the one, but, while she was waiting, she had to have a good guy in her bed every once in a while, and practise having a boyfriend who would take her out for a bite to eat or a drink.
As for Abel, he was happy not to have to spend the night in a boarding house. That way, the time he spent in Barcelona didn’t appear in any registers.
‘Abelín, you must be the son of nobility,’ Mercedes said on Tuesday morning, stretching ostentatiously. And she added, in a version of the madam’s phrase, ‘What art! What attention to detail!’
Then, as she had done on Monday, she put him out on the street. Abel had another day of wandering the city before him. He was still dazed, directionless, overwhelmed by everything that had happened, first at home, then in Barcelona, at Mariona’s house.
Since Mercedes had given him a little money in the
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