NINE IN THE morning.
I was woken by terrible noise and the sound of some madman shouting at the top of his voice. I was alone in the bed, and there was a pile of crumpled sheets in one corner. I got up and went straight to the kitchen to make myself a coffee. I ran into a stocky dark-haired man in shorts, a bumbag that was full to bursting around his waist. He was wearing a pair of loafers that made a strange contrast with his shorts. His bottle-green tee shirt had ‘I Love Nicaragua’ written on it. He looked furious, and Susana, who was with him, was as red as a tomato. He stared at me hard for a few moments, as if I were disturbing them.
I did not know who he was, but from the crass way he was dressed and the violence all too obvious on his face, I guessed this must be Manolo, the brothel owner. He was exactly as Angelika had described him. It seemed I was the only girl left in the apartment, and I felt a sudden stab of fear at being alone with someone like him. All the girls had vanished into thin air.
‘So who are you?’ Manolo said, breaking the ice as only he could.
‘Hello, I’m Val. I’m new here. I only started two days ago.’
‘Oh, yes! My wife told me there was a new girl. Hello, I’m Manolo,’ he said, shaking my hand roughly.
He did not look me in the face when I took his hand. He seemed preoccupied with something else. And he immediately launched into, ‘I was just telling this idiot Susana here that I don’t want any more fights between the girls. She’s the manager, and has to sort things out, right?’
What was he doing, asking me for my opinion in front of Susana? I didn’t think that was very proper, but how on earth was I going to tell a Neanderthal like him what I thought? So all I did was keep looking at him. In the few hours I’d been working in the agency, I had realized that you get work if the manager is on your side. If I fell out with Susana, I was sure she would never call me for a client during her day shift.
‘Did you hear me, idiot? I’ve had it up to here with the girls phoning me at home to complain. Either you do your job or you’re out in the fuckin’ street!’
How vulgar could you get? I couldn’t understand someone like Manolo. Why do people like him always have to conform exactly to the stereotype of the vulgar, violent pimp? If Susana really is crazy, as Angelika claimed, I could see why. With a boss like this guy, anyone’s brain would be affected.
From that moment on, I promised myself to be as bland as possible whenever Manolo was around, to avoid his attitude becoming contagious.
I made my coffee, paid Susana her 150 pesetas, and went to the living room to get some peace and quiet. All of a sudden there was a loud hammering noise from the floor below, and Manolo rushed furiously out of the kitchen. It really was so loud it would have driven anyone mad.
‘They’re going to destroy the whole fuckin’ building if they carry on like that!’ shouted Manolo.
Susana followed at his heel like a little dog, cigarette in hand. She had obviously forgotten how badly he had been treating her, and shadowed his every move.
‘It’s like this every day,’ she explained.
‘When the fuck are they going to finish all that building work? I’m going down to see how much longer they intend to take.’
‘OK.’
Manolo turned to Susana and wagged a finger in her face.
‘I want that to be the last time there’s any fighting in here. Otherwise, you’re out in the street, got it? In the fuckin’ street . . .’
‘Yes, Manolo,’ Susana replied meekly.
Then he stared at me again, and gave a short wave of goodbye.
‘Not exactly easy, is he?’ I said to Susana, trying to be friendly.
‘He can be difficult, but he’s right. I shouldn’t allow the girls to phone him at night to complain.’
She looked askance at me, as if I was the one she suspected. I could tell that, strangely enough, she wasn’t mad at Manolo. With him, she was a complete masochist.
The doorbell rang. It was a client, and Susana showed him into the living room, while I ran with my cup of coffee to hide in the small bedroom. A few moments later Susana came in to tell me to get ready, because I was the only girl in the apartment.
‘I can’t see anyone like this, Susana. Have you seen how I look? I’ve got bags under my eyes, and I’m exhausted. I need to go home and rest.’
‘Oh, sweetheart! What are you saying? I thought you wanted to work.’
‘Of course I want to work. But when I feel up to it.’
‘You should get dressed, put some make-up on, and see the client. It’s up to him to decide if you’re up to it or not.’
I didn’t dare say a thing. Not because I was afraid of her – I had no problems telling her what I thought – but because I didn’t want to start an argument. And it was true, I was there to work. So I got ready.
As I had thought, the client wasn’t impressed by the way I looked. He greeted me, but then asked to see the photobook, because I wasn’t what he wanted.
‘You see, I told you so,’ I said to Susana, putting on a pair of jeans.
‘All right, you can go home. Estefania is going to come back. I called her. She was out having breakfast, but I’m sure the client will like her. I don’t know what you’ve done to leave your face in such a state,’ she said, glancing at me again in that furtive way of hers.
When I heard her comment, I could understand why the girls were so vain about their appearance, and were always buying themselves stuff to put on, and spending the whole day in front of the mirror. Remarks like Susana’s could easily depress you, send you rushing to a plastic surgeon, or leave your self-confidence at zero. Mine was already there anyway, so I tried to shrug her comment off, picked up my bag of things, and went home.