2023-07-15 08:53:55
The first morning that the woman sat in front of her establishment coincided with the beginning of spring and the prosperity of Isabel’s business. The cold of winter had given way to a mild temperature, to brighter days -perhaps because of the benignity of the weather she appeared then- Isabel thought, and her accountant had called her to tell her that the amortization of the money to set up the pastry shop through a expensive credit had ceased to choke her; she would begin to see real benefits.
The bakery was in a section of the city frequented by educated people, with bookstores, antique shops, and art galleries. Except for the first few hours with delivery traffic, the street was pedestrianized. Isabel had a small terrace with three tables and a few more inside, since in addition to selling sweets at the counter, they also served coffee and various kinds of tea.
The next morning, the woman returned and repeated the routine. She sat on the step of a portal with a double door, in the part that did not need to be opened. Elizabeth watched her; her appearance and attitude aroused his curiosity. She arrived at ten, when vehicles were still passing by, with a punctuality characteristic of clocking in for a job, and she left again around two. Since her street was not wide, Isabel was able to pay attention to her details: about sixty years old, tall and very thin, straw-blonde hair cut in medium length with abundant gray hair and distinguished features; -a pretty woman- in decline. She was wearing a gray spring coat and jeans. Her shoes, brown loafers, were old, just like her coat, but of good quality.
Finally, Isabel decided to ask Blanca how she had come to be in that situation.
Almost from its opening, the pastry shop attracted numerous customers who quickly became loyal. Several factors came together for the success of the business: the place was tastefully decorated and cosy, Isabel, also a pretty woman, forty-one years old, displayed a smiling kindness and, above all, the excellent croissants that Andresito baked non-stop, the excellent pastry chef. The silent Andresito and the imaginative Lupicinia, his wife, were Ecuadorians. Lupicinia, Lupi, dispatched with the owner and attended the tables. Isabel was happy, close to a state of happiness. The ghost of poverty, her worst fear, which she saw close to her with unemployment and an ex-husband who did not contribute anything to support the girl, moved away from her.
The woman in the doorway begged, but in a curious way. She wasn’t showing any coin container or anything like that. At certain passersby who passed before her he looked into her face with an expression of serious dignity and extended her hand. Isabel noticed that she only did it with men and women at the end of their youth or maturity and with a certain style: elegance in dress or a face that denoted apparent intelligence. Most of those required of her gave her something. Isabel noticed that her selective indigentity was too much for her attention; keeping an eye on her had even caused him the distraction of not serving customers with her due diligence. Lupi, who was a bit of a freak and a classist who despised the poor, Moors and blacks, had noticed and twisted her nose. That third morning, Isabel addressed the woman. She crossed the street to bring her a latte and a croissant, which she accepted with a vacant smile and curt thanks.
On the fourth day, at a time close to lunchtime when the clientele was scarce, Isabel invited her to sit at a table on the terrace to have coffee and a croissant. This time the woman’s smile was more explicit and she got up from her low seat with remarkable agility. Isabel introduced herself and she told her: “My name is Blanca, delighted.” Although the terrace was Lupi’s responsibility, it was her boss who took care of the guest. He didn’t take the step of sitting down with her; Blanca imposed distance with courteous coldness. They limited themselves to a minimal dialogue about commonplace trivia.
«This season I have to vegetate here; any day I’ll go somewhere else”
Every noon, Isabel renewed the little invitation that had become the custom. It was Blanca who asked Isabel to take a seat at her table in a way that sounded to her like mastery of the situation, condescending permission. The conversations dragged on somewhat, but without exceeding brevity or the absence of personal grounds. Isabel soon realized that she was a cultured woman; it seemed obvious that she had seen better and more comfortable times. At close range, Blanca’s deterioration was more noticeable. In addition to her hair in need of a hairdresser and her worn clothes, which she was always the same, her beauty suffered from premature aging that did not correspond to her probable age. It was not a profusion of wrinkles, but a general air of physical devastation, the price paid for a long stay in misery. That easy cabal was accentuated by her gaze with defeated gray eyes. Shortly after finishing the coffee and the croissant, she did not extend the time at the table and returned to the portal. She only entered the pastry shop once and it was because she asked permission to go to the bathroom. When she returned, he congratulated her on the careful aesthetics of the place. Elizabeth thanked him profusely and cared about as much as if her praise had come from an influential publication.
Lupi dared a kind of contemptuous irony with her boss regarding Blanca, and also a crude criticism of her deference to her under the premise that “filthy people never bring anything good.” Elizabeth got angry.
“Lupicinia – when he was angry with his employee he called her by her full name – those who bring misfortune are the fools, and the fools, he emphasized, not the poor. It seems unbelievable that you think that way with how bad you had when you and Andresito arrived as immigrants with your little ones; you told me yourself. You do not understand anything”. Lupicinia was offended and Andresito, who witnessed the rebuke, kept quiet as usual.
Finally, one of the times on the terrace, Isabel decided to ask Blanca how she had come to be in that situation of need. As soon as she asked the question, she feared that she had crossed an undrawn line and that Blanca would be annoyed that she took a foot that she had never given her. She considered that a few coffees and croissants did not give her the right to pry into that woman’s life. Therefore, she added: “If it is not indiscretion.” Blanca replied that she was not at all her and that in fact she was surprised by the delay in asking that logical question.
«I am an alcoholic, I think since I can remember. I have always drunk, only spirits, any liquor is fine, I don’t like beer or wine. Because of the drink I was spoiling it and losing everything; I hurt those who loved me, my fellow travelers at the bottom of the glass hurt me, and I hurt myself. How did I get to this current situation? What difference does it make. I don’t even know well. This season I have to vegetate here, in front of your beautiful establishment; any day I will go elsewhere. What I call home, I am ashamed to tell you how it is; I spend as little time there as possible. I kill them in the afternoons in the bar downstairs, until they close or they kick me out for being too drunk. That’s all. Well, no. I need to thank you for your generosity and the affectionate treatment you give me every day, Isabel. Although it may not seem like it, I care a lot.” He did not give Isabel the option to comment on what she had confessed. He asked her to excuse her: she was returning to the portal for the last time.
Isabel did not agree with Blanca’s deep and long-standing dipsomania. She did not present the brutish features of the veteran alcoholic and she did not show the dazed exhaustion of her hangover in the mornings. Isabel knew about these things because her ex-husband became an inveterate drunk with the face of an animal; her coexistence with him became unbearable. But she concluded that perhaps not all people with alcoholism show up in the same way.
The next morning, Isabel arrived at the pastry shop late on business at her daughter’s school. She was surprised that Blanca was not in the portal. Lupi, excited, told him about the strange scene that, according to her, she had witnessed.
«Her friend was as always. It was still the hour that the cars passed by. A big black one of the expensive ones stopped in the doorway. The one he was driving got out, a very well-suited man. She opened the back door for his friend, got in, and went with him. As I knew for certain that she was not going to believe me, here I have a photo before leaving. She did not give me pure time and she does not go out ».
Lupi showed him her cell phone with the photo. A handsome man in a dark, double-breasted suit was seen at the doorway, holding the driver’s door open and preparing to get into the car, a black Mercedes, a luxurious model with tinted windows. Isabel preferred to think that, once again, Lupicinia was lying and she had taken advantage of the momentary parking of that driver to invent her fable. But the unquestionable thing was that Blanca never returned.
Juan Bas
Bilbao (1959) is a writer and TV scriptwriter. He has published twenty books and in 2007 received the Euskadi Literature Award. He is the founder and director of La Risa de Bilbao created in 2010.
#selective #homeless #mail