Right before she takes a right into her dormitory, Maigualida hears the unmistakable voice of the in-house lawyer. Carmen was the Director’s college friend. She was hired two years ago to supervise the progress public defenders make on the individual cases of the inmates. Yet, Maigualida knows this impromptu meeting has nothing to do with her case file, but rather that Carmen is interested in buying cocaina.
“I need some touches. I’m running late for a lunch date.”
Maigualida unlocks her door, enters the dark room and comes out with a gram of cocaine, placing it in the manicured hand of the lady lawyer and noticing the long nails, or claws, painted blood red. As Carmen pulls out a small wad of new Bolivares, Maigualida asks: “What’s the name of that perfume?”
“Chanel numero cinco,” she says looking up from her Gucci purse and smiling, “it’s very expens—”
“It smells rancid,” cuts in Maigualida, taking the money, pushing the stroller into the room and shutting the door behind her. She smiles to herself in the darkness.
Unaffected by the inmate’s behavior and clutching what she came for, Carmen rushes through the dark hallway and down a cement ramp leading to the entrance and exit of the penitentiary. She puts her new acquisition in the inside pocket of her purse, closes the zipper and glides through security into freedom.
Seated in her gold Mazda, Carmen recalls how scared she was to join the workforce when her husband filed for divorce. They had gotten married right out of college, and she had been happy to look after their home and raise the children. Carmen had been an outstanding housewife for twenty five years; she took great pride creating an atmosphere of elegance fit for the heads of the corporations they hosted during the frequent dinner parties. Her two boys had attended college in the States and settled there; their oldest working for a graphic design firm in Boston, Massachusetts and the other in an oil company located in Houston, Texas. They encouraged her “to get on with her life” when the divorce was final and both had stopped talking to their father when, in spite of making more money than ever, he refused to give her a monthly allowance after she sacrificed her career. Carmen had no choice but to return to work. She was lucky to run into this college friend who hired her almost on the spot and provided a monthly salary sufficient to cover her living expenses. She got into coke when a fellow divorcee invited her to “take a bump” raving that it would “give her the balls” she needed to plunge into the dating scene at age forty nine.
There is little traffic from Los Teques to El Rosal. Carmen enters the restaurant only fifteen minutes late, at 1:15pm, after leaving her car in valet parking. El Carso, a restaurant located on Avenida Francisco de Miranda, is famous for being the preferred hangout of male publicists and lawyers. Carmen suspects that Carlos picked this place knowing that the same-sex camaraderie would protect him. Carlos is married, a fact that doesn’t bother Carmen.
“Buenas tardes, I am meeting Carlos Perez.”
“Follow me please; el Señor Perez is waiting at the table.”
As Carmen follows the hostess, she is struck by the virility of the place. The bar and tables are dark mahogany reminiscent of a library in an all-boys club, the dim lighting creates a suspiciously romantic atmosphere, and the male servers dressed in tuxedos convey elegance, the Amazonian women with new breasts walk through tables in stretch spandex selling Black Label or 18 year old Chivas Scotch. As she walks through rows of tables, Carmen notices she is outnumbered. She sits across from Carlos at a table for two located in the farthest and most inconspicuous corner of the restaurant.
Getting up from the table, Carlos says, “Hola nena, how are you?” He kisses Carmen on the right cheek and grazes the corner of her lips.
“Did you run into a lot of traffic?”
“No, not really, just had to wrap up a few things before I left work,” she responds, taking a seat on the chair facing the wall.
“Oh. How is that going?” Carlos asks, looking at her with pity, simultaneously letting his hand fall conveniently on top of hers.
“It’s good,” she says, slipping her hand from under Carlos’s.
“I’m having a Black Label on the rocks. What would you like to drink?”
“Get me a Greygoose with soda and lime while I go to the ladies room?” Carmen translates her order into a question, sounding delicate. Years of experience with her ex had taught her how to stroke the ego of Venezuelan men. As she walks to the bathroom she also recognizes a few men who make eye contact and smile in the same endearing, irresistible way Carlos did a week ago at a cocktail party in his wife’s absence.
After a bump of courage, Carmen stops before the mirror to retouch her make-up. Looking back is the person she invented; a brunette with a bob haircut, full red lips, and smoky brown eye shadow that highlights her green eyes. She is thinner than the gullible wife who wore pastels colors and buttoned up shirts. She adjusts the white silk blouse to reveal some cleavage and touches the right corner of her lips, the place where Carlos had laid a kiss. His wife was the first in a long line of married friends to snub her when news of the divorce was public. That had been heartbreaking, being excluded and treated like an outcast by women she thought her friends. Divorce had transformed her into a threat.
In contrast, the men had become increasingly friendly. Divorce had transformed her into an opportunity. To them, she is an attractive woman that they can have sex with, no strings attached. They know she is vulnerable and will hide the affair from the society. Carmen knows all this. Regardless, she accepts the lunch dates to catch up on old times, to feel that she maintains a foot, even a toe, in the old social circle. Lost in her thoughts, Carmen crashes into the hostess as she walks out of the bathroom. The collision and flustered “perdon” shatter the young girl’s last attempt at containment and she crumbles into muffled yelps and running mascara. Carmen closes the door of the restroom and asks: “Un hombre?”
“Si,”
“What’s your name sweetheart?”
“Anabella,”
“How old are you Anabella?”
“Twenty.”
Carmen tries to say something encouraging, wavering between there’s a lot of fish in the sea and you have your whole life ahead of you. In the end she chooses the truth, “Brace yourself, Anabella, this is only the beginning.” At first, the callous response shocks Anabella. She turns to Carmen in disbelief, looking for sympathy and clarification. Carmen says, “My advice is to grow thick skin,” gives her a benevolent smile and walks out.
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