El Carso is full for a Monday, but thankfully, no one is waiting to be seated. Anabella checks her mobile phone for text messages or voicemail. Nothing. She scrolls through the contact list to Luis Martinez and changes his name to HIJO DE PUTA, and smiles at the son of a bitch.
She should have known the guy was a jerk right after hearing his dumb joke about women on the third date. She should have caught his snickering grin as he said: ‘“A guy sleeps with a British woman, an American woman and a Venezuelan woman. The next morning the British lady asks, “Would you like a spot of tea?” The American woman says, “What’s your name again?” and the Venezuelan woman says, “Baby, do you love me?”’ Anabella had been unable to muster a quick come back lying there naked after having morning sex. He never called her again or even returned her cute, anxious, desperate and then angry messages. And yet, she is a sucker for that type of man.
Fortunately, Anabella and Luis had not met at El Carso and he was not a regular there. Working as hostess is a big improvement from promoting liquors in stores and supermarkets, events and restaurants. She’d hated having to work in different places and under different bosses. She hated the spandex outfits, the cattiness of the other girls, the gawking of old men. But the worst was the rampant bulimia, the result of having to eat fast food three meals a day while staying below one hundred and ten pounds. Although Anabella is not a big eater, she got hooked on the feeling of solidarity with the girls who taught her how to vomit the first time; like an initiation. Now, alone, she is addicted to the freedom of stuffing and purging. Food is both the lover that fulfills her and the enemy that brings her to the verge of insanity. By vomiting she eliminates the latter.
Once, Anabella wanted to go to college and study to be an orthodontist. But she grew tired of her mother and the endless parade of her no-good cheating boyfriends that stayed in the two-room apartment. Moving away from home, from the low income housing located on the margins of Caracas took precedence over a college education. She interviewed at a modeling agency that gave her a rating of A+, the highest, as a promotional model, a job that makes a hefty sum of money per hour but is limited to the promotion and sale of gourmet products, liquors, cars and other items that target male consumers. She worked nonstop for six months, grabbing weekend gigs that paid double, saving enough for plastic surgery and silicone injections for her lips. After enduring excruciating pain for two weeks, she landed the hostess position at Bar y Restaurante El Carso, making half of what she used to but closer to the ultimate goal: businessmen of the high social class. Here, she is surrounded by young men of wealthy families and high ranking corporate types. Anabella is determined to marry out of the slum and will use all her resources to reach her goal.
She takes a stroll through the restaurant, stopping at a couple of tables to pick up empty glasses, dirty napkins and paid bills, dropping the bills off at the cashier’s desk and the glasses at the counter leading to the kitchen. The waits staff loves her because she can’t stay still; she needs constant movement to feel that she is getting somewhere. Anabella has already planned and paid for her next career move by enrolling in a secretarial school from eight to eleven in the morning, before coming into work at noon. Once she’s acquired the basic skills she will offer her resume to the clients of this establishment. It is a solid move, a move that will bring her one step closer to security, affluence and happiness. A secretarial position is better than this job because she can develop a personal relationship with her jefe.
Venezuelan men value their secretaries to such an extent that the country has a national Secretary’s Day, when the restaurant is decked out with red roses and overflowing with clandestine couples consisting of distinguished men and young ladies, like her. Anabella finds the boss-employee relationship arousing and knows there is a lot she can do with the power struggle. It is a holiday that creates more fuss than Mother’s Day, which brings a few stragglers to share a bottle of Chardonnay with wife and mother, killing two birds with one stone. She was reminded of how unenthusiastic she is about her own mother; resent coloring every facet of their estranged relationship. Yet, even with so much rage, she can’t help but send her a monthly check that covers the cost of food. Her mother is stupid; her life is a pitiful illustration of poor decisions combined with laziness. Although Anabella is happy to have left the dump of the apartment, the woman did give birth to her.
Happy hour arrives and a new flow of men take the empty tables adorned with fresh pressed tablecloths and folded napkins. The atmosphere is lightened by the absent pressure of meetings and conferences. What was not finished today by 4pm has been postponed until tomorrow by the lovely secretaries. Unbearable rush-hour traffic opens up yet another space for men to socialize away from home, whether it’s meeting with friends or work colleagues. A lot of business is concluded at this time, over an emptying bottle of expensive scotch and hot tequeños. Venezuela is a country of men, a place they manipulate with the dexterity of a feeding octopus, dipping its slippery tentacles in so many places at once. Although women are not confined to the household, most do not partake of this daily social ritual, but rush home to get a start on dinner. That is why the presence of an uninvited woman can trounce the fragile comradeship of men, subjugating lighthearted macho fun with the scent of a strong perfume.
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