The Leather Pouch (La Poche en cuir)--Antoine Bourque Louis.docx

The Leather Pouch" ("La Poche en cuir")--Antoine Bourque
Louisiana Ma
--italics indicate English in the original French text
(dedicated to my cousin from Marais Bouleur, Jean Arceneaux)
The door opened with a creak to reveal a withered woman.
'Pardon
Madame, but could you spare a farthing?" the beggar asked with
a strong
French accent.
"Leave my doors tep this instant, you damned Acadian wench!"
responded the old Englishwoman with scorn. "Isn't it enough
that we must
suffer your presence amongst us without having to support you
out of our
own pockets as well?"
Without a word, the beggarwoman turned aside to make her way
once
more toward the abandoned cabin where she lived with her
children,
orphaned of their father, and her sister-in-law who was a
widow. The
insults of the Englishwoman were already forgotten. After
twelve years
spent begging the most meager charity of her English hosts
(gardiens),
Elizabeth Brasseux had created a barrier between herself and

the barrage of
insults.NNevertheless, dragging her clogs in the snow ., her feet
wrapped
in bits of wool, Elizabeth felt the anguish which would come
again the
following day, when she would have to go on begging from door
to door. The
generosity of the English had quickly died out after Christmas,
and as the
coins which tossed about in her leather pouch reminded her,
there hadn't
been enough money to buy gifts for the children for New Year's
Day.
But New Year's Day hadn't always been so sad for the children.
Louis
Thibodeaux, who had been her neighbor, was a master carpenter
capable of
making a modest living. He was 'not really rich but, despite his
large family,
he had always helped his cousins out and gave little gifts to the
children for
the New Year. But this year, like the majority of Acadians from
Maryland,
Louis and his family had set out for Louisiana on a merchant
ship.
Their departure had upset the Brasseux world. The eldest,
Pierre,
earned some money doing small jobs here and there, but it
wasn't hardly
enough to feed his pregnant wife. "I am condemned to begging,"
Elizabeth
told herself, crying in silence_
But her plaints were cut short by the cries of the youngest,

Blaise.
"Mommy! Mummy!" he cried, running toward her. "A letter
from cousin Louis
arrived today. Aunt Marguerite brought it to Mr. Hebert to learn
of the
news."
"Oh!' responded Elizabeth, disappointed. Then she went in the
house.
She crossed the room to the little hand-made table. Seated at
one of the
two chairs in the house, Elizabeth paried the questions of the
children
assembled around her. Then she gave the contents of the leather
pouch to
Blaise, who had become, since the marriage of his brother, the
head of the
famil y.
By the light of the fire, Blaise's face moved the already troubled
spirit of Elizabeth. "He so resembles his father," she thought.
"If Cosme had
only spent the first winter with us!" Tears came to her eyes once
'again to
think of the boat that had brought them in exile and on which
Cosme had
caught smallpox.
"I've done my best to raise my family all alone," she said. But,
the
pouch empty in her hands, she had to admit, "Fly best is not
enough." Some
British officials had tried to place Pierre with some Englishmen,

but Cousin
Louis and other Acadian neighbors had prevented them from
doing it by
sending the Brasseux from Baltimore to Georgetown by the
smugglers' route.
In Georgetown, Elizabeth had seen her begging attract the
attention of the
constable, forcing her family to move once again. Finally
settled in Cecil
County, they lived peacefully enough, but the preacher of the
Presbyterian
church down the street wanted to offer Blaise as apprentice to a
"Christian"
carpenter. And now Louis could no longer help them.
Elizabeth was so preoccupied by her problems that she didn't
noticed
the footsteps approaching the house on the narrow path. The
door opened
Wide, and Aunt Marguerite had lgnace and Joseph Hebert and
Jean Granger
come in.
"I read the letter from Louis Thibodeaux," announced Ignace
who,
before the deportation, had learned to read from the priest in
Grand Pre to
help him in his business with the English smugglers from Bale
Verte (Green
Day). "Louis and his family have been settled along the
Mississippi by the
Spanish government and, if they are not completely happy with
where they
have been placed, they are in a region where French is spoken
and where they
can work their lands for themselves."

"And they no longer kneel before the blasted English," added
Jean.
"Yes," said Joseph, "those bastards have taken our houses. They
have
sent us here, and now they want to hear nothing more of us."
"They have done nothing to help us," confirmed Ignace. "But
they
always want to help themselves. That is why we need you,
Elizabeth."
"But what in the world can I do? I am nothing but a
beggarwoman."
"It is precisely for that reason that we are asking for your help,"
insisted Joseph. "Do you want to remain a beggar the rest of
your life?"
"No." Elizabeth understood.
"Well, then, come with us folks to see the magistrate. You know
very
well how the people are disgusted to see you come knocking at
their door.
Like the businessmen when they see us corning to look for
work."
"As a matter of fact," added lgnace. "the English are as sick of
seeing
us as we folks are of them. We should use their hate."
Joseph explained. "We spent an entire afternoon writing up a
petition

for the magistrate. He has already received many complaints
about us folks,
and if he thinks he can get rid of us, he will give us enough
money to get out
of this miserable country."
"Leave Maryland?" said Elizabeth joyfully_ "How could I help
you?"
"Come with us," responded lgnace, "and help us persuade the
magistrate that he must help us."
"Certainly," answered Elizabeth getting up to go with her
friends.
The office of the magistrate of Cecil County was a small, humid
building, uncomfortable in any season, but particularly
disagreeable in the
winter. The magistrate, William Smith, was therefore especially
unhappy
with the arrival of this handful of neutral Frenchmen or
Acadians, as they
called themselves. They -announced their intention to speak,
thus preventing
him from going home as quickly as possible.
"These damned Acadiens, "he thought. "They've been nothing
but a
nuisance since their arrival. Well, maybe I can force them to
leave by
piecing theft petition at the end of the docket."
But the magistrate saw that this small band of Acadians was
determined to stay, no matter what. Holding her leather pouch,
Elizabeth
prepared herself to endure one more humiliation of asking
money of such a

haughty and condescending magistrate. The time passed slowly.
The
magistrate had intentionally slowed down his deliberations, but
finally he
was obliged to call the Acadians.
''State your businiess, "he said in a surly tone of voice.
"We wish to leave Maryland, "said Ignace, presenting a short
petition
declaring the request. And We lack the necessary m oney."
"And just why should we help you leave?" Smith demanded. He
grimaced, reading the petition.
"Because we are farmers, "answered Elizabeth, surprising
everyone,
including herself, "and because you won't give us land to farm.
We have no
other skills to make a living. For twelve years now, I have gone
from door
to begging for alms, moving on whenthe local people get so
tired
seeing me of seeing me that they refuse to even speak to me.
Now a preacher is talking
about apprenticing my youngest son to en English tradesmen
because like
other.Acadian widows, have difficulty in supporting him. We do
not want
poor charity. We want to support ourselves. And, most of all,
my children
and I want to remain together. Only by leaving Maryland can
wedo this."
'None of us wants charity, "added Ignace. We only want to go
where

we can earn a decent living and where we will not be a burden
to anyone.
Many of our brother Acadians in Baltimore have chartered a
ship for
Louisiana and they will depart for that colony in only a few
days. We edo not
have enough money to buy passage aboard their vessel. That is
why we have come to you."
3
"We know that the English people do not want us here. We
know that
they like supporting us even less. Give us enough money to
leave Maryland
end we can assure you that we will not return."
The magistrate considered their request carefully and had to
admit
that they were right. The last wave of complaints against these
beggars and
vagrants was one more proof of the hate directed against them.
"We also
need to purge the colony of Papists such as these, "he thought. "
And this is
the perfect opportunity to dispose of them." Besides, his cold
feet and his
grumbling stomach reminded him that a long debate would put
off his supper
by the fire.
"I have given the matter some thought. " Smith announced,
finally

breaking the heavy silence that had filled the room for a short
time."Indeed,
the local populace has grown weary of supporting poll and as
you
cannot support yourselves here, I shall issue the necessary
funds"
When Elizabeth and her family embarked on the Britannia, it
was the
beginning of March, 1767. The beggarwoman looked out over
the port of
Baltimore and she remembered the day, twelve gears before,
when she and
her family had arrived, prisoners of the English. "Life was hard
in those
times," she thought, "and it will surely be so again on the shores
of the
Mississippi. But at least I will be able to earn a living, for
myself and my
children." Then, searching in the folds of her wool skirt, she
took her
leather pouch and threw it into the troubled waters of
Chesapeake Bay.
4
Page 1Page 2Page 3Page 4
Virtual bitch—Cristina Civale
[From Perra virtual. (Buenos Aires: Seix Barral, 1998): 11-25.

trans. Martha J.
Manier]
It no longer paid to go out on the street. Luz — that was the
name she adopted
when she entered the profession at fourteen after her physical
education teacher had
taken her virginity and she knew, once and for all that making
love was what she liked
best and that she would charge to do it — made sure her clients
inhabited invisible
spaces, hunkered down in their houses before their terminals, in
search of sex, in
search of relief. They made their connections through the
computer.
If, when she was a girl, they had told her she would raffle off
the last days of her
youth getting clients through cyber chats, it would have seem
like a poorly formulated
dream. But that’s how it was: young rugby players, businessmen
with laptops, up and
coming politicians, architects and graphic designers, brokers
with little time, liberals
down on their luck, nerds with no experience, were all here, at
the reach of a few
computer keys, and in less than two minutes, a meeting was
arranged, followed later by
exhaustion, and finally payment in cash.
Luz could barely believe it. Every afternoon between five and
seven she turned on
the computer and logged in — the modem had been programmed
to connect to a
number belonging to a prestigious service provider. After a few

seconds she would see
on the screen the program through which she accessed her
clients, who on their
machine had identically configured access. Then she only had to
move the mouse,
select option in the menu, and immediately know which ones
were trying to contact her.
Luz selected a name and invited that man to chat. Before a
minute had passed that
client was dialing up his virtual date who would soon become
real and tireless. The chat
was sensual and provocative; she promised lust and ephemeral
bliss in exchange for a
reasonable fee, no payment by the installment plan. Every day
Luz’s bank account
increased more and more until she received a gold card from the
very bank where her
clients paid. They entered their credit card number into the
computer, and she received
her money every week. She did not want to be paid directly by
them: contact with that
dirty, well-fingered paper, exasperated her. That’s how Luz
was: sometimes reserved,
other times cheeky. More importantly, now she was happy.
She had been able to abandon that non-productive wandering to
which she had to
resort in the beginning of the 90’s when the economic
depression seemed to threaten
everything from the fulfillment of the most primitive desire to
the exercise of prostitution.
Luz found herself among the privileged who found a solution to
guarantee their survival:
her fabulous and clandestine chain of amorous conquests on the
web.

A young and very real client spent a long night with her. It
marked his last day in the
country. He had decided to emigrate to San Francisco in search
of a more honorable
and, above all, a more prosperous life. The young man — Luz
finally remembered his
name was Geronimo — sent her by way of a door to door
delivery the following day his
computer, the modem, and all the cables. Through trial and
error and manuals, Luz
1
spent three days trying to figure it all out; but when she
succeeded, she was able to
reap rich rewards. She subscribed to a service provider for those
with high purchasing
power, and after paying an even higher fee she too became a
privileged member in a
limited news group from which she extracted the cream of her
clientele.
Luz was a prostitute with very fastidious habits, which at times
bordered on ritual.
She devoured detective novels and, this may sound odd, read
Chandler. She loved to
go to the movies in the afternoon, especially to the half-price
shows. She detested
Quentin Tarantino but saw without any discernment all John
Travolta movies as well as
those with Michel Pfeiffer whom she unconditionally admired.
That was all there was to
it; she never tried to imitate her. Luz had her own style. Her

hair was black, straight and
fell to her shoulders in a shag cut. Her eyes reflected her mood:
she collected contact
lenses. She was so thin that sometimes she seemed transparent
and at other times
ethereal. She always wore black and had a mole tattooed where
her breast first became
evident. Her only colorful detail was a ring: a fake ruby set in
gold and worn on her left
pinkie. She seemed anorexic but could allow herself the luxury
of eating without getting
fat. Her daily diet consisted of four slices of warm, thick-crust
pizza topped with gruyere,
arrugula, and raw salmon. She used creams that promised to
retard the effects of aging,
shaved her legs and under her arms with a little machine that
respected the contours of
her body, and liked music, always playing Sarah Vaughn and
Billy Holiday on her
walkman. Every time you say good-bye, even made her cry until
she was exhausted,
because when all is said and done, Luz was a romantic.
The greatest risk she ran with each of her clients was not that of
contracting some
disease. The strict use of condoms put her out of such danger.
After each client, Luz
thought she found, always for a second, the man of her life, but
the best was that in the
next second she forgot him. It was not suitable, nor respectable
for her to fall in love
with a client and Luz knew that and more: love and money
could not mix and many
times amidst the perspiration and heavy breathing she could
smell or hear the
secretions of love. This was something she had to worry about

because, for Luz, love
ranked above all else, sex was down on the list. She could not
become confused.
Therefore, she worked with such gravity that it seemed an
exaggeration. Each time she
performed an insignificant yet meticulous ritual: she made her
clients be quiet and then
sprinkled them with her own perfume so that no word or foreign
smell could bother her.
That’s how she was: intense and cautious at the same time. The
one moment she felt
love she was capable of giving everything for nothing; the next
moment she forgot, and
measured her caresses in dollars and cents. She didn’t even give
away an innocent kiss
on the cheek. It made her uncomfortable to be generous and,
under no circumstances,
to lose money..
The arrival of a new subscriber to the news group was a bit
unexpected. His double
surname impressed her. Not for the reason there were two
surnames but rather for the
sound. Those two names made her think of a character in
Chandler and a theme in Billy
Holiday. These really did not have one thing to do with the
name, but Luz was used to
living in a state of disorder. In the midst of the sounds and the
muddle, she believed she
was catching of glimmer of love, more than a moment of love, a
lasting love. From the
time when she read it, she knew she would fall in love with both
the name and the man
who had that name. The arrival of Aquiles García de Andina to
her life and to her

2
computer disturbed her in a way that was unpredictable and
strangely inoffensive. Luz
could feel petite even though she might proceed with the
ruthless steps of a giant.
Luz always saved the chats. For her they were like life
insurance. From the onset
her attitude toward those of García de Andina was quite
different. The copies of their
two conversations ranked among with her dearest possessions
along with the photo of
her dead mother and an inherited reliquary. When García de
Andina had become a
dusty memory, she printed the conversations and dedicated
many of her days devoutly
reading them, each time searching for new meaning and,
especially, some veiled
declaration of love.
The first contact was more or less as follows. Luz logged onto
her usual program,
and with the mouse reviewed the names of users on the list
serve and there read that
Aquiles García de Andina was on line. She dialed his number
and invited him to chat.
Aquiles accepted at once, and Luz felt very emotional but he, of
course, never knew. It
was summer 1996. It was January. The chat was babbling and
unorganized, like any
other. Nevertheless, for Luz these words sealed the beginning of
something that, she
imagined, would be fabulous.

Luz: It’s an honor.
García de Andina: The honor is mine.
Luz: I ‘d like to know who you are.
García de Andina: Who?
Luz: I’m over doing…
Luz: You.
García de Andina: Aquiles, 33, a lawyer…
Luz: What else?
García de Andina: 5’8”, 165lbs, bachelor…
Luz: 165!
Luz: Where do you live? What part of town?
García de Andina: …a hermit, Arroyo y Suipacha.
Luz: Nice neighborhood.
García de Andina: Lots of nightlife…
Luz: Are you a hermit out of choice or desperation?
García de Andina: Choice
Luz: Mmmmm
García de Andina; Mmmmm?
Luz: Do you look at yourself in the mirror and like what you
see?
García de Andina: Yes.
Luz: I’ m not at all subtle.
García de Andina: It doesn’t matter. Read… it’s how I am:
authoritarian, egotistic,
and a bit monarchist.
Luz: Interesting when it comes to war.
García de Andina: War?
Luz: Yes: a non-pacific interchange over differing points of
view etc.
García de Andina: With no weapons?
Luz: Using the most caustic words in our negotiations.
García de Andina, Yes, I like that.

3
Luz: Shall we fight?
García de Andina: I hate communism… I like Coca Cola and
Burger King
hamburgers.
Luz: I like gin and tonic, don’t eat meat, subscribe to no
ideology, and I want to meet
you…
García de Andina: Whenever you like.
Luz: I’m free now.
García de Andina: Your house or mine?
Luz: You choose. Going to your home I charge $300; in mine
$250, no drinks.
García de Andino: Excuse me…
Luz: Read it again… take your time and you’ll understand.
Anything else? I’m going
to sign off.
García de Andina:
Luz: ????
García de Andina: Suipacha 1132 8º 19. I’ll see you in an hour.
Luz: I’ll be there. One last thing…
García de Andina: Yes.
Luz: I only accept credit cards.
Luz set the screen saver, some stars that gave the feeling of
traveling through
infinite space. She began to prepare for her big date. She chose
a black dress with a
high neck and long skirt that outlined her bony figure but

especially the prodigious size
of her breasts. She put on a pair of white platform sandals. She
slicked back her hair
and spent a long time outlining her lips, trying to convert her
mouth into a delicious pulp.
She put exactly two drops of a acidic, manly perfume on her
neck, picked up her car
keys, and left without a purse.
Aquiles García de Andina seemed to live in the former Bencich
building. Luz
managed to park the car in front of the door and got out. She
smoothed down her dress
and calmed her nerves by taking a swig of gin from a flask she
always kept in the glove
compartment. She went over a million plans before she rang the
bell and even thought
she might not charge García de Andina. Her entire hand leaned
upon the bell and she
rang it with fury and desire. No one answered. Without showing
any sign of being
perturbed, Luz rang again. Once again, no response. She made
one last attempt. She
refused to think of bad omens. The sky was clear and the moon
full. Nothing bad could
be happening. She reviewed the address and time; she checked
her watch. She waited
a few seconds without knowing what to do, then knowing she
kicked the door until her
knees hurt.
The doorman appeared and assured her no Aquiles García de
Andina lived there
nor had he ever lived there. Luz had not counted on that and
crumbled. However her
love — arbitrary and at that moment not at all fugitive, — did

not die just then. It grew
greater until it became a full-blown obsession.
Luz sped home and when she got there threw herself at the
computer. She
connected and waited, like an unhappy girl in love, for any
appearance of García de
Andina. She waited a long time. Day was breaking. When the
first of the sun’s rays was
about to appear over the horizon. García de Andina went on
line. This time he was the
one who invited her to chat. Luz, looking for any sign of an
apology, accepted.
4
García de Andina: What happened?
Luz: You weren’t there… the doorman told me… you didn’t live
there.
García de Andina: Where?
Luz: At the address you gave me.
García de Andina: Yes, I do live there.
Luz: I don’t understand…
García de Andina: The doorman is an idiot.
Luz: Aha!
García de Andina: Come back. I can’t wait…
Luz: Okay. Wait for me at the front door.
Not for one second did Luz doubt that Aquiles García de Andina
was telling her the
truth. She did not look in mirror, again picked up her keys, and
drove through the streets

that were now beginning to fill with busses, taxis, and people
going to real jobs. She
parked in the same spot. A fifteen-year-old boy was waiting in
the doorway. Luz
hesitated a second before she realized and fearfully asked if he
were Aquiles García de
Andina. The boy shook his head no. Not speaking he guided her
toward the elevator
and they rode up in unperturbed silence. Luz did not want to
imagine anything, not even
draw conclusions. She only wanted to meet once and for all her
beloved Aquiles García
de Andina and make love to him as she had never done to
anyone else. Her underpants
grew moist. The elevator stopped and the boy guided her in
silence toward the
apartment
With what appeared to be his own key, he opened the door. Luz
did not understand
what she saw. Four other boys as old as the first one were
waiting for her. She had
barely stepped into the apartment when one of then, with the
whitest of skin and golden
hair that fell to his waist, came to within a centimeter of her
mouth and said: We are
Aquiles García de Andina. Then he withdrew and lined up with
the others, all so similar
that they could have been clones. The only thing they did was
look at her, not saying a
word, as if the few words they uttered came from typing on
their computers. They were
virgins. Luz could smell it and her sense of smell never failed
her. Then she confirmed
it. They were standing and Luz approached and sized them up.
She looked for a

secluded spot and had them enter one by one. With eyes closed
she made love to each
one of them. She made an effort to hide from them the fact that
a single tear rolled
down her cheek in a perfect line ending at her chin, now
quivering. Luz didn’t know if it
was from fear or grief. There was no noise. No one whimpered
or shouted. Their
orgasms were silent, cautious, and, of course, protected by a
skin colored latex
condom. The boys paid her the agreed upon price and all
maintained their silent ritual
until Luz was on the other side of the door. She closed it and
waited for the elevator.
Only then did hyena-like laughs hurt her ears. By the time the
boys stopped laughing,
choking on the floor, Luz was already home, naked and
depressed, tearing her
computer monitor apart, searching for the man she had lost.
Somewhere she would find
Aquiles García de Andina. He had not been a dream. He had
existed.
5
291
ONE NIGHT
Rosaura Sanchez
Since Samaniego hadn't come home from work and it was
getting

late, Florencia walked the six blocks to her parents' house to ask
her
dad for the car. She needed to go to the laundromat.
After a while she returned home, collected the clothes and her
three children and went to the one on Chadbourne Street.
Florencia
was still upset because Samaniego had jumped at the chance to
go to
the cantina with his friends after work. Work and drink.
"There's
nothing else to do in this town," he'd tell her. No, she didn't
want it
said that Samaniego was tied to her apron strings. But he has no
reason to go that far. He works hard, l can't complain,
especially
with all that dust from the wood they saw. But now with the
story
that he also works Saturdays, he wants to be out with his friends
in
the afternoon. He knows very well that on Wednesdays I need
the car
to go do the wash. Florencia didn't like going around being a
nuisance just to do her household chores. If only she could
work,
she'd have her own car. Even if it were a rickety old car. Now
the
kids were more grown up and they could stay with Grandma
after
school. And she'd put the youngest in the day care center
downtown.
But she couldn't. Not even her father supported her:
"No, daughter, if your husband doesn't want you to work, well
then you don't work. Yes, I know it would be a help, as you say,
but

we men have our pride. Do what I tell you, Florencia. It's better
to
eat only beans and tortillas and keep the peace. You know, I
never
did let you girls work in hotels or laundromats or restaurants.
Because in those places there is always someone who takes
advantage of our women, pinching and pawing. Not with the
gringas.
The gringos always have their way with the Mexican women.
For
that reason I always took you there with me to the job to work,
where I could keep an eye on you."
The gringa, who had the business and stood taking care of and
cleaning the machines, approached and asked if she needed
change.
Did she need change for the four washers and dryers.
"And don't complain that I took you girls there with the sun
splitting open your head; they can never say that anyone was
ever
disrespectful to you. Since I was the truck driver, no one said a
word. It wasn't only that I needed more hands for the work, with
nine girls and only two boys, well you also had to help. And
how you
learned to flirt, just like real hussies! But what were they going
to
292
say to me? If I hauled you out because of the things that were

seen
and what the people said. Back then, like today, the girls who
went
to school were like a bunch of little straws held together. And
under
the pretext of going to school, they were torn apart. Come on!
So
that later they might leave big-bellied, more than four months
along.
How was I going to let my girls go messing around with a bunch
of
pachucos who caused trouble for girls in school."
Her older son, Gilberto, who was now twelve, helped her
separate the whites from the darker colors. The towels together
in
one machine. Work pants in another. Gilberto was a helpful kid,
with the patience and strength of his grandfather. Samaniego
didn't
like it that Gilberto helped her, that he wanted to cook, although
it
was always the same dish, sausage and eggs. For that reason he
had
been teaching him to shoot targets with the rifle he had brought
from Vietnam. His boy had to be a real man.
"And you see Flor, you can't deny that it was better my way.
You can complain that I didn't send you to school, but all my
girls
came out good. Not one ran away. Not one left with a big belly
and
gave birth after being married only six months. Each one in due
time
and properly. That's upbringing, daughter. Look, I'm now an old
man,
but listen to me. If Samaniego doesn't want you to work, well

stay
home with your chores and your children. God will help you."
After putting the clothes in the washers, she and Gilberto sat
down to wait and see who else was in the laundromat, while the
younger kids played on the floor with a toy tractor.
"And another thing I want to tell you, Florencia, before you
start the motor. Don't reject your husband. Look, one gets tired
of
that noise and then walks out. Then the one who's messed up is
you.
Pay attention to me, girl."
At that moment, Dona Refugio, a neighbor of her parents, came
up to her.
"How's it goin' Florie, it's been awhile since I've seen you.
Well, here I am washing my rags before I go to the hospital. I
don't
know if you know that one of my daughters is sick; they're
going to
operate tomorrow for a tumor. No, for years now she's had this
little pain that just wouldn't go away and no matter how long
we've
been with Don Canuto to fight it, there's nothing else to do
about it.
You know how expensive it is to be there, if only out of sheer
necessity. The worst thing is that there in the huarache factory
where she works, they don't even have insurance for them. Well
here
you have me rushing around to get enough together to put her in
the
hospital because not even Poncho has insurance for the family.
No,
there in construction, only for them, in case something happens

to
293
the men at work. And what my daughter most regrets is that
she's
missing work, and since there hasn't been much work for
Poncho this
month, well there you are, it just gets to you with all those
debts
piling up."
The gringa signaled to her. The machines had stopped and she
had to take out the clothes and put them in the dryers.
And there's no way I can do what Celestine said. Although she
was recommending it when she sat down next to me in the bus
this
afternoon when I was coming from the clinic with the children:
"What happens, Florencia, is that you don't know how to hold
onto him. I stick to mine. I stick to him like the measles. When
he
goes to town to buy something, I go in the car with him. When
he
goes to ask Compadre Toribio for some iron, I go with him.
After he
finishes working on the car and wants to go eat, there I am, just
as I
am, my long hair a mess and wearing any old pair of shoes. And
you
see, when has Manuel ever cheated on me? He can't fool me
because
I take care of him day and night. You won't find me staying at

home
all the timel To play the fool!"
The dryers were all full and she had to wait with the clothes
in the basket. That Celestine knew all the tricks. And she really
knew how to play dumb when she talked about neglecting her
children.
"Now they must have told you about the mess the other day.
Well we got into a huff with the school and the city. Since
Micaela
stayed home to help me take care of the children, someone told
the
school. They came to see and said that since she wasn't sick she
had
to go to school every day. And then even the city came around
making its accusations, that we didn't take good care of the
kids,
that they didn't eat well and who knows what all. Well,
considering
what we have, the little bit of beans, rice and tortillas. Where
are
we going to get any more? There's no way we could all eat in a
restaurant. It's all my old man can do to go, because he works.
And
I, well I need to be right there with him, so he doesn't make me
a
fool."
And she's so calm, chewing, chewing away on her gum. And
before she got off, she told me:
"The ones who were responsible for the meeting stuff were the

neighbor women, no doubt about it, out of sheer envy. Since
their
husbands don't take them anyplace. Here they are all locked up.
They spend the entire day with their kids, washing and ironing.
Now
some gringas come and see us every Friday to see if the
children are
eating okay. To see if I bathe them and give them clean clothes.
Now you know how it is that the little pigs don't stay clean.
Well
�
29z
they don't go around here saying that the kids are encrusted
with
filth. As if everyone in this pig sty of a barrio didn't go about
the
same way. Now we have to be more careful because if we aren't,
they say they'll take the kids from us. Now we only go to the
restaurant from time to time. The best part was that Manuel got
rather scared and now doesn't drink so much. But there's no way
I'm
going to unstick myself from him. So, you, Florencia, what you
have

to do is know Samaniego's habits and follow him, follow him
where
he wants you to go."
Finally a dryer was free, and then another and another. The
delicates had to be taken out after five minutes because
otherwise
they would turn yellow. Florencia was tending to the dryers,
when
she felt someone watching her. She raised her head and
recognized
Ramona. She hadn't seen her grade school friend for years,
considering how much they had played together and fought.
They
began to talk about other times and other friends.
"Yes, Esperanza married Juan. And they now have a little boy.
And Conchita? Don't tell me! She married Popeye? Yes, and
I always see Alfredo in the clothing store where he works as a
clerk.
Yes, the Rodriguez family left for California and Maria and
Pancho
are living in Dallas.�I just can't believe it!�They now have six
children! How incredible!"�
Ramona was one of Florencia's few friends who had finished
high school. Then she had worked some years in the onion and
spinach fields, then in laundromats and later when they set up
the
huarache factories, she had been one of the first ones hired. But
since they paid so little, piecework, she now worked in a blue
jeans
factory. And she had other plans: she wanted to study in a
business
school to become a secretary or typist and earn a little more.

"At my age I should be married and have children like you, but
you know how bad it was for me with Samuel. We had to
separate
after two years. Now I don't want to get married to support
anyone.
Do you remember Maria Perez, there she is with three in her
family
and her husband doesn't want to work. He lives in the cantina,
drunk.
Why would I want such luck? The one who's a little better off is
Jesusita, but since she lives there next door, I know that each
month
her brothers have to go looking for Chacho because he goes
away to
Viacuna and gets wasted. And so it goes. My sister Marcela is
also
left with six kids. Kiko doesn't bother, with this tale that
Welfare
will take care of everything. At least I get by on my own."�
When Florencia went back to her seat, Dona Refugio had
already
gone, but her Comadre Ester, the godmother of one of the
smaller
children, had arrived.
295
"Yes, Dona Refugio left. She's in a bad way, the poor thing.
And
it's not only because Mere is sick. Just imagine, last night they
fished the grandson out of jail. Who knows who turned him in
and
the police even went into the cantina to frisk him. They found I

don't
know how many ounces of marijuana on him. It was a gringo
cop, and
if it hadn't been they wouldn't have done a thing to him. And the
one
it all falls on is Dona Refugio because she's the one who
scurried
about to get his bail, because Poncho, it's as if he weren't a son.
Dona Refugio spent all morning long looking for someone who
might
spring for the bail of a thousand dollars. Ooh, look no further!
Did
you see who entered? Petra. She makes them all drool. And you
know how taken Samaniego is with her. Since he was a soldier.
I'm
only telling you this so you'll be careful with that viper."
Gilberto helped her fold the clothes and later to put them in
the basket, then they picked up the detergent and left. First they
dropped the clothes off at home and then they went to drop off
the
car. Since it was dark, her father brought them back home.
Samaniego still hadn't come. When she saw that the supper she
had
left for him on the stove had become cold, Florencia decided to
put it
in the refrigerator. If he wants to eat, let him warm it up. This
time she was more in control than usual. She then began to tend
to
the clothes while the children watched TV.
Later, after putting the children to bed, Florencia turned out
the lights and sat down on the front room sofa to wait for
Samaniego. She began to think about Mere, about the fear she
would

probably feel while thinking about tomorrow's surgery. Mere
seemed
all used up and she wasn't very old, what? she'd probably be
forty
something. And the whopping bill they would have to pay. It
seems
incredible with all the women working there. Not to have
insurance
for them! No, that's a crime. They should join together like the
women garment workers in El Paso. Only that way. Let the shoe
pinch the owners, let's see if they don't move to do something
then.
No, if Dona Refugio is right, these gringos want to bleed us
alive.
She glanced at the clock. It was going on twelve and Samaniego
still
hadn't arrived. How disgraceful if I have to ask them to go drag
him
drunk from some flea-bitten cantina for me. You're all messed
up
because they mess you over and then to go off looking for more
trouble. That helps these gringos screw us over. Although at
times,
of course, it's like Samaniego says: "The one who shines there
at
work is Pascual Arroyo. And since they made him the
subforeman,
he's the one who screws us over the most." Such is life. Just like
Mama says: "The squeaking wheel gets the grease." It's going to
be
just like it was in Mexico, in Coahuila during the strikes, when
296

Mexicans stuck it to other Mexicans. She had never been in
Coahuila,
but Florencia remembered the Mexican movies she had seen.
That
one with Pedro Armendariz. He played an Indian, an Indian who
rebelled against the patron. But the patrons were as Indian as
the
peons, although, now I remember, the patrons were whiter in
those
scenes. We haven't been to a movie in a long time. How is it in
Mexico now? Surely it must be the same. When they were going
together they always met at the Cine Rita, where they showed
only
Mexican movies, but they closed it down. Samaniego has never
been
so late. Is he out with some old cantina whore? At best he's got
himself into a mess. Tomorrow he's not going to want to get up
to
go to work. And here I am wide awake too. What an idiot! If he
ever
comes home creating a stink, the neighbors will surely call the
police. And if some day he'd lay a hand on me . . . I don't even
want to
think about it. Better that Dad never finds out.
It was already one o'clock when she heard the car pull in. She
immediately got up from the sofa, went to the bedroom and
locked
the door. Tomorrow they would settle accounts.
Translated by Martha J. Manier
Page 1Page 2Page 3Page 4Page 5Page 6
Tigrela—Lygia Fagundes Telles [Brazil]

From: Fagundes Telles, Lygia. Tigrela and Other Stories. Trans.
Margaret A. Neves. (New
York:Avon, 1986): 131-137.
I bumped into Romana by chance, in a café. She was half drunk
but far down at the
bottom of her transparent drunkenness I sensed a thick sediment
that stirred up quickly
when she became serious. Then her mouth curved downward,
heavy; her expression
became fugitive. Twice she squeezed my hand, I need you, she
said. But immediately
afterward she didn’t need me anymore and her fear turned to
indifference, almost scorn,
with a certain torpidity thickening her lips. When she laughed,
she was an adolescent
again, the best of our class without a doubt. Without a danger.
She had been beautiful
and still was, but her now-corrupted beauty was sad even when
she was happy. She
told me she had separated from her fifth husband and was living
with a small tiger in a
penthouse.
With a tiger, Romana? She laughed. She’d had a boy-friend who
had traveled
through Asia and he had brought back Tigrela with the baggage,
in a little basket. She
was teeny-tiny and had to be raised on a bottle. She had grown
to be just a little bigger
that a cat, the kind with tawny fur and toast-colored stripes,
golden eyes. Two-thirds

tiger and one–third woman, she’s gotten more and more human
and now… In the
beginning it was funny, she imitated me so much, and I started
imitating her, too, and
we ended up getting so involved with each other that I don’t
remember if it was she who
taught me to look at myself slit-eyed in the mirror. Or if she
learned from me to stretch
out on the floor and rest her head on her arms to listen to music,
she’s so harmonious.
So clean, said Romana, dropping an ice cube into the glass. Her
fur is this color, she
added, swirling the whisky. With the tips of her fingers she
gathered up the thin blade of
ice that was melting in the bottom of the glass. She crunched it
between her teeth. The
sound made me remember that she used to chew ice cream. This
Tigrela liked whisky
but she knew how to drink, she had self-control, only once did
she go so far as to get
really smashed. And Romana laughed as she recalled the animal
turning somersaults,
rolling across the furniture until she jumped up onto the
chandelier and perched there
swinging back and forth. Romana said weakly imitating the
movement of a pendulum.
She crashed down with one half of the chandelier onto the big
cushion, where we
danced a tango together, it was atrocious. Afterwards she got
depressed and at such
times she loses her temper, she almost leveled the garden, tore
up my bathrobe, broke
things. In the end she wanted to throw herself off the parapet of
the terrace, just exactly
like a person. Exactly, repeated Romana looking for e watch on
my wrist. She appealed

to a man who passed by alongside our table, the time, the time!
When she learned that
it was almost midnight she lowered her eyes in sober
calculation. She remained silent; I
waited. When she began talking again, she seemed to me like an
excited player hiding
her strategy behind an artificial voice: I had steel railings
attached to the wall, all around,
if she wants, she can climb this railing easily, of course. But I
know she’d only attempt
suicide if drunk, and so I can just close the door that leads to
the terrace, She’s always
so sober, she went on, lowering her voice; her face darkened.
What is it, Romana? I
asked, touching her hand. It was icy. She fixed her eyes on me
astutely. She was
thinking of something else when she told me that at sunset,
when the light slanted over
the top of the building, the shadow of the railing was projected
halfway across the living
1
room rug, and if Tigrela was sleeping on the big cushion, the
pattern cast over her fur by
the shadow was beautiful, like a net.
She stirred the ice cube in her glass of whisky with her index
finger. On this finger
she wore a square-cut emerald, like queens do. But wasn’t it
extraordinary, really? The
limited pace of the apartment conditioned the growth of an
Asiatic tiger through the
magic wisdom of adaptation, she’s really nothing more than an

overgrown tabby, as
though she intuited the need to restrict herself; no bigger than a
big cat. I alone realize
that she’s grown. I’m the only one who notices that she’s taking
up more space even
though she’s still the same size. Lately there’s hardly room for
us both, one of us will
really have to… She interrupted herself to light a small
cigarillo, the flame flickering in
her trembling hand. She sleeps with me but when she’s in a huff
she goes to sleep on
the big cushion, on her back, stiff as a sphinx.
There must have been so many problems, what about the
neighbors? I asked.
Romana stiffened the finger that whirled the ice. There aren’t
any neighbors, one
apartment per floor in a very tall building, all white,
Mediterranean style, you should see
how well Tigrela matches the apartment. I traveled through
Persia, you know, don’t
you? And I brought back fabrics, rugs, she adores this velvet
comfort, she’s so sensitive
to the touch of things, to smells. When she wakes ups restless, I
light the incense, the
perfume, calms her. I turn on the record player. And then she
stretches herself all over
and sleeps. I suspect she sees better with her eyes closed, like
dragons do. I had some
trouble convincing Aninha that she was merely a well-
developed cat, Aninha is the
maid. But now everything’s fine, the two of them keep a certain
distance, but respect
each other, the important thing is this respect. She accepted
Aninha, who is old and
ugly, but she almost attacked the former maid, a young girl. As

long as this girl was with
me, Tigrela practically didn’t come out of the garden, hidden
among the foliage, her
eyes slits, her fingernails dug into the ground.
Fingernails. I began and forgot what I was going to say next.
The emerald slid
sideways like an unsupported head and clinked against the
glass, the finger too thin for
the ring. The sound of the stone hitting the glass roused
Romana, momentarily
apathetic. She lifted her head and gazed vacantly at the full
tables, such noise, eh? I
suggested we leave, but instead of the bill she called for another
whisky, don’t worry.
I’m used to it, she said and breathed deeply. She straightened
her body. Tigrela liked
jewels and Bach, yes, Bach, especially the Passion According to
St. Matthew. One
night, while I was dressing to go out to dinner, she came to
watch me, she hates it when
I go out but that night she was happy, she approved of my dress;
she prefers classic
clothes and this was a long gown of straw-colored silk, long
sleeves, and a low
waistline. Do you like it Tigrela? I asked and she came and put
her paws on my lap,
licked my chin lightly so as not to spoil my make-up and began
to pull on my amber
necklace with her teeth. Do you want it? I asked and she
growled, polite but firm. I took
off the necklace and put it over her head. She saw her reflection
in the mirror, her eyes
moist with pleasure. Then she licked my hand and went off with
the necklace dangling
about her neck, the largest beads dragging on the floor. When

she is calm. Her eyes
turn a pale yellow, the color of amber.
Does Aminha sleep in the apartment? I asked and Romana gave
a start, as if she
had just then become conscious of the fact that Aninha arrived
early and left at nightfall,
the two of them slept there alone. I gave her a long look and she
laughed. I know you
think I am crazy but nobody understands it from the outside, it’s
complicated. And yet so
simple, you have to get inside to understand. I put on my jacket;
it had gotten cooler. Do
2
you remember, Romana? Our graduation party, I still have the
picture, you bought some
shoes for the dance that were too tight, you ended up dancing
barefoot during the waltz.
I saw you whirling around from far away, your hair loose, your
dress light. I thought it
was beautiful, you dancing barefoot like that. She looked at me
attentively but didn’t
hear a single word I said. We’re vegetarians, I’ve always been a
vegetarian, you know.
Tigrela eats only legumes, fresh herbs and milk and honey, meat
doesn’t come in
through out door because meat gives you bad breath. And ideas,
she said, clutching my
hand, I need you. I bent over to listen, but the waiter’s arm
reached out to empty the ash
tray and she became frivolous again, interested in the
cleanliness of the ash tray, had I

by any chance tried milk, watercress and honey beaten up
together? The recipe was
very simple, you just whipped everything in the blender and
then strained it through a
sieve, she added, extending a hand, do you have the time, sir? Is
there someone you
have to meet, something you have to do? I inquired and she
replied no, she had nothing
coming up. Absolutely nothing, she repeated and I had the
impression she grew paler
as her mouth opened slightly to return to her obscure
calculations. With the tip of her
tongue she caught the diminished ice cube and chewed it. It
hasn’t happened yet but it’s
going to happen, she said with slight difficulty as the ice burned
her tongue. I kept still. A
large gulp of whisky seemed to give her back some warmth. One
of these nights when I
go home the porter may come running up to tell me, did madam
know? From one of
these terraces… but then, maybe he won’t say anything and I’ll
have to take the
elevator up, acting very natural so he doesn’t notice anything,
to gain one more day.
Sometimes we meditate and I don’t know what the results might
be, I taught her so
many things. I learned so many others she said, beginning a
gesture but not finishing it.
Had she told me Aninha was the one who trimmed her
fingernails? She would offer her
a paw without the least resistance, but she didn’t let her brush
her teeth, she had very
sensitive gums. I brought her a natural-bristle toothbrush, you
have to brush in a
downward direction, very lightly, mint-flavored toothpaste. She
didn’t use dental floss s

se never ate anything fibrous, but if she ever needed it, she
knew where to find the
dental floss.
I ordered a sandwich, Romana ordered raw carrots, well
scrubbed. With salt, she
advised, pointing to her empty glass. We didn’t speak while the
waiter poured the
whisky. When he left I started laughing, but is it really true,
Romana? All this. She didn’t
answer, she was adding up her memories again, and one of them
was leaving her short
of air; she breathed deeply, loosening the knot in her scarf.
Then I saw the purple bruise
on her neck. I looked toward the wall. I could see in the mirror
when she re-tied the knot
and sniffed her whisky. She smiled. Tigrela knew when whisky
wasn’t genuine, to this
day I can’t distinguish them but one night she gave a paw swat
to a bottle and it flew
across the room, why did you do that, Tigrela? She didn’t
answer. I went to look at the
pieces of bottle and saw that is was a brand that had once given
me a hallucinating
hangover. Can you believe she knows more about my life than
Yasbeck? And Yasbeck
was more jealous of me than anyone else, he kept a detective
watching me. She
pretends not to pay any attention but her pupils dilate and spill
over, like black ink
spreading over her eyes, have I mentioned those eyes? In them I
see her emotions, her
jealousy. She becomes intractable, she refuses her shawl, her
pillow and goes into the
garden which I had specially planted, a miniature jungle. She
stays there all day long

and through the night, hidden in a thicket in the foliage. I can
call her until I drop but she
won’t come, her nose moist with dew or tears. I stared at the
ring of water left on the
tabletop by the glass. But Romana, wouldn’t it be more humane
to send her to the zoo?
3
Let her go back to being an animal. I think it’s cruel to impose
your own cage on her this
way, what if she’s happier in the other kind? You’ve enslaved
her this way. And ended
up enslaving yourself, you must have. Aren’t you at least going
to give her freedom to
choose? Impatiently, Romana dipped her carrot into the salt.
She licked it. Freedom is
comfort, my dear, which Tigrela knows also. She has every
comfort, just as Yasbeck
had before disposing of me.
And now you want to dispose of her, I said. At one of the tables
a man started to
sing a snatch of opera at the top of his lungs, but quickly his
voice was submerged in
laughter. Romana spoke so quickly I had to interrupt, slower, I
can’t understand you.
She reined in her onrush of words, but soon they began
galloping ahead again, as if she
hadn’t much time left. Our most violent fight was because of
him, Yasbeck, you know all
the confusion of an old love who suddenly reappears, sometimes
he calls and then we
sleep together, she knows perfectly well what’s happening, once

she heard us talking,
when I got back she was awake, waiting for me as still as a
stature in front of the door,
of course, I covered up as well as I could, but she’s intelligent,
she sniffed at me until
she discovered the scent of a man on me, she went wild. I think
now I’d like to have a
unicorn, you know, one of those blondish horses with a pink
horn on its forehead. I saw
one in a tapestry; it was so in love with the princess she offered
it a mirror to look at
itself, please can you tell me the time? And bring more ice! She
went for two days
without eating, tigerish, continued Romana. She spoke slowly
now, her voice thick, one
word after the other with calculated little adjustments in the
empty spaces. Two days
without eating, dragging her necklace and her arrogance around
the house. I wondered.
Yasbeck had promised to call and he didn’t, he sent me a note,
why is your phone
dead? When I went to look I discovered the cord chewed
completely through, the tooth
marks all the way up and down the plastic. She didn’t say a
thing but I could feel her
watching me through those slits of eyes, they can penetrate
wall. I think that on that
same day she read my thoughts, we began to distrust each other,
but even so, do you
see? She used to be so full of fervor…
Used to me? I asked. She opened her hands on the table and
challenged me, Why
are you looking at me that way? What else could I do? She must
have wakened around
eleven, it’s the time she always wakes up, she enjoys the night.

Instead of milk, I filled
her saucer with whisky and turned off the lights, when she’s
desperate she see better in
the dark and today she was desperate, because she overheard my
conversation, she
thinks I’m with him now. The door to the terrace is open, but
then it’s stayed open on
other nights and nothing happened. But you never know, she’s
so unpredictable, she
added in a whisper. She wiped the salt from her fingers on a
paper napkin. I’ll be on my
way. I’ll go back to the apartment trembling because I never
know where or not the
porter’s coming to tell me that a young lady has thrown herself
off one of the terraces,
naked except for an amber necklace.
4
Tigrela—Lygia Fagundes Telles [Brazil]

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