Fish Soup - Margarita García Robayo

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tucked away in a corner with his bottle of rum. And his black girlfriend.

      Didn’t you invite Olga? I asked my mother. Olga who? she said. Gustavo’s girlfriend. My mother had no idea who I was talking about.

      In the toilets they had all kinds of perfumes to overpower the smell of dancefloor sweat. On the tables were Polaroid cameras for the guests to use. On the dance floor there were tiny holes that pumped out a floral-scented mist. At midnight they let off fireworks spelling out the names of the bride and groom in the sky; followed by more which read Just Married, in English. A trio sang boleros, then an orchestra played and later, after the dinner, a DJ took over, flooding the elegant perfumed air of the celebration with reggaeton, which “Odi” was crazy about. Odi’s hips swayed like a poisonous snake, and yet my mother and father gazed at her like she was some kind of angelic apparition. Every so often they would let out a sigh and look at each other and nod, no doubt thinking: we’ve struck gold. Odina called them mummy this, daddy that, and she called me “sistah”. She threw the bouquet straight into my arms, but I stepped back out of the way, letting it fall to the floor. There followed a couple of bewildered seconds when everyone expected me to bend down and pick it up, but instead I turned and walked towards the door.

      Tony was just arriving: he’d said he wasn’t coming because he had to work late at the stationery shop. His uncle had made him a partner, big fucking deal. Like all the men, he was wearing white trousers and a coloured shirt – turquoise, in his case. He had gelled his hair and combed it back, like mobsters do. He had a goatee, and although he said hello and kissed me on the cheek, he gave me a resentful look. I asked him why he was arriving so late and he said: I just finished work and thought, why not go and congratulate my buddy? Apparently, they were buddies now, but when Tony was going out with me, my brother thought he was a failure, a fokin’ loozer, a small-town waste of space, a broke guy who’d never give me what I deserved. What did I deserve? My brother reeled off some things – things I couldn’t remember now – while I traced lines between them, sewing them together, drawing a tangled web.

      Aren’t you coming in? Tony was still standing at the door, looking at me. From inside, my brother’s deep, husky voice drifted out, singing I want to tell you everything I like about you… You missed the photo for the newspaper, I said to him. He didn’t reply, just clenched his teeth.

      Julián had dated the girl in charge of the social section of the paper; apparently, she had promised him a half-page spread. This was no mean feat, as there were queues of people waiting to get their faces in there.

      On the night of the wedding, this was the photo:

      In the centre, the bride and groom in pure white apart from Odi’s bright red lips. Then the women, two mothers and a grandmother, ancient divas in their organza dresses printed with wild flowers. The two fathers, in garish shirts: one parrot green, one bright orange. The best man, Julián, accompanied as always by his obscene biceps, this time with some scrawny eye-candy hanging off them, dressed in yellow. The bridesmaids: on one side was Odi’s friend Tanya, a smoking hot Cuban in a sparkly top with a plunging neckline, very “bling”, and on the other side was me, dressed all in black like I was at a funeral, champagne in hand, looking anywhere but at the lens.

      The day the newspaper came out, there was the photo, but in black and white. It seemed Julián didn’t have enough sway to get a page in colour.

      Let’s go in, insisted Tony. I turned my back on him and lit a cigarette.

      The sound of his new shoes going into the party, moving away from me yet again, made my belly ache with sadness. But not for me, or for him; but for the fishermen’s beach where we used to screw, which was now a hotel. And for the terrace of the hotel where we used to screw, which was no longer there. For the wasted years.

      After that night I never saw him again. Or at least, not until much later.

      9

      Johnny knew a guy who brought merchandise down from the United States. You ordered the product on Amazon, giving the address of the guy there, and he came down with his suitcases like a tourist and didn’t declare anything. He charged by the weight of the package, not the volume, and according to Johnny that was a major advantage, one which I couldn’t care less about. He was known as Santa Claus because the guy mostly carried toys for children for Christmas; they were much cheaper up there. And now, this guy that Johnny knew had a new business and that was what he wanted to talk to me about. The guy rents himself out as a relative of pregnant women, Johnny said. I don’t understand the business, I said. We were in a snack bar in Kendall, eating hot wings. My fingers were slathered in red sauce, and I had to lick them to stop it dripping everywhere.

      Johnny ordered two more beers. The snack bar was almost empty: just the owner, a nice guy from the Dominican Republic, his daughter, who was wearing a polka dot miniskirt that was far too short on her, considering her age and shape; and a young couple in the corner with their tongues down each other’s throats. When the daughter brought over the beers, Johnny – after a long look at the miniskirt – explained the guy’s business to me. He brings women over here to give birth, he pretends he’s an uncle or a cousin of theirs, and he looks after them in his house for the last three months of the pregnancy, because after that they aren’t allowed to travel. He gets a doctor friend to see them during that time and then he takes them to the hospital to give birth. And then he vanishes, so they can’t link him to it. So, what’s the point? I asked him. What do you think? said Johnny, the kid is born a gringo, and then they automatically give you nationality. He winked at me, which reminded me of my father. You bastard, I said to him. Him: don’t say that Johnny doesn’t love you. I sat on his lap and kissed him eagerly: Johnny loves me, I said into his ear. The girl in the miniskirt was watching us out of the corner of her eye, twirling a lock of hair around her forefinger. I asked Johnny for the guy’s number.

      When I got back, I found Gustavo alone, peeling prawns at his worktable. There was a strong breeze, the tarpaulin roof was flapping around. Where’s Olga? At the market. Right. I stretched out in the hammock and after a while it occurred to me to ask about the children. What children? Don’t you have children? He remained lost in thought for a minute, then said:

      In Bolivia, I lived in a house with thirteen people. The landlady was a woman called Rosita.

      And you had a child with Rosita?

      No. In that house, every night somebody would cook dinner, we all ate together and sang songs, and some of them got naked and fucked on the floor. But I didn’t. And neither did Rosita. Rosita took off her blouse and made me touch her breasts and tell her what I felt. I felt scared, but I never told her that.

      What did you tell her?

      I told her: your breasts are like white seashells.

      Right.

      The guy that Johnny knew was called Ever and he was a real ugly so-and-so. He weighed about two hundred kilos and his face was mottled with patches of vitiligo. He charged a shitload of money, but he was a sure thing, he said, not like those guys who promise you a green card and you wind up with a Blockbuster membership. How much do you have left? What, money? No, I mean of the pregnancy. I lied: not much. He told me to think about it and to tell Johnny if I wanted to go ahead. The guy spoke in a whisper because it was a delicate subject, he said. I had to lean closer to him over the table and inhale his breath. It smelled like someone who had just eaten a mountain of sardines. When he finally finished talking, he heaved his enormous body up and dragged it to the door of the Denny’s; he reached his arms up in a lazy stretch, and tyres of fat rippled over the top of his waistband. I thought I wouldn’t be able to stand one day in that guy’s care. Anyway. The plan was a non-starter for me. Not the getting pregnant part – a kid could be made in any airport toilet, but because of the money. As always, the money.

      Why so pensive? the Captain said to me. We were in the airline lounge, waiting for them to finish cleaning the plane. No reason, I replied. Susana was not on the flight that day, the others were there, and Flor: ugly, bitter, haggard Flor. She even walked funny; nobody could get their heads round how she’d become an air hostess. The Captain said, would you like to have a drink with me one

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