Valeria sat cross-legged on the granite bar, holding a glass of aged tequila. She wore a designer dress that cost more than Doña Carmen had earned in ten years. Beside her, three equally dressed friends watched the elderly woman as if she were a pathetic spectacle.
“Look at her, Valeria, her hand is trembling,” Lorena said, taking a sip of her drink. “It seems they don’t know what marble is in her village.”
“That’s just how these provincial people are,” Valeria replied disdainfully. “They can’t do anything right, but at least the market woman tries. It’s good therapy for them; they love being servants.”
Mateo felt bile rising in his throat. Every word was a stab wound. Suddenly, Valeria grabbed a glass of water and, with a slow, cynical motion, poured the entire contents onto the area Doña Carmen had just dried. The sound of the water hitting the floor echoed through the kitchen.
“Oh, what a shame!” exclaimed Valeria with feigned innocence. “I dropped it. Clean it again, Carmen, and make sure there isn’t a single mark left, go on.”
Doña Carmen glanced up for a second, and Mateo saw utter resignation in his mother’s tired eyes. She had surrendered her dignity. She lowered her head and went back to scrubbing. At that moment, the sleeve of his mother’s blouse slipped down, and Mateo saw a purple mark on her forearm, the size of a few fingers squeezing tightly. Someone had hurt her. The memory of when he was seven years old hit him: his mother would go without food and give him her only half of a loaf so he wouldn’t go hungry. She had sacrificed herself so he could build that empire, and now she was being treated worse than an animal by the woman he loved.
Mateo didn’t go in. A cold, rational voice ordered him to back away. He left the house in silence, got into his car, and gripped the steering wheel as tears burned his face. He took out his cell phone and called his private investigator. It was impossible to believe the atrocity that was about to unfold.
Leave a Comment