By nine thirty that night, Richard, who was used to rising at five each morning to go to the gym, would normally have been in bed counting sheep, with Dois purring alongside him. But the day’s unfortunate events had left him in such turmoil that he prepared for the torment of insomnia by watching something mindless on TV. That would clear his worries. He had reached the obligatory sex scene, where the director had struggled with the script as desperately as the actors were struggling in bed to excite the viewer but instead merely freezing the action. “Come on, get on with the story!” he shouted at the screen, feeling nostalgic for the days when movies hinted at fornication by showing a door closing discreetly, a lamp being switched off, or a cigarette burning down in an abandoned ashtray.
Just then his doorbell rang unexpectedly. Richard glanced at his watch: 9:40 p.m. Not even the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who for the past couple of weeks had been in the neighborhood trying to drum up possible converts, would risk canvassing so late. Puzzled, he went to the front door without switching on the outside light and peered through the glass. All he could see in the darkness was a muffled shape. He was going to retreat when a second loud ring startled him. Hastily he turned on the light and opened the door.
Standing in the dimly illuminated entrance, framed by the darkness, was the girl in the parka. Richard recognized her at once. Hunched up, her head sunk between her shoulders and face covered by the hood, she looked even smaller than she had a few hours earlier. Richard murmured a “Yes?” but her only reply was to hand him the card he had thrown into her car, which contained his name, academic title, and office and home addresses. He stood there with the card in his hand, not knowing what to do for a minute that seemed to last forever. Eventually, becoming aware of the wind and snow sweeping in through the open door, he reacted and stepped to one side, inviting the girl in. Closing the door behind her, he studied her again in amazement.
“Y-you didn’t have to come here. You need to call the insurance company directly,” he stuttered.
She said nothing. Standing in the doorway without looking at him, she seemed like some insistent visitor from beyond the grave. Richard went on speaking about the insurance, but she did not react.
“Do you speak English?” he finally asked.
A few more seconds’ silence. Richard repeated his question in Spanish, because her size suggested she might be from Central America, although she could also be from Southeast Asia. She responded in an unintelligible murmur that sounded somewhat monotonous. Losing patience, Richard decided to ask her into the kitchen, where there was more light and they might be able to communicate. She followed him, eyes on the floor and stepping exactly where he did, as if balancing on a tightrope. In the kitchen, Richard pushed aside the papers on the table and offered her a seat on one of the stools.
“I’m so sorry I rear-ended you, I hope you weren’t hurt,” he said.
When again there was no reaction, he translated his comment into mangled Spanish. She shook her head. Richard continued with his despairing efforts to discover why she had come to his house so late at night. As the slight accident did not justify her terrified state, he surmised she was running away from someone or something.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Struggling to pronounce every syllable, she managed to get out “Evelyn Ortega.” Feeling that the situation was getting beyond him, Richard realized he needed help in dealing with this inopportune visitor. Hours later, when he was able to analyze all that had happened, he was surprised that the only thing that had occurred to him was to call Lucia, since she of course spoke Spanish. In the time he had known her, she had proved to be a competent professional, and yet he had no reason to think she might be able to handle such an unforeseen event as this.
THE SOUND OF THE TELEPHONE made Lucia Maraz jump. The only call she could possibly expect at ten o’clock at night would be from her daughter, Daniela, but this was Richard asking her to come urgently upstairs. After spending the whole day shivering, Lucia had finally gotten warm in her bed and had no intention of leaving her nest to respond to the peremptory call from the man who had not only condemned her to live in an igloo but the night before had ignored her plea for company in the storm. There was no direct access from the basement to the rest of the property; she would have to get dressed, struggle through the snow, and climb twelve slippery steps up to the front of the house. Richard was not worth all that effort.
A week earlier they had argued because the water in the dog’s bowl was frozen in the morning, but not even this convincing proof had induced him to raise the thermostat. Richard had merely lent her an electric blanket that had not been used for decades. When she plugged it in, it emitted a cloud of foul smoke and blew one of the fuses. The cold was Lucia’s most recent complaint, but there had been others. At night she could hear a chorus of mice in the walls, which according to her landlord was impossible since the cats dealt with all the rodents, and so the noises must have come from rusty pipes or dry rot.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Lucia, but I need you to come. I’ve got a serious problem,” Richard announced on the phone.
“What sort of problem? Unless you’re bleeding to death, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“A hysterical Latin American woman has invaded my house, and I don’t know what to do with her. Maybe you could help. I can barely understand her.”