MARÍA ESPÓSITO

8:00 PM - Posted by Unknown - 1 comments


by Silvia R. Fernandez Caria

 Maria had always known she was abandoned and it was no secret considering her surname: Esposito, like all the other abandoned children in the wheel of the convent of the church Annunziata in Naples. Everyone just called her Maria.
She was left on a beautiful, windless night. Sister Clementina was on call in the parlor to receive the children that were being abandoned at the wheel there. The nun had told her that the little bell had rung that night breaking the silence and awaking her and even the moon. The nun liked to tell her the story, especially when she was ill in bed.
As she grew up, Maria had learnt what the wheel was, she had seen it working many times and every time its bell rung, day or night, she was overcome with curiosity.
The system was simple, designed to allow mothers of undesired children to leave them at the care of the convent nuns whilst maintaining anonymity. This artifact was installed in a room, within one of the thick walls that separated the convent from the exterior world. When someone placed a baby on the plate of the turning wheel and rang the little bell, one of the operators from inside rotated the device and the baby entered the small parlor without any eye contact between the donor and the receiver. Then, whoever was inside would turn the wheel to re-establish the opening with the outside, the wheel ready to receive other babies. It was a way to provide a safe home and care for infants who most probably would have otherwise ended up dead.
Sister Clementina also told her that when she was found she was wrapped in a white cotton bed sheet, to protect her against the cold and that she was really quiet, her big eyes looking around with curiosity. She told her that when they undressed her, they found an amber and silver pendant, the one she carried now, tied to her neck with a simple cotton string. Maria knew that this was a very special sign that would connect her with her Mother or someone from her family.
Some children didn’t have with them anything that would allow them to be recognized by their birth mothers, in that case, the nuns would cut some specials medals in half, giving half to the child and the other half to the mother waiting at the other side of the wheel. It was an ingenious method that still respected the anonymity of the Mother, but could prove a link with their infant in case of future repentance.
Sister Clementina told her again and again that when she was first taken to the wet-nurse for feeding she was not hungry. You could tell this baby had just eaten, a sign that someone who loved her had to give her up. Sometimes, Maria was assigned to work with the new arrivals and watching the wet-nurses breastfeed the babies, she would wonder about her mother, the one who breastfed her before abandoning her.
The nun always told all the children “don’t separate yourself from the sign you carry because one day it might allow you to find your families.” Maria always wore her amber pendant hidden underneath her shirt because she feared that the others, seeing its beauty, would take it away from her, and then her mother would not be able to identify her.
She often asked Sister Clementina, “Do you think I’ll find my mother someday?”
“Don’t lose hope, my child, for the Lord’s paths are infinite,” was always the answer.


When the nun died, Maria was only twelve and cried inconsolably for two days; she wanted to die too. Whenever she thought about her, she would get a knot in her throat. Sister Clementina was the closest thing to a mother she had ever had. She missed her a lot, who else could now relate to her the stories about her past?
The faraway possibility of finding her mother became more difficult when at fourteen she was taken from the convent. Lady Benedetta Olivieri, one of the benefactors of the orphanage -who was marrying Count Renzi- came to look for servants for her new palace in Florence choosing Maria amongst other girls to travel North from Naples. She knew it was 1768, a very important year, because it coincided with King Ferdinand’s wedding. All of Naples was preparing for the celebration. Resigned to her destiny, Maria left before the King’s wedding and arrived at a wonderful palace on top of one of the hills that surround Florence.


Maria slept every night in a corner of the enormous kitchen in the Countess’ house. Every morning she was the first one to wake up in the darkness that precedes dawn, when the nearby church bells rang for the monks to awake for their first prayers. She prepared the fire in the big chimneys in the kitchen and kept them burning all day long so the cookers could do their hard job. After all, she lived in Countess Renzi’s palace and she didn’t complain about that. The work in the kitchen was heavy but she was never cold or lacking of food like other servants she knew, and she considered herself very lucky. Sometimes she would go out into the yard to collect extra firewood and she could see down by the river, the bell towers of Florence covered in fog.


She always wore the pendant and only took it off a few times per year when they forced her to change the simple shirt she used as underwear. Working all day long at the fireplace made both her clothes and her skin dark with ashes and fumes. In those occasions, fearing they would steal it, Maria used to hide her precious jewel in a secret place; a hole between two stones in the internal part of one of the chimneys, a place she had discovered during the Easter cleaning.
Sometimes Maria remembered Sister Clementina and her stories and wondered where the other pendant was, the companion to her sign of recognition, the one her Mother kept with her. She imagined her Mother like her, wearing the jewel on her chest, walking towards the marketplace on the sunny streets of Naples that she missed so much.
At night, before sleeping, when she curled up on the hay against the dog’s body heat, when nobody could see her, the child-woman stroked her pendant.
A ring of amber and a ring of silver linked together.
She could trace every black design within the yellow circle of amber, even with her eyes closed. ‘Amber, what a strange word,’ she thought. Maria repeated this word like a litany, only few minutes until exhaustion carried her to the land of dreams.
Tomorrow awaited another day.


Francesca was looking at the photos in her new cell phone: last summer’s vacations at Grandma’s house, the stables and Leon, the horse she was given for her 15th birthday. She had photos of the vines, the cats. The bus ran through the green undulating scenery which took them from the coast of Rimini to the hills inland but the landscape images slid unnoticed by Francesca’s eyes as she was absorbed in her own thoughts.
She was sad for the death of her Grandma Nene’. She was so distracted that she didn’t even hear the conversations of her school classmates sitting in groups around her. They left Naples two days ago for this school trip and the memory of her Grandma’s recent passing accompanied her throughout the trip. The teenager was convinced that, out of all the grandchildren, she was the one who missed her the most. The big house was empty without her and she didn’t want to go back to it. She went only to ride Leon and train for competitions but she never entered the house. Each time she remembered Nene’, the teenager caressed the pendant she carried on her neck. It was so simple, but so important for her.
A ring of amber and a ring of silver linked together.
She could trace every black design within the yellow circle of amber, even with her eyes closed. ‘Amber, what a strange word,’ she thought.


Francesca remembered when her Grandma Nene’ gave it to her a few months before passing away, when she was still conscious.
Little by little, she distributed her most important belongings to her grandchildren. One day she turned serious and holding something in her closed hand, said to Francesca, “This does not have any great economic value, but its very important because it has been in our family for generations, being passed on from grandmother to granddaughter. My Grandma Giulia received it from her Grandma, I received it from her. You’ll have to give it to your granddaughter. Promise?” she opened her gnarled hand to reveal the strange pendant tied to a string of black silk.
“Of course, Grandma.” Francesca felt special, she was chosen out of the five granddaughters, and with a big hug they sealed the deal. Francesca wore the pendant in her neck and asked with a daring tone, “What if I don’t have any granddaughters?”
“Doesn’t matter, you will give it to a daughter or a daughter-in-law,” was Nene’s answer, and laughing, continued “but always from woman to woman!”
Still with their hands interlaced, they kept looking into each other’s eyes, lost in their own thoughts.
For the first time in her life, Francesca was conscious of the fact that one day she would have children, that this tradition would continue thanks to her, another link in the chain of time, in the chain of the women of her family.


After a series of ascents and reversed curves, the bus stopped beside a large stone arch, the entrance door of this small town founded a thousand years ago. Everyone got off, joking around, happy to have arrived. Francesca put her feelings aside and descended from the bus, joining the noisy group that walked towards the small piazza. Someone was playing violin. It was the only sound in the sleepy village.
They had a guided tour organized by the “Museo Renzi”. The guide was waiting for them in the cold hall. It was difficult to keep silent, the group was too rowdy and the voices echoed on the stonewalls.
Francesca was passionate about science and in the first room she stopped to see the fossils. She observed some pieces of amber, like the material of her pendant, but bigger. She found them beautiful, magical. In the second room there were many objects dated in the Bronze era and also from the Iron age. Everyone was surprised because the museum had a lot of interesting pieces and was so big for such a small town. The group roamed around, pointing at the antique objects that they found so funny within their lit display cabinets. In one of them, Francesca saw something that attracted her, but she couldn’t see very well in between her friends’ heads.
She drew nearer and what she saw made her legs tremble. Displayed inside the cabinet was a pendant identical to the one she was carrying on her neck! How could this be? Francesca stroked her own, to reassure herself that it was still there, to be sure that this was not hers. The sign said, ‘A woman’s pendant made out of amber and silver - Found at Renzi Palace (Florence) during restoration works in the kitchen (1898)’
The more she observed it, the more she was convinced: the jewels were exactly the same! A ring of amber and a ring of silver linked together.
Her Grandma Nene’ had told her the story of her pendant: always in the neapolitan family, from Grandma to granddaughter. Who knows for how many generations? But what about this one in the display? Surely it was its companion. Francesca wondered how this other one, exactly like hers, could be in a museum, in this museum.
‘Renzi Palace? Florence? But my family comes from Naples! How did it get to Florence?’ Francesca couldn’t answer all her questions with the brief information on the sign. ‘When were they separated? Who separated them? Why are they not together? Did someone lose it?’ She knew that her Grandma didn't know about this other pendant, she would have told her.
By a chance of destiny the two beautiful pendants were now reunited, but Francesca would never know the story that had brought them apart.
Touching the small bronze knob, she checked if the crystal door of the cabinet was open, but no, it was closed.
No one would believe this, even she could hardly believe it!
‘If only I could tell my Grandma Nene!,’ thought Francesca while caressing her necklace with her left hand. Smiling, she approached the museum guide to share her incredible discovery.


THE GOOD GIRL

8:00 PM - Posted by Unknown - 0 comments

By Rossie Cortés

I could hear her footsteps on the granite floor. She approached and I trembled in fear. My arms were sore from her last attempt to tame the wild child in me, and I was scared for what would come next. I didn’t do anything but that didn’t seem to matter. I was the kid that got the blame and the punishment. The outlet to her hoarded rage; the stand-in that quenched her thirst for revenge, and she was searching for me.
I could pinpoint her progress through the sound of slammed doors and the shrill voice calling my name.
“Clara! Clara! You better stop playing games if you know what’s good for you,” she screamed with her thick Chilean accent.
But, this was not a game for me, this was survival and her voice urged me to scoot deeper into the closet in an effort to make myself disappear into the dark. I cried in silence, too afraid to even wipe my tears as they traveled down my cheeks and neck. I knew it was going to be bad when she found me, but I could only hope she didn’t.
She was angry and I didn’t know why. But then again, the whys never seem to matter, since reason seldom guided her actions. I wished I could ask for help, but I couldn’t. Nobody would believe me anyway. She was the perfect nana, my babysitter, the would-be-protector turned jailer and tormentor. She was my mother’s right hand, and in my mom’s eyes she could never do wrong. So every time I tried to reach out to my mother, she dismissed me as an ungrateful child with nothing better to do than complain about the nana.
Besides my mother, there was nobody else. Not a father, or brother. No grandparents or doting aunts. It was just me and my mother in a country that was not my own, and Magdalena, the nana.
To the world, she was a dutiful maid, a rarity among Chilean nanas since she spoke some English and –to some extent- understood the expat families she worked for. Because of that, she was regarded as precious and irreplaceable to those who barely understood any Spanish. Like my mother, who deemed her a lifesaver and clung to her as such.
But behind closed doors, Magdalena was nothing but a bitter woman, tortured by jealousy and envy for what could never be. She enjoyed the life her employers provided for her but resented them for the same thing. She raged against her role, and sought vengeance with those who could never complain; the children.


A door banged in the next room. She was closer. I looked around in the dark, but there was nowhere else to run. I felt cold as the blood drained from my face, and my whole body shook in terror. There was nothing to be done, but be brave, so I prayed for a miracle. I prayed with all my heart and with as much devotion as a small child could.
I was engrossed in my prayers until I noticed that I couldn’t hear her anymore. Where was she? Was she in the same room? I didn’t dare to open the door to check, preferring to just wait it out and hope my mom would be home soon. I cowered behind clothes and piles of shoeboxes, expecting the worst.
I had no idea how much time passed until I heard a noise inside the room. Someone just came in and threw something on the bed. I strained to hear, but I could only make out the faint noise of drawers opening and closing. Then I heard it, my mom’s voice.
It was finally safe to come out. I sighed, relieved. My prayers were answered. I was spared at least for that day.
I opened the door just a bit to make sure it was her, but I couldn’t see a thing. Was it really her? I opened a bit more and I tried to peek outside, but the door abruptly opened and I was exposed.
“Well, well. What do I have here?” My mother said amused. “Were you playing hide and seek with Magdalena?” My mother didn’t even notice the fear in my eyes. “I found her!” She shouted into the hallway.
I tried to hide again.
“Don’t be silly Clara. Come out of the closet!” She turned to sit on the bed. I shook my head without making a sound. “Magdalena told me you have been a naughty girl today. What did you do?”
“She made a rabieta when I said no candy before dinner,” said the nana from the door.
“A rabieta, what’s that?”
“You know, kicking and screaming.”
“A tantrum?”
“You should have seen her! She scared me to death with all the yelling and the hitting.”
“Clara! How could you? I thought I told you better.” My eyes started to water. I knew better than to contradict the nana. “Oh sweetie I know you don’t mean to be naughty but you have to stop this. Magdalena has enough things to deal with in this house for you to make trouble.”
My mom hugged me but I felt desperate. There was no escape for me. Not as long as my mom was blind to my pain. Why couldn’t she see my suffering? She was supposed to be there for me, not her! Didn’t I deserve her love? Was I really as bad as the nana said?
“I’m so sorry Magdalena,” said my mom. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
“That’s not necessary,” said the nana feigning modesty.
“Please take it. I’m so sorry Clara has been so difficult. You deserve a few hours to yourself.”
“If you insist.” Magdalena turned to me with her back to my mom. “See you tomorrow sweetheart. Tomorrow you’ll be a good girl, won’t you?” I looked into her eyes and I saw the smoldering anger behind her apparent calm. Tomorrow I was going to pay.
“The best,” I whispered, my voice quaking while I tried to hold back my tears.
“Don’t worry sweetheart. I still love you.” Magdalena kneeled in front of me and hugged me, wrapping her arms around me with enough force to take my breath away. I understood her message and tried not to grunt in pain.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,“ said Mom as she stood to escort Magdalena out of the room. “See you tomorrow Magdalena.”
I was in the living room watching cartoons when the doorbell rang, probably one of the neighbors, I thought. I stood and peeked outside to see who it was. Maybe it was Tina to ask me to come out and play.
I loved Tina. She was my best friend, my only friend, at least the only who could understand what I was saying, since all the other kids in our neighborhood only spoke Spanish.
Like me, she was not from this country but from the States. I smiled because I didn’t have any idea what “the states” meant but I liked it anyway. We used to play for hours after the nana went home. My mom allowed me to go to her house while she made dinner and watched the news, and I loved it. Tina made me feel normal. She made me smile, and her family made me feel safe.
I loved her mom, and she loved me. Unlike mine, Tina’s mom was always at home, and her father came back home every single day.  Although I was happy for Tina I admit I envied her life.
Maybe the nana was right and I was not such a good girl after all. If I could, I would have traded places with Tina without a thought.  I wanted her mom, her family, her home. I wanted her happiness.
I looked at the entrance but it wasn’t Tina but her mom and she looked grim. She was talking to my mom and neither of them looked happy with the topic. Then Tina’s mom saw me.
“Hi Clara!” She gave me a small smile but my mom blocked her view. I frowned not understanding what happened.
“Clara go watch your cartoons,” my mom said without even looking my way.
“But…”
“Now!”
I didn’t understand but left. Did I do something wrong? I could still hear the murmur of their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Until I heard my mom’s angry voice.
“How dare you? Don’t you think I would have noticed?”
Then murmurs again followed by the closing of the door.
What had happened? Was my mom angry at Tinas’s mom? Did that mean I couldn’t go there anymore?
My mom came into the room and stopped to look at me. Something was wrong. I could see it in her eyes, just like the day my dad left us. There was the pain; the desperation, and I started to get scared. Before I could ask she kneeled in front of me and looked at me in the eyes. My eyes water seeing myself reflected in her own.
“I can’t believe this,” she murmured almost to herself. “I can’t,” her voice cracked and her chin started to quiver as she tried to hold her emotions in check. She made me stand up in front of her, then turned me so she could see my back. With trembling hands she took my shirt off and gasped at my bruised body.
“Oh God,” I could hear her heart wrenching sobs, my back still turned.  I cried in silence and I vowed my head remembering my earlier prayers. I flinched when her trembling cold hands began to trace every bruise, and then gasped feeling the feather like kisses that followed.
Did she believe me? I dare to hope but kept silent.
Then she turned me into her arms and fiercely hugged me to her.
“My baby. My poor, poor baby. Never again. Never. Again.” She said, her voice raw.


TANGO

8:00 PM - Posted by Unknown - 0 comments

By Mary Tennant

Sharon pulled into the car park of her apartment complex. She sighed and thanked God that she had made it home without an accident. Driving in this place was like entering a war zone; there seemed to be no rules other than being ahead of everyone else. How she longed for the courtesy of drivers back home in Ireland who would not only make way for her but also would smile and wave at the same time!
She had moved to Chile six months previously, her husband Mike had been excited at the prospect of a new direction, new country and new work opportunities. Sharon had not been so excited; she had to leave her position as a social worker at the hospital near her home, it was a satisfying occupation and she loved it. Their children were studying at university and though they had both moved out of home they were regular visitors. Her parents lived close by and they saw each other at least once a week and she had a tight knit group of friends.
Her friends had been very excited about her move. Most had heard little about a country called Chile and when rumours of an apartment complex with swimming pool, a maid and Spanish lessons filtered out she was the envy of all. Ireland was going through tough times; most of her friends and some of their husbands had lost jobs or had been forced to take part time work. This move was a lifesaver for her husband, who was next in line in the office to lose his job, had he not taken the challenge of moving to Chile.
Their apartment was on the 12th floor and from the terrace they could see the Andes. When they first arrived it was winter and the mountains were covered in snow. Today as she pushed her shopping trolley from the lift she thought: ‘What mountains? I can’t even see them for the smog.’ As she unpacked the trolley and placed the items in the cupboards her thoughts were on dinner. She had wanted to make their favourite cod cobbler but had stood before the fish counter for several minutes wondering which fish she could substitute for cod. Even making Irish shortbread had presented problems because she could not find caster sugar. What sort of country doesn’t have caster sugar! At the small goods counter she had picked up a packet of bacon and was so disgusted by its contents, she threw it as far as she dared. ‘They call that bacon!’ She thought. In the end for dinner she resorted to steak, salad and fruit – ‘what else do Chileans eat?’ she thought aloud.
But she did resolve to find a teacher and begin Spanish lessons.


“Hi honey I’m home! What’s for dinner? I’m starved,” called Mike as he opened the door, his mind occupied with what sort of mood his wife would be in.  
“What do you think is for dinner!” she screamed.  
‘Oh dear it’s going to be a long night,’ he thought.
She poured him a glass of fine Chilean wine and they sat on the terrace, he patiently listened as she listed her frustrations of the day.  
“The washing was stuck in the dryer for two hours and I couldn’t work out how to open the door.” She started.
“Couldn’t you ask Franchesca to open it?” He asked.  Franchesca was their Nana.
“No, she is useless,” she replied. “She doesn’t even know how it works and she speaks Spanish! There is no English version in the instruction manual. I just want to go home,” She sobbed.  
“Wasn’t there anything good that happened?" he asked eventually.  
I went walking this morning with the expatriate ladies and found out that you can buy Guinness from a shop called Mundo del Vino, I thought that was a wine shop but apparently they sell beer as well.”
“Well that’s a bonus,” he said.
“Yes but how do I get it home, I’m not driving the car to that ridiculously busy road that I can never pronounce and be buggered if I’m walking home with all those heavy bottles.” She said.
“We can go on the weekend, I can drive and if we go early enough I’m sure we can find a car park nearby, the Chilenos aren’t normally up too early on weekends.”


Mike pushed his bike into the bodega at his office. He loved the ride to work, it wasn’t a long ride and whilst he had to negotiate the pedestrians on the pavement and cars at the traffic lights he had his route down and enjoyed his daily commute. He laughed to himself thinking of his friends back in Dublin who would be driving for at least an hour in the rain, paying a fortune for parking. Here there was no fee, no rain and it was a short pleasant journey.
That was not all he loved about living in Santiago. Mike had a great job. He worked for a London based merchant bank that had offices in South America and he was responsible for upgrading the networks and linking them in with other offices around the world. For Mike this was a big promotion; he had previously been part of a large information technology team, but in Chile he had sole responsibility for the upgrades and he loved the challenge.
There were definitely challenges, some were minor annoyances. For example, the office had a tea lady serving him at his desk and he hated it when everyone disappeared for a two-hour lunch break. On his first day everyone stood up and left the office at 2:00 pm, he thought maybe there was a fire drill but they just all went to lunch and did not return for another two hours! Mike would rather have a quick lunch and be home with Sharon, especially on those days that she called him in tears. They were becoming more frequent. But there were major challenges too – he was finding his co-workers were very resistant to change.
“That’s how we do it In Chile” was a constant retort when he asked why they did not use more efficient practices. When there was a public holiday during the week people took a day or two either side of the designated holiday, without asking and with no regard to looming deadlines. That really pissed him off.
He sat at his desk one morning and reflected on the past six months. He had known it was going to be hard for Sharon to leave her job but he thought she would have embraced the challenge of a new country and language more than she had.  He was pleased she had found a group of English speaking expatriate wives, because it gave her people to talk to; but each time they met she came home with another outlandish story about Chile.
“You know they abandon their dogs in parks when they tire of them, and they fill their trolleys in the grocery store just to show off to others that they can afford it.” “So and so got robbed on the metro the other day, one of the girls said we should never take the metro; it’s too dangerous.” “The students are rioting tomorrow and they get violent and throw rocks so you must not leave the office.”
Try as he might he could not get her to see that this was all nonsense.  He travelled the metro regularly to get to meetings and sure you had to be careful but you had to be careful in Dublin too, in any big city for that matter. As for the other stories she recounted, Mike could not understand how these women could fabricate them. ‘Don’t they have anything else to do,’ he thought.
He didn’t want Sharon become like them. She was more intelligent than that.
“Hi honey I’m home. What’s for dinner I’m starved?” He couldn’t see her but he could hear her crying from the bedroom.  
“Nothing. Get it yourself!” she said. “I just want to go home.”
‘Oh dear! It was going to be another long night,’ Mike thought.


About a month later Mike was sitting at his desk when Sharon called him.
“I think we should go out for dinner.” She said.  “I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Sure.” He answered. “What are you eating now?" He asked, detecting that she was chewing on something.
“Lunch,” she replied.  
“Where are you?” he said.
“In Jumbo.”
“Do they have a restaurant in Jumbo?” He asked
“Yes, but I’m not there I’m just eating some biscuits that I took from the shelf, everyone does that here.”
Mike could not believe his ears “You what? Are you going to pay for them?”
“No,” was the reply.
They ate dinner in an Italian restaurant that was near their home.
“Tell me about this eating food in Jumbo,” Mike asked.
“Ha, that’s what Chileans do, they just help themselves to what’s on the shelf, it’s like a game, just don’t get caught!” Mike was incredulous, he had never known his wife to lie, let alone steal.
“But don’t the people at the checkout see you?”
“No that’s the point, you have to sneak around and not get caught, it’s a game. It puts a whole new slant on having lunch at Jumbo, hey!”  
They both laughed.
“Promise me you won’t go taking TV’s, Okay?”  
Sharon smiled she loved the way he accepted her.
“I found a school that teaches Tango, do you know what that is?” she asked.
“A South American dance?” He answered.
“Argentinian actually and there is a good school near our apartment, called El Baile del Abrazo.”
“What does that mean?” Mike asked.
“I’ll let you know when my Spanish gets better.” She replied. “Anyhow the school is not far from our apartment  and the teachers are all Argentineans – apparently they are the best tango dancers.”
“Ok, if that makes you happy.” He replied. Mike was pleased that his wife had found another outlet and hoped that this would give her a chance to adapt to life in Chile.


Over the next month Sharon’s mood improved, she lost a little weight, bought some new clothes and stopped coming home with exaggerated stories about Chile.  
“Isn’t that dress a bit short for you?” He commented one day after returning from work.
“You think so? But that’s the fashion here, haven’t you noticed? I’m just blending in.” She replied.
He had to admit she looked good, but he was used to her somewhat conventional style of dress, this was out of character.


Around two months later Mike returned home earlier than usual and heard Sharon on the phone. She was speaking in Spanish and he smiled at how competent she had become in such a small period of time.
“Who was that?” he asked when she put the phone down.
“My tango teacher.” She said. “He is organising for a group of us to go to Argentina for a two week trip to attend a school there.”
“Oh! And when is this?” Mike was shocked, they had not been apart for more than a few days since they were married and that was when she accompanied her parents on a holiday. He was completely taken aback that she had not even asked if he minded.
“Not till next month, I was going to tell you tonight but you’re home early and heard my conversation. There’s a group of us going.”
He had not understood a word of her Spanish conversation. He noted that she was wearing another new short dress, very red lipstick and her hair was different. For the first time he wondered who this tango teacher was that his wife was hanging out with and was now planning to go away with. ‘Should I be worried? Should I try to stop her?’  He thought.  But in the end he trusted his wife, she had never given him any indication that she was unhappy in their marriage and after all they had both agreed to make the most of seeing as much of South America as possible.


The whole time that she was away he was worried; he tried to throw himself into his work. Sharon rang each evening with news of the day. Sharon seemed happy and flirted with him over the phone. She told him that she had bought him a leather jacket in Buenos Aires and that she was looking forward to coming home.
“How’s your teacher?” he asked on one call.
“Oh he’s great, you should see him dance with the girls here, they are so skilled. I look like the ugly duckling compared to them.”  She said.
That made Mike feel a little better, maybe he was overreacting.


Sharon returned home and they resumed their routine, her Spanish was improving and he found himself relying on her to translate when they went out. It irritated him but he did have the time to devote to learning the language, much as he would have liked. She continued to take tango lessons and wear red lipstick. At home she cooked great meals and was always happy to see him.  
Work began to aggravate Mike. His co-workers were resisting change and his superiors were becoming alarmed at his lack of progress. A man was sent from London to check on why things were going so slowly and Mike found it difficult to explain the Chilean way of doing things, his explanations seemed lame and he knew that his superior was displeased. Mike was unhappy with himself and determined to speed up the progress, despite the attitude of his fellow workers. If he couldn’t bring them with him he would jolly well do it himself and they would have to update their own systems to catch on.  
In the following weeks he began to institute change and he became increasingly unpopular in the office. It was a situation he became despondent with. He had always been well liked at work and now he felt uncomfortable in the office. He felt the disdain of his fellow workers and was relieved to leave the office and go home each night.
One evening Mike returned from work and was wheeling his bike into the lift as usual, when a middle-aged woman spoke to him in Spanish.  
“I’m sorry I don’t speak Spanish, I don’t understand you,” he said.
“You are not allowed to take your bike in the lift, you will break the mirror glass. You should leave your bike in your bodega.” Mike was flabbergasted; it was as much what she said as how she said it with such authority. It made him feel like a child to be chastised in this manner, and the concierge had never mentioned it in the months he had been living there. Who was this woman and what gave her the right to tell him what he could and could not do in his rented apartment? “I’m sorry.” He murmured.
“You’ll be fined if you do that again,” she said. Mike was furious.


The next day at work Mike sat at his desk and looked around the office. He felt the prying eyes of his fellow workers, he felt confined by the rules of his apartment and the righteousness of the woman who had told him off for taking his bike in the lift. He was overwhelmed by a desire to break down and cry; and that made him feel worse.
“Don’t be such a wuss.” He chastised himself.  He sat at his desk and looked out the window.  
At midday he went for a walk, he walked all afternoon and did not return to the office.  That night he tossed and turned in bed. In the morning he did not go to work. Sharon was worried but went about her usual routine.  
Mike skyped his friend in Dublin.  
“How’s the weather?”
“The same,” he said.
“How’s work?”
“The same,” came the reply.
He thought of the cold wet winters back home and looked out of his window and saw the mountains. He went for a walk and he saw Sharon on the other side of the road, she did not notice him. She looked fantastic. ‘Another new dress.’ He thought. He decided to follow her. She went into a building. “Clases de Tango.” The sign said. “Profesores de Argentina.”
“Mph, so this is where she meets her teacher.” He muttered.
He followed her in and saw her approach a very trim looking dark haired man in tight flares, he pecked her on the cheek and pinched her bottom! Mike was incensed but he could hardly make a scene because he would have exposed himself. He quickly retreated.  
Mike found himself returning to work. He sat thinking for a long time at his desk and then he called his secretary into his office.  
“I have a few jobs for you.” He said as he handed over a list, “and the last one needs careful attention.” She looked at his list and smiled. “Sure I know just the place,” she replied.
The next day Mike went to work and his secretary winked at him.
“I left the address on your desk.” She said, “8:00 pm tonight.” She winked again.
That evening after dinner Mike got up from the table and changed into some casual clothes.
“Where are you going?”  Sharon asked.
“To tango lessons.” He replied.