“‘What a ridiculous scene I put on,’ she cried to her friends that night, laid out on the mattresses and with alcohol compresses on her forehead.
“In the morning, she went back to the old woman on West Fifty-Fifth to ask forgiveness for having left her without notice and to beg her for a second chance. But the old woman had already hired an Asian woman. And in any case, that night the Dominicans had good news back in the room in Jackson Heights.
“‘That fainting worked well, Bolivia,’ they told her. ‘Olvenis felt bad, and he wants you to know you can come back, but only if you are willing to do the ironing.’
“The ironing was the worst-paid job and the hardest, especially because of all the steam and heat. She had to iron blue jeans for the whole shift in a tiny room, hot as an oven, no windows, and very little ventilation. The blind windows were no accident, the owners wanted to make sure the factory couldn’t be detected from the outside. It was summertime and Bolivia suffocated amid the mountains of jeans. After a week, she thought she’d die; after two weeks, she came back to life; after a month, she faltered again. But the memory of her two daughters kept her standing. She couldn’t take it and decided to quit, but then didn’t. She had to hold on so that she could bring her daughters as soon as possible, whatever it cost. She was bringing them; even if she dropped dead, she was going to bring them. Once a month, she’d go by the Telecom Queens on Roosevelt Avenue, where dozens of Colombians lined up for the phone booths to call home. From there she’d talk to her older daughter and cry with her. Then she’d punch in another number to try to get in touch with her younger daughter, but she was never able to. The lady who cared for the girl made some excuse. Violeta wasn’t there, or she was sleeping, or was feeling shy. She told Bolivia, ‘You have to understand, it has been a long time since she has seen her mama. Getting her trust back isn’t going to be easy; it’s not going to happen overnight. Have patience with the girl. She’s confused, her head all messed up. Have patience, it will pass.’
“And the next day, Bolivia would return to the sweatshop, and the iron, and the oppressive heat, from seven in the morning, with half an hour lunch break, just café con leche and donuts that a messenger brought and they had to eat right there, because they weren’t allowed to go down to the streets, and on top of that they had to pay for them from their own pockets, the same menu every day, café con leche and donuts, café con leche and donuts for all twenty workers every day of the week. Then in the afternoon Bolivia continued to work until five fifteen. And what was she doing there fifteen minutes later than everybody else?”
Socorro told Rose that this was the subject of some of the seventeen pages that she had to burn.
There in the factory, after five in the afternoon, when her friends the Dominicans had left, as had all the others, and Bolivia was done with her ironing, the poor thing had to take care of another kind of manual labor.
“Olvenis?” Rose asked.
“Something like that.”
“A work slave and a sexual slave.”
“This was her misfortune.”
“And did she ever have fun, your friend Bolivia?” Rose asked. “Did she ever go to the movies? She must have gone dancing sometimes.”
“Well, she needed all the money she could bring in.”
“To bring her daughters.”
“Yes, and please swear you won’t repeat this, but the truth is that at a crucial junction, Bolivia was even a teibolera.”
“A what?”
“Teibolera. I didn’t know the term either. Teibolera, a woman who dances on teibols, or tables. Topless, they call it, you know how it goes”—Socorro lowered her voice, as if she were whispering a secret—“with her tits in the air. Bolivia’s were very full and could well be exploited. And all for bringing her daughters.”
“There’s something that doesn’t seem right,” Rose said. “Too much abnegation. Why had she left them in the first place?”
“It wasn’t really because they were hungry. It wasn’t really one of those cases where the mother can’t feed her kids. Not that bad. Back in Colombia her life was alright, with a family that helped her, all those aunts and cousins with map names, plus two jobs, several boyfriends, including the anonymous fathers of her daughters, and, modesty aside, she didn’t really miss me. I had my resources and once in a while sent something.”
“I see,” Rose said. “It wasn’t really an extreme case of hunger and misery.”
“Look, Mr. Rose, what she wanted was a dream life. She chased that dream. You know people like that?”
“But even to the point of leaving her daughters behind for five years?”
“It happens.”
“Could she have left her daughters behind because they were a nuisance?”
“Please, Mr. Rose, how can you say such a thing? Bolivia killed herself all those years trying to bring them over.”
“Abandoning your children could produce pangs of conscience in anyone. I know what I’m talking about. Bolivia punished herself working day and night, and so she banished the guilt of having left them. There are things one understands because one has lived them. But, not to be rude, I’m sure those missing seventeen pages said other things.”
“They did say something else. The most horrible thing for me. Those pages mentioned my husband.”
“Let me guess… Bolivia and Mr. Salmon? That’s where your fight with your friend stems from.”
“Bolivia was a meddler. And the older daughter is… like mother, like daughter, and I’m not making anything up. Before finishing off the poor cop, María Paz had skinned a few others.”
“Are you sure of that, Mrs. Salmon?”
“Well, not certain, can’t be certain, but it’s not hard to imagine. If she did it once, why not another time? Like I said, I have no proof, but that girl is something.”
“You’re letting your anger get the best of you. I understand you’re still smarting. Bolivia hurt you, and you are taking it out on her daughter. Isn’t that it? It’s very important that I know the truth. Think it over, do you have any basis for what you are insinuating?”
“Basis for what you are insinuating, good Lord, you sound like a detective. You’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. I just need to be clear about what happened, but don’t worry, it’s for personal reasons.”
“How about another tintico?”
“Yes, another tintico, perfect.”
“A little poison with it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you want me to boost the tinto with a little aguardiente?”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Salmon, poison the tintico, but listen, María Paz’s lawyer says she’s innocent.”
“Oh, Mother of God, that lawyer. He brought her here one day in that red sports car of his. If I were you, I wouldn’t put too much trust in that lawyer, who is not very professional to say the least.”
“María Paz was riding around with the lawyer in a red sports car?”
“Like I said, a red sports car.
“While she worked in the sweatshop, Bolivia realized that no one ever came to the door of the ironing room. Nobody went back there. So one morning when the heat was terrible, she decided to take off her shirt while she worked. The next day she took off her shirt and her skirt, and each time she grew more audacious, until she was ironing in just her brassiere and undies, and soon she was ironing wearing nothing, her body soaked in sweat and her hair dripping.