“You’re not still going to see that clairvoyant, are you? You’re crazy. How can you believe anything that old witch tells you?”
“I miss all the people I left behind in Colombia and the ones who’ve passed away since, and the ones who died before I came here. I feel so alone here and frightened about what Wilson might do to us one day.”
“Look, love, say what you like, but I can’t see what pleasure there can be in contacting the dead, I don’t understand why you spend a fortune on paying that woman, why not spend it on jewelry instead, or, if you like, get yourself one of those Cuban boys you see on the TV. Talking to the dead is a complete waste of time and money. The ones who speak to you, assuming they do, are the poorest of the poor, they have absolutely nothing, they can’t give you a loan, you can’t even use them as guarantors, they’re useless. I can’t see why you bother. All that nonsense about how she’s seen your Aunt Manola or your cousin Purificación and even spoken to her, or your aunt from Barranquilla who drank too much brandy and died from bleeding of the esophagus, or chatted with Grandma Constanza, who often thinks so fondly of you and your brothers and is as happy as a lark up there in heaven; or worse, that she’s really fed up because some devil has taken a dislike to her and won’t leave her in peace and keeps prodding her with his trident day and night. What’s so interesting about all those disgusting things, those incurable diseases, those grudges that still rankle, people you used to avoid like the plague when they were alive? And you pay good money to be told all that garbage or other equally horrible things? Because the most those dead people can tell you is that they’re fine, thank you, and send their best wishes, and then what are you going to say? Hi, Aunt Corina, I’m glad to hear you’re well and that you’re praying for me, because we really need your prayers now that Wilson got fired and we’re about to be evicted. You pay money to say that crap? You’d be better off saving up for an emergency, because Wilson’s unemployment benefits will be coming to an end soon, and then what are you going to do, with him making a dent in the sofa 24/7, except, of course, when he’s in the bar, and with you scrubbing stairs with a three-month-old fetus in your belly, a present from his brother, who, very conveniently, has gone missing, having fled back to Colombia where he’s doubtless busy getting some other stupid woman knocked up, and is probably already planning to sell the baby to someone, because that’s what he’s like, always assuming he hasn’t ended up in prison or been shot and is lying bleeding in a gutter somewhere, because, from what you told me, he squandered half the money you sent him on getting drunk and on shirts and shoes. Liliana, you’d better just pray that Wilson doesn’t start putting two and two together and begin to suspect that the bump in your belly isn’t his. Luckily, he’s so vain that it wouldn’t occur to him to think that, having experienced the joy of sex with him, you would ever try your luck with someone else, so you’re fortunate in a way, or rather, unfortunate, because there’s no way you’re going to get rid of him; with those size fourteens of his on the sofa — I mean, you need a sofa with feet that size — what with the cans of beer, the day’s soccer match, your apartment is turning into a real hell, phone the Pope up and tell him, tell him you’ve found the hell he lost, and about the Devil pursuing you with his pitchfork, tell the Pope you have the Devil’s address, because Wilson really is a devil and he’s got it in for you, and there you are, frittering away your money on talking to the dead. You must admit it’s not exactly logical, talking to your grandma and your Dad and your aunties who died and are now in the next world, as if you hadn’t had quite enough of them when they were still in this world. Leave the dead in peace, and let’s just assume they’re all right because they haven’t shown any signs of life and haven’t come begging either. I don’t know why we poor people are so obsessed with the dead, the rich buy apartments, yachts, jewelry, stocks — they have no interest in talking to the dead, they want to live among the living. They’re just not interested, they haven’t got the time. And you haven’t even reported your husband for harassment and cruelty, and it’s high time you did. Did you know that if you make a complaint about physical abuse, they can’t deport you even if you’re here illegally? The State will then look after you, find you a safe apartment to live in, give you food and pay you a wage.”