House of Beauty: The Colombian crime sensation and bestseller. Melba Escobar
When she grasped the rail, she thought the same thing she did every time she hopped on a bus: there was nothing more repulsive than the feel of that greasy, sticky metal.
People were still getting on. A fat man’s chest pressed against her own. He was so tall she saw his dark double chin above her head when she lifted her gaze.
A child of about eleven hopped on selling mints. He said he had escaped the armed conflict in Tolima. He said he had four siblings. That he was he was ‘head of household’. Karen rummaged in her purse and handed him a 500-peso coin before ringing the bell. The driver stopped abruptly and she leapt to the pavement.
Before going into the church, she stepped inside a department store. She wanted to get rid of the stench from the bus. She applied a test perfume, Chanel No. 5, checked her reflection in a small mirror between rows of blusher pots, fixed her hair, pulled a lipstick from her handbag, applied it carefully and went on her way.
When she got to the church, she moved through the crowd to the front, as if borne along a conveyor belt. In the fourth or fifth pew, she found a free space. Before her was the closed coffin. Very few people would be able to remember the body as she did. Her long, slim toes. Veins showing at the calves. She recalled the freckles on the narrow shoulders, her straight nose, her huge eyes and thin lips, and she suddenly realised Sabrina was beautiful. Her beauty might have been grey, like this city, but at the same time it was subtle, full of secrets.
Sadness washed over her, like a wave in the middle of a calm sea. She clenched her fist to keep from crying, imagined mascara running down her cheeks, and people wondering who the interloper crying her eyes out could be. She thought of the effort the two of them went to just a few days earlier to leave Sabrina as smooth as an apple. Remembering she was in a church, she squirmed. Only then did she glance at the man beside her. She was sure she had seen him before. He was a celebrity. For a moment, she thought she’d seen him on TV presenting celebrity news, but she realised he was too old for that. Then she recognised him. He was the author of the self-help classics Happiness Is You and I Love Myself.
Karen smiled. Four years ago, before the arrival of her son Emiliano changed her life completely, Karen was in her first semester at the University of Cartagena, studying social work.
What happened to her happened because she was a fool, she knew, though she was not all that less of a fool now; it happened because she was straight-laced, which she still was. And the thing was, the Thinking Skills professor talked so nicely. Yes, he was old, much older than she was – she’d just turned eighteen – but in her eyes, he was learned, enlightened. Professor Nixon Barros had the swagger of Caribbean men. And he talked nicely and had a belly laugh. All that seduced her; whenever she watched him speak, she was hypnotised. Nixon wasn’t afraid of tenderness. To Karen, he seemed like a real man. She liked his kinky hair. She liked the sweat that covered his forehead and didn’t bother him in the least. She liked his Guayabera shirts, always too big for him, and his cologne.
With Professor Nixon, she explored the Bazurto Market and got drunk for the first time in El Goce Pagano. For almost a year, she skipped classes and kept a secret that made her blush. Karen knew he was married, for the second time, that he lived with a younger wife and a child. But the day he leaned over to kiss her, Karen didn’t stop to think about the Prince Charming her mamá had in mind for her, or that Professor Nixon was old, and married – she just closed her eyes and parted her lips.
As the days passed, her happiness, her infatuation, her madness was so acute that she started to let her flesh do the thinking.
She let him make love to her down a dark street in Getsemaní and for the next three or four months kept letting him do so wherever and whenever they could, with growing appetite and surrender. Nixon Abelardo Barros told her so many things that amazed her. For him, she read Melissa Panarello’s 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed, Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, Coelho’s Love Letters from a Prophet, and Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra. They kindled a chaotic revolution inside her. That was when she started to look differently at women with waxed eyebrows, and to let the hair grow under her arms as an expression of freedom. ‘I wasn’t put in this world to please men,’ she told her mamá when she asked what those tufts sprouting from her armpits were. ‘Come off it, young lady – please me, then.’ Doña Yolanda had been known to go without food if money was scarce, yet would never sacrifice her trips to the hairdresser.
Her mother had bet on Karen’s beauty as their best shot at escaping poverty. She often told her daughter that if she had been presentable the morning after her fling with the gringo, if he hadn’t caught her in a dishevelled mess, with bags under her eyes, he would never have left her waiting in vain, ‘whistling iguanas’ as she called it. As far as Karen understood, her father was a poet, an artist, a traveller, though she often intuited that her mamá had an active imagination, since from one day to the next he was a troubadour from Sincelejo, a boxer from Turbaco and an English sailor. Karen liked the last idea best.
She was a tall, skinny adolescent, and though her mother fed her as well as she could, the only thing that grew were her bones. Every morning Doña Yolanda readied the grill and cooked up scrambled eggs with cultured buttermilk, rice, beans, yuca and fish, yet the girl only stretched upwards. Happiness for Karen was in that breakfast and berry juice, sitting in the patio, when the picó sound systems had been switched off and Calle del Pirata no longer boomed with competing melodies – vallenato, reggaeton, champeta, rancheras, the same war every weekend. It was in the barefooted kids kicking up the dust in the street, and in her cousins bringing over crates of chilled Costeñita to drink out the front, some lounging on Rimax chairs, and Uncle Juan in his rocker, always quiet, always serious, his eyes red from getting only a few hours’ sleep, his smile helpless as he contemplated her with alcoholic fondness.
In her rebellious period, Karen left untouched the wild curls nature had given her. But after Emiliano was born and she began training as a beautician, the drone of her mother and her beauty-school education wore at her resolve. Not only did she get sick of explaining why she preferred to keep her natural curls, but she became an expert in straight hair.
For her family, girlfriends and people she knew, using a condom when sleeping with a man was the equivalent of being treated like a prostitute. ‘If there’s love, there’s no condom,’ Doña Yolanda repeated. She rounded out that sentence with one of her many superstitions: ‘If a man tells you he cares for you, look at his pupils. If they dilate, he’s lying.’ Nixon had said he cared for her, and his pupils had stayed the same. But more than that, Karen trusted him.
Nixon was not another man who talked only about money and cars, and about women as if they were livestock. Nixon didn’t go around wearing gold chains, he wasn’t obsessed with champeta or Rey de Rocha concerts. Nixon liked poetry – like her father, thought Karen, though she didn’t really know anything about her father. He also understood that she would choose a university degree any day over competing in the end-of-year district beauty contests.
In that first semester, as well as sitting exams and writing essays, Karen tried marijuana, dancing to classic salsa, but above all she tried sex, whenever and wherever; she discovered she could revert to a primitive state, and she relished it. She learned to go into a kind of trance, almost always with Nixon, and at other times with the help of the Chinese balls her mother kept in the kitchen drawer, Uncle Juan’s foot massager or her own hand.
For Karen, reading Eduardo Ramelli’s I Love Myself meant she could keep any guilt about her behaviour at a prudent distance, or at least distract herself with the arguments of a book underpinned by hedonism. While she was reading it, a few things started happening to her: a sick feeling in the morning, swollen breasts that ached at the slightest touch, sleepiness and fatigue. She was halfway through the book when she decided to take a test one Sunday morning.
‘Fuck,’ she said. She’d just turned nineteen.
Her mother stopped talking to her for a few weeks, until one suffocating afternoon Karen heard her scooter approaching. Karen was lying on her bed with rollers in her hair, leafing through an old magazine.
‘What’s the plan? Just lie