didnât wake up so I raised my voice and tried again. âFather.â
âHe opened one eye, then sat up. ââIf you had finished the year . . .â he said with a smile.
âHe left the sentence unfinished and kept smiling.
â
If he knew what Iâm carrying on my back
, I thought to myself. âThree years,â I said. âI think thatâs enough, Father.â
âAs soon as I finished my sentence I heard Pedroâs voice from outside. âWhose suitcase is that?â he asked.
âPedro pushed the door behind me to bring in the suitcase Ihad left at the door before coming in. He stopped at the door and the first thing your uncle Pedro saw was you, strapped to my back.
ââWhoâs that?â he asked.
âI heard him behind me. My father, who was still sitting on the sofa in front of me, burst out laughing.
âItâs Josephine, you idiot,â he said.
âPedro came past me, stood between me and my father and looked back at me in amazement. âI meant what sheâs carrying on her back!â he said.
âMy father left the scruffy sofa and scowled as soon as he heard what Pedro said. He walked towards me with his eyes wide open. He went past me. I stood where I was without moving, ready to take a blow from behind. He stood up straight behind me and whispered in my ear, âAnother bastard!â
âHe pulled my hair back. My head banged against your little head and you burst out crying, while I was about to . . .
ââIf you did your whoring here instead ofââ he said.
ââHeâs not a bastard,â I interrupted. âHis fatherâs my husband.â
âHe gripped my hair tight, then shouted at Pedro: âYou, shut the door quickly.â
âI knew he was thinking about his cocks but I wasnât as brave as Aida was that time when she broke their necks.â
Â
3
The way my grandfather treated my mother was different from that day on. Although he was angry, he showed her a respect to which she wasnât accustomed. And although she had let him down by coming back with a child, at least she was married. My mother was the child closest to him, even if he sometimes gave the opposite impression, because she was the one who looked after him and who treated him as a father, however cruel he was to her. She brought him food and took the trouble to clean up his little room. She even gave him half of what my father sent her from Kuwait, although she and I needed the money.
My mother said, âAs far as possible Iâve tried to get along with your grandfather as well as your grandmother did. Heâs irritable because he was a soldier and had a hard time when he was young, or so your grandmother said. His addiction to gambling is just a way of venting his anger, or maybe itâs an attempt to get revenge on old adversaries by defeating rival cocks.
âWe women,â she continued with a smile, âneed to understand the male temperament and make allowances for the things men do. That means we have to put up with their mistakes, if only to preserve something thatâs more important.â
She gave a little laugh, then continued, âIf I tried to resist him, I would end up suffering the same fate as Aida. I would end up with a hardened expression on my face and eyes that didnât showany emotion, heading straight to my destination like a train, with marijuana smoke blowing out of my nostrils.â
No one but my mother could handle my grandfather properly, because dealing with Mendoza meant dealing with several men, each with his own style, his own tastes and even his own way of thinking. I donât know what set my mother apart from everyone else. Maybe she was more patient, maybe more intelligent.
Mendoza was someone I never managed to understand through all the years I was there. I wasnât sure which of the personalities that he switched between was his