Extract from The Unusual and Highly Impractical Existence of Vida Ruiz

L.A. Zesati

The old, late-nineteenth-century mansion at the end of Mala Pata Alley was the only evenly numbered building in the entire downtown neighbourhood. Why? Only God and the extremely old, seriously traumatised deputy mayor knew.

A crooked apparition, the house looked like it had been designed by a half-mad, half colour-blind architect. With four curled towers made out of cobblestones poking out of its wave-like, multicoloured ceiling, and a circular green front door surrounded by large, stained glass windows in the shape of open palms, the building seemed to have popped out of a fever dream. Too twisted and flamboyant for its polluted district.

All the neighbours were terrified of the place, of course, saying it was haunted, cursed, or that it was the dwelling of a deranged vampire who crept out of the gate at precisely ten past midnight to feed off the blood of beautiful teenage girls and stray kittens.

Needless to say, 70 Mala Pata Alley, or as it was more commonly known by the locals ‘The Rainbowed Cesspool’, became the stuff of legend, a recurring joke, and a hated, feared spot for everyone who lived nearby. And who could blame them? The mansion was not particularly enticing, especially after being at the epicentre of the most bizarre and grisly happenings in the barrio, including: the murder of the wealthy, aesthetically-pleasing, well-regarded and extremely pious Piesplanos family, the family cook, his lover, and her pet brown-hooded parrot named Fernando. Then it was infamous for being the headquarters of a hippie, new-age, neopagan commune with way too many weird, loud, midnight rituals involving cow's blood, cashew milk, tambourines and two soprano saxophones. And for a couple of months in the late fifties, it served as the centre stage of an underground freak show that incorporated a bearded woman, three pairs of conjoined twins, a group of heavily tattooed Russian jugglers, and five so-called ‘baby werewolves’ – only three were verified werewolves according to the paperwork, but that's a story for another time.

 The house's dark blue gate had been locked and heavily chained for nearly two decades, with a distasteful number of ‘Do Not Enter’ and ‘Private Property’ signs all over, some super glued to the gate, others tied to the railings with shoelaces and stolen copper wire.

An incredible amount of real estate agencies and concerned ultra-conservative, apocalypse-obsessed religious groups had tried and miserably failed to contact someone, anyone, who knew anything about the owner, but it had proven impossible. There was no owner to be found, no property documents, no building plans, no overdue energy bills. No one had seen any movement inside for years.

At least not before that night. 

The night He arrived at the alley.

He came around one o'clock in the morning, driving a black ’67 Volkswagen Bug, followed by two rusty white vans with the sign MENDIOLA LAUNDERETTE: SQUEAKY SQUEAKY CLEAN elegantly written in large, black, cursive letters across their sliding doors.

He parked in front of the mansion, lighted an unfiltered cigarette and got out of the car, humming happily.

He was tall and thin, with a prominent aquiline nose, high cheekbones and sunken eyes. His skin was light brown, and his hair dark and wavy with some splashes of silver kept hidden underneath an old, exceptionally well-kept Panama hat. He wore a tight white button-up linen shirt and perfectly pressed blue jeans.

The Stranger looked so well kept, so respectable, so violently handsome, with such a perfectly close shave, white smile and shiny leather shoes, that if not for the large black letter M tattooed on his left hand and the naked mermaid on his right (and the fact he was utterly and inexplicably terrifying) no one would have objected to him being their new next door neighbour.

He took one drag of his cigarette and walked towards the gate.

An old lady living in the house to the left of the mansion opened a window and, while cradling an ancient-looking one-eyed black cat in her arms and poking out her crooked nose, screamed into the alley, coughing loudly.

‘Who goes there?’

The Stranger stopped dead in his tracks, looked up and after eyeing the neighbour in her pink, floral-lace nightdress and tubos, beamed, taking off his hat.

‘Buenas noches, Señora! Sorry for all the ruckus. I'm—’

‘I don't give a rat's backside! Just keep it down! Or I'll take the musket off the wall!’ she screamed.

‘Shut up!’ another neighbour hollered across the street from a pathetically tiny window.

‘Don't you dare talk to me like that, young man!’ shouted the woman, squeezing the cat in her arms so tightly the poor animal could only meow in pain, it's one yellow-ish eye about to pop out of its socket.

‘Shut it, you crazy old bat!’ yelled the neighbour back, waving a fat fist out the window, the only visible part of what was probably a likewise massive, plump body.

‘How dare you?’ the old lady went on, lowering the one-eyed cat next to a flower pot of dead bougainvilleas.

‘Just die already! Vieja borracha!’ the neighbour bellowed, while the fist kept moving from side to side, bumping into the window frame.

‘I will talk to your mother about this, you useless, good-for-nothing delinquent!’

‘Don't you dare bring my mother into this, vieja loca!’

The Stranger stood in front of the mansion's gate, the unfiltered cigarette in one hand, his hat in the other, his tongue out, biting the tip out of frustration, listening to the three-minute-long screaming match between the old lady and the fist-waving ​​neighbour.

‘You damned criminals!’ the old woman yelled, reaching for an ancient-looking, bulky musket and waving it out the window.

‘That will do, Madame, that will do. We'll keep it down,’ interfered the Stranger nervously.

‘You better! One of these days! One of these damned days!’ The old lady lowered the gun and slammed the window shut.

‘Charming neighbourhood,’ the Stranger whispered to himself, putting his hat back on as a group of ten black-clothed, harsh-looking, heavily tattooed henchmen got out of one of the vans carrying three large wooden boxes.

He took another drag of the unfiltered cigarette and cracked his knuckles, staring greedily at the old mansion.

‘That will do,’ he said, without turning around to look at the men.

‘Jefe, what about the kids?’ asked a squat, pudgy faced fellow. There was something off-putting about this other man. Maybe it was the way he swayed while walking or the peculiar, almost unnoticeable shade of purple on his cheeks and neck, but something about him did not seem entirely natural. As if something, something essential but intangible was missing.

‘Get Miguel!’ ordered the Stranger, still looking up at the mansion.

The pudgy face man nodded.

‘And Gervasio, get rid of that.’

Gervasio gave his boss a dumbstruck, rather idiotic look. ‘Get rid of what?’

‘Of the vieja loca with the musket! And also…’

Gervasio shivered.

‘Shut that idiot up.’

‘What idiot?’ Gervasio mumbled. The Stranger sighed and pointed to the minuscule window. Gervasio nodded again, his lips slightly open, his head tilted to the side.

‘Now! Bring Miguel now! What the hell are you waiting for? Useless! Jesus Christ! Muévete!’

Back at the old lady's window, the one-eyed cat stared down at the newcomers, sitting on top of an old coffee table right next to the musket, licking an injured paw.

‘Freaks and hooligans! Freaks, vagos and hooligans! Delinquents! Crazy deranged hooligans! Move! That's what I should be doing! Moving! Moving to the beach, yes, to the beach.’ The old lady gave a bottle of cheap white wine one large, loud gulp, followed by an almost minute long coughing fit and an almighty burp. The cat meowed and pushed the window open with its head.

‘Hooligans. Criminals. Vagos. Insane. They are all insane.’ the woman mumbled, pacing up and down her small kitchen.

The cat looked down at the alley, watching as twelve malnourished, ragged-looking children wearing baggy, tattered clothes got out of a van.

The Stranger looked up at the old lady's window again and, after a few seconds, noticed the cat. His eyes opened wide in recognition. He smiled, flushing, an angry, deranged grin across his face.

‘Migue!’ the Stranger called out to one of the children, the dying unfiltered cigarette between his teeth, his eyes still glued to the window. ‘Come here! Come on, don't be shy! C'mon!’ 

A tall, lanky boy in his mid-teens walked towards him warily as if approaching an unpredictable, wild beast. The kid looked famished and tired. His mousy brown hair had probably never been given a proper haircut, and the large cut across his flat, broken nose would make any sensible adult want to call the police or at least a concerned, goodhearted primary school teacher. 

‘Oh! Come on! Ven acá!’ The Stranger pulled him close, his bony fingers around Miguel's left wrist. ‘What do you think, eh?’ he whispered into the boy's ear. ‘This is going to be great for business, Migue! I'm telling you! Great!’

Miguel looked up at the mansion, frowning, his eyes scanning the building up and down.

The Stranger continued, ‘Toto always had terrible taste. The house is hideous, but at least now we have a place big enough for all of us. Can you imagine? I'm telling you, Migue! It's going to be amazing! I know the neighbourhood is not the safest, and you'll probably never get out of the kitchen, considering you'll be chained up most of the week, but it will be so much fun! Now, go and get the others. I'll need you to keep them in check this time, va?’

Miguel nodded, biting his upper lip and looking down at his dirty old trainers.

‘Eso! That's my boy! Just remember,’ the Stranger whispered into Miguel's ear once more, ‘I need you to behave, okay?’ His fingers tightened around Miguel's wrist, making him wince.

‘Promise?’ he asked, raising his voice so everyone around could hear.

‘Yes, I promise! Now! Let me go!’

‘Not until you promise you'll be a good little boy!’

Miguel tried shoving him away with all his strength, but it was useless. The Stranger barely moved. He just laughed and pulled the boy a bit closer. Miguel was so close, in fact, that he could smell the Stranger's breath, a mixture of cigarettes, hard liquor and something that could only be described as disgustingly sweet.

‘No, now, c'mon, Migue! There's no need for violence. Let's be civil. We are both gentlemen, remember? Gentlemen! Now repeat after me: “I'll be a good little boy”.’ 

Silence.

‘C'mon, I'm waiting. “Say I'll be a good little boy”.’ The Stranger's grip grew tighter.

‘Stop… it!’ Miguel stammered.

The rest of the men laughed loudly, especially Gervasio, his laugh an extremely high, gurgling cackle. The Stranger shot a look at his henchman, his brow arching.

‘Gervasio, for the love of God, do shut up.’

A couple of kids giggled but stopped immediately after Gervasio fired them a menacing, furious glance, the purple shade on his cheeks growing brighter.

‘Now, where were we? Oh, yes! “I promise I'll be a good little boy”,’ repeated the Stranger.

 ‘I promise I'll be a good little boy,’ Miguel stuttered, flustered with anger. The Stranger grinned and finally let go, but not before patting him on the back so hard Miguel's knees buckled.

‘Eso! That was all I wanted to hear! All right then,’ the Stranger said, turning around to face the rest of the party while lighting another unfiltered cigarette.

‘Everyone! Listen up! I'm going to give Migue here a tour of the premises. You get the boxes inside!’ The men stared at the house, then at each other, and finally at Gervasio.

‘I. Said. Move!’ screamed the Stranger, growing red.

‘You heard the man! Move! Órale!’ cried Gervasio, his voice a high, scared shriek.

The men scattered, picking up the wooden boxes and ordering the children around.

‘I swear, Migue, sometimes I wonder how a group of grown men can be so incredibly inept. I should get new recruits. What do you think? Some new blood.’

Miguel shrugged, ignoring the Stranger, and turned around to look at the rest of the kids. He smiled at a boy, probably five or six years old. The little boy was quivering, clutching an old ragged blanket with both hands.

Miguel winked at him before mouthing the words, ‘It's okay.’ The little boy smiled weakly, tears trickling down his face.

‘Oh! Come on! Stop it with the theatrics! You can whine together tomorrow while he braids your hair!’ the Stranger said, pulling Miguel by the neck and leading him towards the mansion's gate.

‘You're going to love this place! The kitchen is so pretty! Perfect for your shackles! They will look so cute hanging next to the freezer.’

The rest of the children walked one right after the other as the Stranger opened the mansion's gate. Only the little boy noticed the man watching from the window, exactly where the old, black one-eyed cat once sat. The man waved at him and lit an unfiltered cigarette, a strange, wild-looking twisted smirk across his face, the rest of him hidden by shadows. The little boy stood there for a few seconds, rooted to the spot.

‘Move!’ Gervasio screamed at him, swaying slightly. The little boy started walking, but not without looking back at the window once again.

The man was still there, staring back at him. Then, he winked and just like that, disintegrated into thick cigarette smoke. 

*

If Vida had been born in a different time and a different place, she'd have seen all of this through her window where she often sat. She happened to be rather fond of spying, but no, our protagonist was born at least thirty years later, and at the time her story begins, she was looking through old birth certificates and expired driver's licenses since six in the morning.

Nothing. No names, no dates, nothing that could tell her the truth about her father, who, at that exact moment, was speaking to one of his patients over the phone. Some unfortunate fool had fractured his ankle while trying to push a mule away from the church's front door. Good, Vida thought, that would keep him busy. It was ten past nine on a Sunday morning, and between piles of medical textbooks with titles such as Scarlet Fever Physiopathology and Oh No! The Plague: Your Old Friend Yesina Pestis Strikes Again! Vida sneezed and shivered loudly, while taking another birth certificate from the cardboard box before her. The name printed on the document was supposed to be her father's, Rodolfo Ruiz y Ruiz, born 28th August 1970.

Yeah, right, she thought.

Rodolfo Ruiz y Ruiz – general surgeon, eligible bachelor, decent merengue dancer, and an almost good-looking, most-of-the-time horribly dressed, devoted single divorced parent. He was the only doctor in town, one of the most respected members of Santa Pascuala of the Crooked Fingers' community, and according to his only daughter, a complete and utter fake.

Vida folded the document in two and stood up, her light blue linen pyjama set dirty from kneeling on the basement floor.

A fake, and probably a two-faced criminal.

Vida sighed, tired of all the mould and smelly paper and listening to the street outside, she stood atop a plastic white chair next to the wall and peeked through the basement window. She could see the cobblestone road, some stray dogs walking by, a pair of weary cowboy boots stumbling over the cracked pavement, and that crazy waitress, Candela, leaving her house, her pink trainers rushing through the street.

God, what a hot mess. And to think some people found her pretty. Vida clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval. People had such a strange perception of beauty. ‘Perception.’ She mouthed the word with relish. She used it in almost every conversation for the last three weeks. Vida loved long, complicated words, particularly those with significant meaning. ‘Significant.’ There was another one.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ , asked Doña Rosa, the old cook and her dad's secretary, accountant, nurse, filing clerk and sometimes trusted confidant. Apparently, she had been spying on Vida, as she always did.Shameless, meddlesome old crow.

‘Just looking through some papers,’ Vida muttered, jumping off the seat.

‘Why?’ asked Doña Rosa.

Vida moaned. Just the idea of explaining herself to the wretched woman was painful.

‘School project,’ she said.

‘About?’

‘My family.’

‘Family?’ Doña Rosa's brow arched slightly, making her forehead look like an old parchment.

‘Yes, you know, family. People who are related to each other,’ Vida continued, her nose up in the air, eyelids flickering.

‘Let me tell you something about your family. It's only you and your dad, so no point digging around, you hear me?’

‘Well, I'm not satisfied with that answer. I wish to know more.’

‘Güera. I'm really sorry, mi amor, but there's only you and your dad, and you know it. So, why don't you just go upstairs and get ready for breakfast?’

‘Lies.’ Vida's voice echoed through the damped basement.

What an insufferable old bat. How dare she lie to her? To her face!

Vida took the plastic seat with one hand and walked out the basement and up the stairs, her fluffy, red and white polka dot socks sliding a little.

No respect, no respect whatsoever. How dare Doña Rosa talk to her like that. No one? That was impossible. There ought to be someone. Like some rich lost aunt, some eccentric cousin living abroad, someone who could tell her who her father really was.

Vida often dreamed about her long-lost family. They ought to be rich, intelligent, impeccably well dressed and obviously fascinating individuals. Beautiful and elegant, living kilometres away, surrounded by the most wonderful mysteries! Mansions, murder plots, butlers with black ties, a party of five sitting around a private tennis court, drinking champagne.

‘Güera.’ Her dad's words brought her back to reality. She was standing next to the kitchen door, dragging the plastic chair, her head high. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, holding a cup of coffee shaped as a stuffed bear.

‘Nothing,’ Vida mumbled. 

‘Right. Thought you were playing queen emperor again,’ the doctor said, smiling at his daughter, trying not to laugh, his thin-rimmed glasses about to fall off the bridge of his even thinner nose.

‘I don't do that anymore!’ Vida replied, leaving the chair on the floor and folding her arms, profoundly offended. She was a teenager, not a silly little girl.

‘Yeah, okay. I need to go to the church and check on Antonio Aguilera. Don Esteban just told me his ankle is turning black.’

Vida nodded. ‘When are you back?’ she asked.

‘A couple of hours.’

A couple of hours. Good. More time to look through the basement. She beamed, her braces showing, their blue elastic bands about pop. 

‘Are you meeting up with Ismael?’ asked her dad.

Vida shrugged. She had been planning to break up with Ismael, her boyfriend, for a few weeks now, but doing it on a Sunday? How tedious. She'll get over it on Monday. No need to rush.

‘No, I'm staying in.’

‘Good, good,’ the doctor replied absentmindedly, looking down at his wristwatch.

You dirty liar, Vida thought. You dirty, little liar.

Ever since Vida could remember, probably since she was just two or three years old (considering she had been gifted with a remarkable memory, one of her many exceptional qualities) her dad had declared he was an orphan. No family, no relations, nothing. He had brought himself up and out of an orphanage in the capital, and by some strange miracle, right into medical school. 

Yeah, right, like that could ever happen. What about all those late phone calls? What about all the letters? Doctor Ruiz kept implying that it was just a silly mistake, that some idiot had the wrong phone number and address. But for ten years in a row?

‘Vida!’ Doña Rosa called, interrupting what Vida liked to call her inner ‘soliloquy’.

Another word she adored – S-O-L-I-L-O-Q-U-Y.

‘Wake up! Breakfast!’ the old woman cried.

‘I'm fasting,’ Vida said, ready to go to her room.

‘No, you are not! Breakfast, now! I'm making sopes.’

Sopes! How would Vida reach her ideal weight if the wicked woman kept making sopes?

‘I said, I am,’ Vida said adamantly.

‘You are having breakfast,’ Doña Rosa said. ‘Just look at you? Skin and bone! One day you'll walk out that door and break in two!’

Vida rolled her eyes.

‘Okay, you have breakfast. I'll be back for lunch,’ the doctor said, kissing Vida on the forehead goodbye and poking her nose with his index finger.

‘Be good. Don't drive Rosita crazy.’ 

Doña Rosa let out a loud bark-like laugh.

‘She is already crazy,’ Vida mumbled.

‘Be nice,’ her dad mouthed with a wink and turned around, leaving the coffee cup on the kitchen counter. Greasy fingerprints shone across the cup's pink surface. If only I could steal it and take it to a lab, Vida thought, like in the movies: take the cup, run some test…

‘Breakfast!’ Rosa called.

And twenty minutes later, a plate of chorizo sopes was laid in front of Vida. They are poisoned, she thought, looking up at the kitchen window. She often fantasised about being the innocent victim of a terrible crime. How someone, out of envy of course, would murder her in cold blood. A mad assassin, enraged by Vida’s perfect skin, her exceedingly sophisticated wardrobe (in these fantasies she would only wear black satin evening gowns), amazing intellect and statuesque bone structure. Of course, no one even actually thought that of Vida Ruiz. In fact, most people would honestly say she was, well, ‘odd’ to say the least, and that was a hard cold fact. She was too thin, too big-eared, and had a weird, honestly annoying tendency to think too highly of her capabilities. But regardless of her oversized ears, bony elbows, and proclivity to forget basic social rules such as minding her own business, Vida thought no one in town was as beautiful and intelligent as she. Besides, she had a tremendous advantage. Unlike most people in town, she was blonde, an attribute that gave her considerable satisfaction. Her long, bright yellow hair was a matter of pride. She was a güera, light-skinned. She was different. People often thought of her as someone unique, someone they noticed walking down the street and praised her, regardless of her multiple oddities. Boys liked her if she didn’t speak that much around them, and girls often complimented her pretty lashes and large green eyes, though her best and only friend, Yolanda, was convinced for about four years that Vida was cursed and probably saw everything in a light green hue. People admired her, she thought, or at least wanted to believe so, ignoring that the ones who did admire her didn’t know her that well to begin with. Most of her teachers thought she was a nosey, stuck-up brat, and kids laughed at her for reading the dictionary and memorising the scientific names of flowers, but she was respected. Almost respected. It wasn't her fault she thought, she was just too mature and refined for her boring little town. Maybe if she just found a way out. She often thought of this, a way to leave Santa Pascuala and find the rest of her family.

‘Come on, eat!’ Doña Rosa pointed at the sopes.

Damned sopes!