In Other Words (10 page)

Come in, come in, there are a lot of things to see.

Inside the apartment the translator left her purse in the hall, on a long table, as the others did. At the end of the hall was a large living room. A row of black dresses hung on a clothes rack next to the wall.

The dresses were like soldiers, at attention, but inanimate. In another part of the room there were couches, lighted candles, a table loaded with fruit, cheese, a rich chocolate cake. In a corner was a tall mirror divided into three, in which you could look at yourself from different angles.

The owner of the apartment, who had designed the black clothes, was sitting on a sofa, smoking and chatting. She spoke the language of the place perfectly, but with a slight accent. She was a foreigner, like the translator.

Welcome. Please, have something to eat, look around, make yourself comfortable.

Some women were already undressed, and were trying on clothes, asking the others for their opinions. They were a collection of arms, legs, hips, waists. Unceasing variations. They all seemed to know each other.

The translator took off her sweater, undressed. She began to try on all the garments in her size, one after the other, methodically, as if it were a task. There were pants, jackets, skirts, shirts, dresses. All black, made of soft light fabrics.

They are ideal for traveling, the owner said. They are comfortable, modern, versatile. You can wash them by hand in cold water. They don't wrinkle.

The other women agreed. They said that now they wore only clothes designed by the owner. You could get
them only by going to her house, only by private invitation. Only in this way, secret, hidden, festive.

The translator stood in front of the mirror. She studied her own image. But she was distracted by the presence of another woman behind the mirror, at the end of the hall. She was different from the others. She was working at a table, with an iron, a needle in her mouth. She had tired eyes, a sorrowful face.

The clothes were elegant, well made. Even though they suited her, the translator didn't like them. After trying the last thing she decided to leave. She didn't feel like herself in those clothes. She didn't want to acquire or accumulate anything more.

There were piles of clothes everywhere, on the floor, on the couches, on the chairs, like so many dark puddles. After rummaging awhile, she found hers. But her black sweater was missing. She had looked in all the piles but hadn't found it.

The room was almost empty. While the translator was looking for her sweater, most of the women had left. The owner was preparing a receipt for the next to last. Only the translator remained.

The owner looked at her, as if she had noticed her presence for the first time.

“And what did you decide on?”

“Nothing. I'm missing a sweater, my own.”