Seven Years of Blind Love novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: Night Six
I'd gone six nights without seeing the sun when I heard the phone ring in the room next door.
I was sitting in a metal chair, my wrists tied to the back with nylon rope.
My hair had been hacked off close to the scalp, because one of them said it made me worth less.
My left pinky hurt.
They'd broken it on the third day.
I counted the nights by the trains.
Every dawn a freight train passed, with a rumble that shook the tin roof.
I clung to it like a calendar.
Six trains.
The door opened.
The boss came in, a man with a deep voice and a black balaclava, holding a phone.
Behind him came the young guy who gave me water.
"Good evening, Mrs. Alanís."
I didn't answer.
"Today we spoke with your husband. I want you to hear what he says."
He set the phone on my knees.
He dialed with his thumb.
Three rings.
The line opened.
"Hello?"
It was him.
It was Federico's voice, hoarse from sleep, or from whiskey, and behind it I could hear soft music and the clink of ice.
My whole body went slack.
I thought: it's over.
I thought: he paid, it's done.
"Mr. Alanís, we've had your wife for six nights. We're asking for twelve million. We already sent you the video."
"I saw it."
"And?"
There was a silence.
I could almost see him, leaning against the bar in his study, glass in hand, with that way he has of thinking while staring at the ceiling.
"I'm not paying."
The boss let out a little laugh.
"What did you say?"
"I'm not paying. Tell her the theatrics are over."
My throat closed up.
"Sir, we're talking about your wife."
"My wife has had me on trial for seven years. Rubí says it's a good time for her to learn a lesson. To appreciate what she has."
Rubí.
The secretary's voice came through in the background, honeyed and low.
"Federico, come. Your dinner's getting cold."
Federico lowered his voice, but the phone was on my knees and I heard him.
"Tell her she deserved it. Tell her to thank me when she gets out."
The call ended.
The boss stood there with the phone in his hand.
Behind his mask I caught an uneasy shift, as if even he had expected something else.
"Well," he said. "Seems you're worth less than you said."
"I never said how much I was worth."
"Your jewelry, your house, your company."
"Those belonged to my husband."
"Then you know exactly how much you're worth."
He gestured to the young guy.
The young guy came over with a knife, and I closed my eyes.
But it wasn't for me.
He cut the rope around my wrists.
Then he tied them again, tighter, over the raw skin.
I bore the burning without screaming.
I thought about my seven years.
About the parties where Federico introduced me as "my wife," while Rubí poured his cognac.
About the times I asked him for a child and he said "not yet."
About my mom, who never liked him, and whom I defended against him.
I thought: if I stay quiet, I die here.
And if I speak, maybe I die anyway.
But speaking would be my choice.
"Hey," I said.
My voice came out dry, strange.
The boss stopped.
"There's another number."
"I don't care about your family."
"It's not my family. It's my mom."
There was a silence.
"My mom has a bakery in Mitras Centro and a house in the Obrera neighborhood."
"She doesn't have twelve million."
"But the house is worth three, and she'd sell it tonight if I asked her to."
The young guy looked at the boss.
"She's lying," he said.
"I'm not lying. Ask her."
"And why didn't you ask her before?"
I swallowed.
"Because I always believed there was someone who should pay before her."
It hurt to say it.
It was the first time I'd said it out loud, and there was no taking it back.
The boss thought.
He dialed again.
This time he put it on speaker.
I waited with my heart in my throat.
One ring.
Just one.
The line opened before it finished.
"Maite?"
It was my mom.
Her voice sounded broken, breathless, as if she'd spent six nights with the phone pressed to her chest.
I couldn't speak.
"Baby, is that you?"
"Mom."
"Tell me where you are."
"I don't know."
"Tell me how much."
That's how she said it.
Without asking anything else.
Tell me how much.
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