I stare at her dumbly because I don’t think I’ve heard her correctly. “I’m sorry?”
She sighs and wrings her hands, looking at the posters of happy as shit Spaniards on the wall. If I have heard correctly, I’m about to resent every single thing about this bastard company.
“We only got the six-month working visa for Vera because we just weren’t sure if hiring her in the long-term was feasible. For one, she doesn’t speak Spanish.”
I glare at her. “She’s learning. She’s trying.” My words are as sharp as her face.
“And that’s good. But it’s not good enough. We are a Spanish company and need someone who speaks both Spanish and English fluently.”
“But she’s just an administrator.”
“Yes, but for how long? You of all people should know about growth and progress. What happens if our booking agent leaves? Vera would take her place. She cannot take her place with the way she is. Face it, she’s not cut out for this job. She should, I don’t know, be at a music store selling CDs.”
“Those don’t exist anymore,” I say through grinding teeth.
She folds her arms crossly. “I know she’s your . . . whatever she is to you, but you know what I mean. More than that, this job doesn’t interest her. It’s just a job. She won’t make it her career and we won’t either. Now, we already have someone who has just started helping out. She’s part of the EU, there’s no paperwork or legalities, no dealing with the government, and she’s fluent in Spanish. It’s just a better match for everyone.”
There is no air left in my lungs, but I manage to say, “Everyone but Vera.”
“I am sorry, Mateo,” she says, and she does sound a bit sorry. But not sorry enough.
“Does she know?”
She shakes her head. “I was going to tell her on Monday and let her work that last week.”
“You realize what’s going to happen to her if you do this,” I say, running a hand through my hair. The office is starting to feel so small. I stare at Vera’s lipsticks on the desk, imagine her lips, and I feel something inside me coming undone. This can’t be happening.
Her pointy eyebrows draw together and up. “Again, I am sorry, Mateo. I like Vera. She’s a funny girl and very . . . sweet. But she doesn’t belong here.”
I have nothing more to say to Patrice. It’s evident that even if I flashed my wallet at her, insinuated that Las Palabras could use donations for new office equipment, she wouldn’t go for it. I leave and climb back into my SUV, spending a moment to think about what I should do. I have to do something. I have to think. If I don’t, I will think about the inevitable. I will fall apart.
I am not used to being a man without a solution. When I fell in love with Vera, the solution was clear. I had to leave Isabel. It wasn’t easy, but it was clear. Now, I have no solution and nothing is clear.
Vera doesn’t have to work. I can easily support her. But she wants to work, and in order to stay in the country legally, she must work. There is always the option of university, but she had told me the foreign student fees were far beyond what she or her parents could afford—or would want to give—and she was adamant that though she was a good student, she wasn’t good enough to qualify for any kind of aid. They would give her that in her own country for a Canadian school, but not here.
I had brought up the university option before, telling her I could pay for it, but she waved it off like it was just a dream. She wouldn’t let me pay for it, and our back and forth about it turned into a fight.
Now I wonder if I can convince her again, now that deportation is on the line. It is probably too late for her to join the school year next month, but there is always the January semester. The only problem is that she would be illegal until then.
Maybe it won’t be a big deal. There are thousands of illegal immigrants from Somalia, Nigeria, Mexico, El Salvador, all working under the table in Spain. They don’t get caught. Vera doesn’t have to either. If we play everything right, we might actually be able to ride this thing out.
Clinging to that thought like a lifeline, I speed back to the apartment, eager to cement this idea down.
Vera isn’t home when I get in which only compounds my anxiety. Luckily by the time I’ve poured myself a scotch and settled uneasily on the couch, she appears in the front door, holding a small bag of groceries.
“Hola,” she says brightly. “We were out of food and I was staaaaarving.”
She plunks the bag on the counter and then comes over to give me a kiss. She seems to be in a good mood. I feel terrible that I’m about to ruin it for her.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, staring at me with wide eyes. “I can feel it rolling off of you. What happened?”
I lick the scotch off my lips and sit back on the couch, holding her gaze steadily. “Remember what you said the other day, how everything was going to be okay?”
Her face blanches, turning paler than milk.
“Well,” I continue, “keep that in mind. That it will be. Everything will be okay. I already have a solution.”
“Mateo . . .”
“I went by Las Palabras today. Just now. After work.”
She stares at me in horror. “No.”
“Yes,” I say. “I did. I wanted to talk to Patrice myself, figure out if there was something I could do, if we could come to some sort of arrangement.”
“Mateo,” she whines. “Oh god, what did you do?”
I give her a sad smile and shake my head. “I didn’t do anything. It was too late, Vera. You were right, about the Irish girl who speaks Spanish. Patrice is planning on letting you go. She’s telling you on Monday. Next week will be your last.”
Her mouth forms a pretty little O shape and I immediately think of the lipsticks on her desk. I know why the sight had struck such a chord with me. Those lipsticks were such a small part of her, trying to fit in to the office, the world around her, and failing.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I really, truly, deeply am. I think she has no idea. “I tried but . . . she wouldn’t have any of it. Her mind is set.”
“Well,” she says, straightening up, one hand on her hip, the other at her mouth, rubbing her fingers across it. “Like fuck I’ll be staying for a week. Fuck the pay and fuck her. Fuck that whole program.”