I place the red carpeta filled with 20, 60 x 40 oil paintings against the metal gate. Then I ring the doorbell.
“¿Si?” says the voice through the intercom.
“Ola, Buenos noches. Soy estudiante de Arte. Tengo pinturos de olio sobra tela. ¿Dos minutos para mirar?”
The voice asks again: “¿Que?”
I clear my throat: “Ola, Buenos noches. Soy estudiante de Arte. Tengo pinturos de olio sobra tela. ¿Dos minutos para mirar?”
The curtain from the front window reveals an old woman in a tattered blue robe, holding the front clasps of the cotton material together. She sees me from behind her gate, waving with one hand, smiling as if posing for a family picture. Then I lean forward and pull out a painting of the Eiffel tower, foregrounded with tables spread across a cobblestone street—French people sipping coffee. When she realizes I am trying to sell her something, she waves her head from side to side, pressing her lips together as if they are chapped. She closes the curtain suddenly, disappearing into the living room.
As I pick up the carpeta, the duct tape-covered handle digging into the small blisters in my grip, I inhale a breath of Spanish air. An aroma of ham with garlic potatoes accompanied with a loaf of fresh bread travels to my nostrils. I lick my lips as I imagine the savory meat melting in my mouth.
I am hungry. I am cold. And it seems like it has been forever that I have been walking the suburbs of Madrid selling oil paintings with Eyal and his Israeli team. Two months ago, I answered an ad on www.goabroad.com that said: “Are you young? In your early 20’s? Want to live in Spain? We have the perfect job for you! No experience necessary.” I had been living in Guam, teaching windsurfing in a five-star resort; then in Southern China, teaching English on an Academic scholarship. I loved the lifestyle of living overseas and had expected my “European adventure” to be just as fulfilling. I arrived at the Barajas International Airport two weeks ago with a six-month roundtrip ticket from Chicago to Madrid, a passport, a backpack and a small suitcase. I carried with me just a few items of clothing, a handful of English books and $500. I imagined myself selling artwork from a store, learning Spanish with ease, country-hopping by train, laughing in Cafés while sipping espresso in tiny cups. Before I had left, my parents said, “You are not really going. Nobody moves to a country where they don’t speak the language.” Then I showed them the receipt for my airplane ticket, taking great pride that I was about to do what “nobody” ever does. Now that I stand here, outside a stranger’s home, unsuccessfully selling an overpriced, knock-off painting, I start to realize the legitimacy of their concerns.
First of all, I have grown skeptical of the door-to-door Israeli art selling business. In the morning, we sell to small business, bancos, pharmacias, panadarias, and at we sell to night middle-class neighborhoods. We visit middle-class homes, believing that the poor cannot afford our paintings and the rich would rather go to a gallery to buy artwork. Eyal drops us off at a starting point in a rented white van with no patterns or designs along the side, briefing us beforehand on an area to cover. He drops us off far from one another to ensure that we do not accidentally visit the same place. According to Eyal, the paintings sold at 75-100 Euros “are affordable. Spaniards love Art. Trust me. You will make a lot of money.” Our wages are based on 100% commission, which means I only make a profit if I sell a painting over 50 Euros. If after two shifts of five hours, I sell one painting for 50 Euros, I make no profit for that day. o add to this, my salesman-Spanish is limited to the phrases Eyal taught me the day I had arrived: “Hello, good evening. I am a student of art. I have oil paintings on canvas. Do you have two minutes to look at them?” I don’t know how to say, “Where is the bathroom?” but I can recite a list of art related descriptions: boragon (still life), pasaje (landscape), cocos de fibre (coconut fibers), Michelangelo (Michelangelo), tres differentes textures (three different textures), solo setente-cinco Euros (it’s only 75 Euros). Although I claim that the paintings are “originals,” Eyal replaces the sold painting with an exact duplicate. One time, I walked into a Graphics Design office, startled to find the painting in my carpeta, a colorful boragon of a bowl of fruit, framed and hung against the wall. When the secretary asked me if she could help me, or what I assumed from her smile and open hand, I responded “No gracias,” excusing myself as quickly as I could from the building.
One evening, while walking through a neighborhood with high metal gates, a police car drove steadily next to me. I tried speeding up, assuming that they were on their way to a gathering of teenagers one block ahead. But after a few steps, the Spanish cops got out of the car, pistols loaded, and asked me: “What are you doing with that carpeta? Show me your passporte.” I pretended, which was not difficult, that I did not understand what they wanted. “These are my paintings,” I said in English, “I am a student of Art.” After lecturing me at length with Spanish words that I did not understand, they eventually left, nodding their heads from side to side. Since then, filled with the fear of being identified, I have stopped carrying my passport during my shifts.
I walk towards the next house, leaning my weight to one side to counterbalance the heaviness of the carpeta. A snowflake falls from the sky, landing on my black pea-coat—fading from white into a small drop of moisture. I look towards the blackened sky as a mass of white flakes float down. Single dots of whiteness land delicately onto my skin, melting into the corner of my eyes like cold tears.
Although my body craves for rest, I don’t envision a healthy night’s sleep. At night, I lay on a bare mattress in the common room of an apartment that houses twelve other people. Most of my roommates are young Israeli men, fresh out of completing their country’s two-year military sentence. Eyal, their troop leader, had convinced them to move to Madrid to make some extra money. They care very little about Spanish culture, often saying: “the only reason we are in business is because Spanish people are stupid.” When dinner has been eaten, the Hebrew movie turned off, the hashish smoked, I flip down the thin mattress on top of the peeling linoleum, curling up to sleep using my backpack as a pillow, my coat as a blanket. The smell of hashish lingers on my clothing and in my hair.
Tonight the weather pushes my tolerance. Normally, I would ring more houses before I found sanctuary in a café, losing myself into the novel I keep hidden inside my purse—the internet cafes and cafeterias always more alluring than the continual rejection from annoyed Spaniards. But my fingers ache with stiffness, and the houses seem less friendly in this poorly-lit neighborhood. I look at my watch. Only four hours and forty-five minutes until the white van scoops me up. The snow floats down onto the empty street, dissolving into the wet cement.
Pulling my black hood over my head, I attempt to block the air from chilling my body. As I look around the neighborhood, I notice that there is something different about this neighborhood than the ones Eyal has dropped me off in. The street lights seem dimmed. There aren’t as many cars parked along the sidewalk. Where are the people who normally walk their dogs at night? Where are the children returning home for dinner from a friend’s house? Along the gate of a house with no front light, the grass tangles around the metal bars. In most Spanish homes I have seen, the yards are small yet well-manicured. But this house looks ominous, the long strands of grass neglected by the current tenants.
Walking down the damp streets, passing the unrung doorbells of possible clients, I search
for a sign of light to indicate a place I could warm my body. Besides the dim street lights, the only lights I see shine through closed curtains. When I turn the corner, I notice a small neon sign lit up in orange. It doesn’t say cafeteria, but it looks like a place a stranger could find shelter in. When I get closer, I see a small convenience store—the only commercial space for blocks, built into the first floor of a living complex.
Standing in front of the store’s glass windows, the fluorescent lights allure me with their warmth. The moon overhead is just a sliver of gray. The snow begins to cascade more rapidly. I open the glass door as hot air layers my skin—the air massaging my face with delicate hands. When my eyes adjust to the light, I study the small space. I stand in a place that could pass for a quaint living room. The four narrow aisles overflow with fresh bread, colorful rolls of cookies, cans of soup, jars of Spanish olives, magazines, children’s toys, large plastic containers of biscuits and grains. I shake the snow from off my coat, walking towards the cookie aisle in the middle of the store. While I pretend to read the labels on a cookie box, I eye the two people standing in the room. A woman behind the counter speaks with much energy to a customer in Spanish. She hands him a bag of eggs.
The man leaves with a plastic bag of groceries, saying what I believe to be is “have a good night.” As the front door of the store swings open, a small draft of air circles the room. I study the cookies more intently, crinkling the wrappers in my hands, making it obvious that I have plans to purchase an item.
Then the woman behind the counter interrupts the silence. “Can I help you?” she asks in English.
I look up from the package, surprised by the English words. A woman with dark brown hair and emerald green eyes peers back at me.
“You’re not from around here,” she adds.
“No,” I answer, “I am American.”
“A student?”
I shift my weight to one side, contemplating whether or not to tell her I am student of art. I answer, “Not quite.”
“If you like you can put that thing over here.” She points at the large red envelope I balance awkwardly under my right arm. “I promise nobody will take it.”
In my hands, I hold twenty paintings at 50 Euros each. If somebody takes them, I will owe Eyal 1,000 Euros. I have already thought of what would happen if I lost my carpeta. I would disappear into the Spanish landscape to a city on the southern coast—a fugitive running from the Israeli Army. I feel the soreness in my arm, the blisters in my hand, and decide that this is not the time to be scared. I’ll put the paintings down but keep a close eye on them. I lean the carpeta against the counter.
“Much better,” she comments.
I massage the palms of my hands, red and blotchy, numb from the cold air. “Thank you,” I answer.
“I know whenever somebody new comes into my store. Colmenar Viejo is so very small.”
Colmenar Viejo. So that is where I am. I wonder how far Colmenar Veijo is from Madrid.
“One time, last year,” she continues, “a Canadian girl came in. She was a student staying with a family out here. I could tell right away that she was not Spanish.”
Aware of my foreign appearance, I ask jokingly, “How did you know I am not Spanish?”
She laughs, noticing my shoulder-length black hair, oval-shaped eyes, long black coat and unSpanish-like Jeans. “You look Asian…maybe Japanese?”
“My parents are from Hong Kong,” I respond, “but I was born in the United States.”
“Chinese,” she laughs, “We definitely don’t see many Chinese people in Colmenar Viejo.” When her eyes sparkle when she smiles, it dawns on me that this is the first time I have spoken to a Spanish person about something other then oil paintings.
“How long have you been is Spain?” she asks.
“Just two weeks.”
“How do you like it so far?”
I picture the small businesses in the suburbs, the unfamiliar neighborhoods I have been dropped off at and answer, “I haven’t really seen much of Spain.”
“Ahh, I know where you need to go.” She takes out a scratch piece of paper from under the counter, a pen from a cup of writing utensils near the cash register and draws a small outline of Spain. “You need to go here.” She points her pen at the northwest region of Spain above Portugal. “This is where I am from. Galicia. It is the most beautiful part of Spain.”
I lean my elbows against counter, studying the small doodle of a heart-shaped drawing the shape of Spain.
She holds out her hand. “My name is Nila. What is yours?”
I reach across the counter, across the barrier between two strangers, shaking her hand. “My name is Chellis. Nice to meet you.”
Nila offers me a package of cookies of my choice, as I fill my body with sweetness and warmth. Almost immediately, I confess to her that the real reason I am in Colmenar Viejo is because I am a door-to-door salesman. But a very bad one. On a good day I sell one painting in ten hours. I spend more time in coffee shops reading a book than I do ringing doorbells. Then I tell her that this is not my real job. A month ago, I had applied to MFA programs in writing and while waiting for their response, I moved to Spain. She tells me that she went to school in the art as well—in embroidery. She can make carpets, tablecloths, handkerchiefs and tapestries. She tells me about life back in Galicia, about the oil spills that ruin the beaches, about staring into an oil-stained ocean unable to get in. She tells me about Spain’s Arab ancestry, which is the reason why Spanish women, like her, have dark hair and green eyes. She likes to travel, too. Three years ago, she went on a week-long hike by herself, leaving her husband and son at home, traveling along the path of Saint Santiago. As the snow continues to fall from the night sky, as customers come in intermittently to buy fruit or bread, we talk until it is time to close the shop.
Then looking into her watch, Nila says, “Oh, dear, it’s time to go home. I have been talking for so long, I didn’t realize how late it has gotten.” She begins to organize the shelves, counting the cash register. I wander the shop, looking at a picture of Julia Roberts on the cover of a Spanish magazine, savoring the last moments of warmth before I leave.
“What will you do while I close the shop?” Nila asks, wiping down the counter with a cloth.
“I have an hour until Eyal picks me up.” I look at my carpeta, leaning against the counter, the front flap of the folder gapping open. I dread the thought of ringing doorbells, the falling snow, the recitation of the Spanish mantra. But I say, “I’ll just continue selling paintings.”
She looks at me with widened eyes—the greenness like jewels. “No, I insist, if you are not too uncomfortable, to join me at my house for dinner. My house is small, and it is messy, but I have some food if you are hungry. Have you tried Jamon Serrano or Spanish Wine?”
I don’t hesitate with my answer: “That would be great.” I have peered inside many Spanish homes, even walked into one while trying to make a sale, but I have never been inside one for nonbusiness-related reasons. While Nila packs up her stuff, clearing the contents in her cash register, I think that in a typical situation this could be dangerous: going home with a woman I have just met in an unfamiliar, suspiciously dark neighborhood. I hear my mother’s voice in my head: “Never trust a person who is being nice to you. You never know what they may want.”
“Are you ready?” asks Nila, carrying a box of food with bread and fruit. “This is for my mother. She lives down the street. She always calls me to bring her left-over food.”
“Yeah, I am ready,” I say, nodding my head, balancing my carpeta under my arm. As we leave the store, a chill runs through my body. Although it has been snowing for three hours, none of the snow has collected along the sidewalk. When it reaches the cement, it dissolves almost immediately, as if a mere figment of my imagination.
“My car is right here,” she points, then laughs. “Hold on. It’s very messy.” Pulling out a broken piece of furniture from the passenger seat, she shoves it into the backseat. “I like to repair tables.” She moves some dirt-smeared cloths from off the car floor and adds: “My son was just at the park and his shoes were dirty.” Then she opens the trunk and says: “You can put your carpeta in here.” The space crammed with boxes, books, old clothes has just a tiny opening for my carpeta. A car with bright headlights passes on the road. As the two narrow beams of light shine directly into my eyes, I begin to have my doubts that I should follow this strange woman into her home.
“Chellis?” Nila interrupts. “Your carpeta?” She reaches out her hand to help me, the same hand I had shaken just three hours ago. I look at her milky white hand with slender fingers, a dark mole on the top of her skin, and remember my mother’s words: “Never trust a person who is being nice to you. You never know what they may want.”
I look down the dark road; the neighborhood seems colder, even darker then what I had remembered just three hours before. I was once invited into a Spanish home during a night shift, by a person’s face I could not even see. All I heard were a few sentences in Spanish over the intercom and the sound of his gate buzzing to let me in. Certainly, going to Nila’s house would be safer than me walking into a complete stranger’s home. I help Nila cram the carpeta into the small space. She slams the trunk shut and adds, “See, a perfect fit.”
After I settle into the passenger seat, rubbing my hands together for warmth, Nila turns on the car, blasting the heater with warm air. I do not know if it is from the weather or from the way Europeans drive, but when Nila zips through the neighborhood twisting and turning down the narrow, curvy road, I tighten my grip along the handle of the car door. Holding on in this way is the only way I can prevent my head from knocking against the window. We enter an unfamiliar part of the village. Then she stops along the side of the road in a sudden screech, as I relax my body into my seat. The snow continues to fall from the sky, disappearing onto the hood of the car.
“I need to drop off this box of food for my mother,” Nila explains. I unfasten my seat belt as she stops me, “No, don’t worry. I’ll be back shortly.” She leaves the car, opening the trunk to take out the box. Then she slams the trunk shut, shaking the entire car, leaving me in complete silence. The engine is off; the heater’s fan has stopped making its whirring sound. I tuck my legs into my chest, resting my chin against my knee, listening to the beating of my heart. The windows begin to fog up, making the evening’s scenery hazier, more ambiguous. This is what it would be like if I were sitting in nothingness, a black hole, a windowless room where my eyes never learn to adjust. I am an anonymous person with no place to go, no money, no form of identification. Even if I were to leave this car right now, grab my carpeta and walk down the street, I don’t know where to go. Nila drove for five minutes, twisting and turning down streets I have never seen. I could retrace my steps to the pick up point but I would have no idea if I were going in the right direction. There are no taxis passing along this road at this hour, in this obscure neighborhood, in this Spanish village. But even if there is one taxi that happens to come along this road, I don’t have the street name of the place I am supposed to be picked up by Eyal in one hour. I could always go back to Eyal’s apartment in Alcobendas. But it took us an hour in the white van on the freeway from Alcobendes to Colmenar. A cab ride back to Eyal’s place would cost me 60-100 Euros. Let’s just say a cab happens to drive by at this exact moment, on this exact street, in this obscure neighborhood; let’s just say, I happen to have 60-100 Euros of cash on me, right now; let’s just say, I happen to get a taxi driver to take me all the way to Alcobendas, I don’t have the street address to Eyal’s apartment. I would be circling the suburb of Alcobendas at midnight, looking for a familiar landmark, for a white apartment tucked in a narrow alleyway on the second floor.
Nila opens the car door as I jump up, bumping my knee against the glove compartment—my heart at a racing pulse.
“Sorry that took me so long,” she says, turning on the car. “Are you hungry?”
With short breaths, my hand pressed against my chest, I answer: “Actually, I am.”
She speeds off down the road, twisting through narrow streets, up and down hills, through a village that looks quaint, even in this darkness. She parks the car along the sidewalk in front of a line of connected houses, across an automobile factory. “Here we are,” she announces, turning off the ignition. Another car with bright headlights passes on the side of the road. The lights shine into my pupils, freezing me blind, like the passing moment of a fearful thought. I open the car door, the beatings of my heart slowing, as she says, “Don’t worry about the carpeta in the car. I’ll drop you off when it is time to go.”
We walk towards a gate, past doorbells that I should be ringing. As she unlocks the gate with a key, I think that this is not a line I often cross—the one between the gate and the customer’s home. I have seen so many houses through gates like this one, picturing what the people inside are eating for dinner, picturing the kind of artwork that hangs on their walls, picturing the feel of clean sheets that they tuck in to sleep at night.
“Well, come on, Chellis,” pleads Nila, “Do not be shy.”
I follow her past the gate, down the short walkway and into her home. When she shuts the front door, a tall balding man with a friendly grin walks into the hallway. Nila leans forward and gives him a kiss on the lips.
“Chellis, meet my husband Juan. He’s an animal doctor.” Juan looks at me with a peculiar look as Nila turns to him and explains something rapidly in Spanish. A little boy with rosy cheeks comes barreling down the stairs. “And this is my son Iago.” She leans down and gives him a peck on the cheek. “He is ten years old this year.” She turns to Iago and explains more things in rapid Spanish. This triggers him to step towards me, shake my hand and utter in a soft voice: “Hola, Chellis.”
I spend the next hour engulfed in Nila’s home, surrounded by the furniture and tapestries hand-embroidered by Nila. She takes me for a tour of her three-story home, pointing out the tiles she had picked herself, the view from her top balcony, pictures of Iago as a baby. We sit down to a meal of Spanish cheese, Jamon Serrano, white asparagus, sampling Spanish Wine until my face flushes red. I teach Iago how to say my name in Chinese: “Ying Sang-Fun,” which he says perfectly in the correct tones, repeating my name every five or ten minutes while the three of us roar with laughter. I listen to Juan explain in his limited English his line of work: “I like sheep. I like sheep very very much.” Nila explains to me that he one of Spain’s best sheep doctors. She tells me a story about how when she was my age she lived in England as an au pair, which is why she can speak English. She has never been to the United States but she would like to if she had the chance. When it is nearly 10:00, I say my good-byes to Iago and Juan as Nila and I leave her home, returning to her small, over-packed car. While driving me to Eyal’s pick up point, she is in the middle of a story about a Spanish festival that only happens in the spring.
“Turn here,” I direct, interrupting Nila’s story—passing her unlit store where we first met just hours before. When we reach the empty corner, she pulls to the side of the road and turns off her car. We sit in her two-door car, our breaths fogging the cold windows.
She continues: “So, you must go to Segovia. It is only an hour’s drive from here. Segovia is famous for their tall Roman archways, called acueductos that were once used to carry mountain water to the city. The stones fit perfectly together like a puzzle piece,” she puts one hand on top of the other stacking imaginary bricks, “there is no cement to hold the stones together.”
“How high are they?” I ask.
“Oh, very tall. Taller than most buildings. You can drive under them. They are very very amazing.”
In the distance, I see two bright headlights. When the lights face the side, I recognize Eyal’s unsuspecting, white van. The van stops at the corner—right on time: 10:00pm. A puff of smoke gathers behind the exhaust pipe.
“Nila, that’s my ride.”
“Oh, already.” She digs her hands into her armpits, warming them for heat. “Well, let’s get your carpeta out of the car.”
We get out of the car, prying the carpeta from the trunk. I tuck the large red envelope of paintings against my side—feeling the familiar weight in my arms. Nila leans forward and gives me a hug, which I return with my one free arm.
Pressing her hands into her coat pocket, she says: “Chellis, I had such a wonderful evening talking to you. I wish you all the luck in Spain. If you need anything, a place to stay, questions on Spanish culture, please call me.” She hands me a slip of paper with two numbers—one for her home and one for the shop. It is the same scratch piece of paper with the drawing of Spain and Galicia mapped out.
I smile back to her and say: “Thank you so much for tonight Nila. I promise you that I’ll call you when I am more settled in.” I want to thank her for introducing me to her family, trusting me inside her home. But I hold my tongue unable to express the words in an articulate way. I walk towards the van, waving to her over my shoulder. She waves back with one hand, the other in her pocket, shivering as the snow melts into her dark hair.
Eyal opens the doors to the van’s back door. He heaves my carpeta on top of a stack of other carpetas. He asks: “So did you sell any paintings tonight?”
My cheeks turn warm, maybe from the wine, maybe from the fact that I had barely opened my carpeta, and I smile. “No, I didn’t sell any paintings tonight. But I had the best shift of my life.” I turn to Eyal while he is closing the van’s door and ask him: “Have you ever tasted Spanish ham?”
The first time I had Jamon Serrano was in Nila’s home that snowy night working for Eyal, selling oil paintings. The last time I did was five months later in the same place with Juan, Iago, Nila, and my parents. My mother always said, “Never trust a person who is being nice to you. You never know what they may want.” She sat at Nila’s table laughing over a meal of grilled eggplant with olive oil, baked pescado with garlic, fresh bread with Spanish cheese and Jamon Serrano. Nila explained to her the origins of Catholicism, the birth of Jesus Christ, the history of gothic architecture, how to make home-made butter. At that time, my mother turned to me and asked: “Chellis, how do you know Nila?” Nila and I made eye contact—her emerald eyes locking into mine—and I answered: “Mom, I met her through work. Remember when I told you that I was once an art dealer?” I looked back at Nila, who chuckled underneath her breath. “I tired to show her an oil painting, but instead she showed me Spain.”