The Clairvoyant of Calle Ocho by Anjanette Delgado Page B

fact that Hector and I were over began to become very, very clear.

Chapter 7
    A nd it’s exactly that stupid fear of being over, finished, thrown out, that creates the misery of our mistakes. It’s also how notorious number four came to be part of my list.
    Well, that, and the bookstore.
    And the real estate slump of 2008.
    It was during the preceding fall of 2007 that Hector, being an extremely intelligent and strategic man, convinced his wife to sell their home in the character-rich/then value-poor neighborhood of The Roads, which they did just before the bubble burst. This way, he’d explained, they’d be able to save their bookstore and turn their equity into cash otherwise irrecoverable later. The following fall, in October 2008, they moved into my building.
    Had I not been in the middle of catching husband number two with the yoga teacher at about the same time, a man who’d sell his house before he closed down a bookstore would have been an aphrodisiac too strong to resist for me.
    Now, it’s true that Hector first came to see the apartment with his wife, Olivia. But he later returned alone to sign the lease and pay his first month’s rent, bringing a book and a chocolate soufflé with him as a “landlord gift.”
    â€œThank you. I thought the landlord’s the one who welcomes the tenants with a housewarming gift.”
    â€œOh, you have been more than welcoming. You’re obviously an incredibly warm woman, not to mention a beautiful one, so what else can I do but bring you gifts?”
    I’d seen right through him: pompous, oversexed, and with a wife who scared the wits out of me. Always silent, smiling that superior, crazy half-smile. I thanked him for the soufflé, told him he could return the signed lease later, closed the door, and didn’t give it another thought beyond, “Fool, please. I am not in the mood for people with penises just now.”
    For a while, all was calm. I had a couple of short affairs, not even worth including in my list. I didn’t ask anyone for help, and I didn’t encourage any man to ask it of me. I was completely alone: no family, no friends, and no real relationships besides my tenants and the people of Coffee Park.
    Time passed. And Manuel passed. And Jorge came and left, and more time passed, and then one day, when I was finally tired of being almost forty and I could feel the loneliness in my bones like mold, he returned.
    It wasn’t cold that early Miami morning in February when he knocked on my door. Still, he wore a coat and scarf because, as I’d later learn, he always dressed for the season, regardless of where he was.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mariela. So sorry to disturb you,” he’d said when I answered, with his precise diction and his thick Argentinian accent.
    â€œIt’s okay. Something wrong in your apartment?”
    â€œOh, no, no. I just need a copy of my lease. I seem to have misplaced it.”
    â€œOh, okay. Well, come on in and I’ll print you one.”
    As I looked for the lease on my computer, he strolled casually into my kitchen.
    â€œWhere do you keep the coffee? Ah, here it is. I thought we’d share some coffee while I’m here,” he explained when he saw I’d followed him into the kitchen with a pen between my lips and a startled look on my face.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said then, looking sheepish. “Am I being too familiar? God, I always do this. I’m such a boludo , how you say . . . a jackass? I get the story chemistry and there’s no stopping me.”
    â€œThe story chemistry?”
    â€œYou love stories, don’t you?” he said, pointing to my large book collection, which took up half the wall space in my small living room/office and could be seen from where he stood in the kitchen.
    â€œSure,” I said, flattered enough to want him to inspect them, to be impressed by my varied choice of authors: John Barth,