Zig Zag (15 page)

What
was that about? Uncomprehending, Elisa shrugged and turned off her
computer. But she had a strange feeling and stood motionless in front
of the screen a few more seconds.

She
decided it must have been some random detail, something she'd
forgotten and was trying to remember. Sooner or later, it would come
to her.

Next
she took off her clothes and took a long, hot shower to help her
relax. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, she'd forgotten all
about the message and was thinking about what had happened in class.
Blanes's scorn spurred her on.
The
harder I try, the more he hates me.
Without
even getting dressed, she spread her towel on the bed and stretched
out on it with her notes and books, planning to make a few
calculations that she thought might help her with the project she had
to hand in.

There
were only five days of class left. The last one was planned to
coincide with a two-day international symposium at the Palacio de
Congresos that some of the world's best physicists would be
attending, including Stephen Hawking and Blanes himself. By that
date, each student had to hand in a study examining possible
solutions to the problems thrown up by the sequoia theory.

Elisa
tried out a new idea. The results were unclear, but just knowing she
had a path to follow made her feel better.

Unfortunately,
she lost her cool in no time flat.

Leaving
her room to get something to eat, she bumped into her mother, who was
dutifully doing her best to make Elisa's life difficult.

"Well!
I didn't even know you were back. You just lock yourself up in your
room and don't even say hello..."

"Well,
now you know. I'm back."

They'd
met in the hallway. Her mother, impeccably dressed and perfectly
coiffed, smelled like the kind of perfume that has full-page ads in
fashion magazines, ads generally picturing naked women. Elisa, on the
other hand, had thrown on an old robe and knew she looked like a
mess. She guessed her mother would comment on it, and she wasn't
wrong.

"You
could at least put on some pajamas and brush your hair. Have you had
lunch yet?"

"No."

She
headed for the kitchen, barefoot, and remembered to tie her robe shut
when she saw the "girl." Dishes of food, covered in Saran
Wrap, were (as usual) artistically prepared and presented. That was
how Marta Morande, baroness of Piccarda, insisted things be done.
Elisa had given up on requesting simple food that she could eat with
her fingers to save time; trying to go against her mother's wishes
was like banging her head against a wall. Today was risotto. She ate
until her stomach stopped grumbling, and then suddenly was struck by
another idea. Elisa played with her fork as she sat in the kitchen
drinking water, stretching her long, bare, tan legs while her brain
tackled the equations in question from various angles. She was
unaware of Marta Morande's presence and only registered that her
mother was standing there when she spoke.

"...
a very nice person. She says her friend's son was one of your
classmates at college. We talked all about you."

She
stared at her mother, glassy eyed.

"What?"

"You
won't recognize her name. She's a new client, and very,
very
well
connected..." Her mother paused to pop one of the diet pills
that she always took with a full glass of water at lunchtime. "She
asked me if I was your mother. 'They say your daughter's a genius,'
she said. I know you don't like it, but I was very proud to brag
about you. Of course, I didn't have to do much bragging; this woman
already thought you walked on water. She wanted to know what it was
like to live with a mathematical mastermind..."

"Oh."
Elisa suddenly realized why her mother was so happy. She cared only
about her daughter's achievements when they came in handy at the
beauty salon. Especially when she could use them to show off in front
of a new "client," and even more so if she was "very,
very
well
connected." It bugged her that the word "mastermind,"
lexically speaking, referred explicitly to men. Who ever said
"mistressmind"?

"'And
not only that,' this woman said, 'but I've heard she's gorgeous.' I
told her you were. 'She's the perfect girl,' I told her."

"Save
the irony."

Leaning
against the fridge, Marta Morande turned to look at her. "I'm
being serious..."

"Well,
don't, please."

"Can
I just say something?" Elisa didn't answer. Her mother stared at
her. "When people talk about you like that, like this woman did
today, I feel so proud. It's true, I do. But I can't help thinking
what it would be like if, on top of
being
perfect,
you just made a little effort to
look
the
part..."

"Why
bother when you're around?" Elisa replied. "After all,
you're ... what does your Christian psychology book call it? 'Virtue
incarnate'? I wouldn't want to step on your toes."

But
Marta Morande blathered on as if she hadn't heard.

"While
I was listening to that wonderful woman sing your praises, I was
thinking, 'What would she think if she knew how little effort my
daughter puts into anything?' She even said she bet you were getting
job offers left and right, now that you've finished school."

Elisa
went on guard. This was a slippery slope that inevitably led into the
abyss of a bitter argument. She knew her mother wanted her degree to
"get her somewhere," wanted her to get an important post in
some company. Marta Marauders mind could conceive of nothing
theoretical.

"Where
are you going?"

Elisa,
who'd started out of the room, didn't stop.

"I
have stuff to do." She pushed through the swinging doors and got
out of the kitchen, but not in time to avoid hearing her mother's
parting shot.

"I
have stuff to do, too, you know, but every once in a while I'm
considerate enough to spend a little time with you."

"That's
your problem."

She
practically ran through the living room, bumping into the "girl"
when she reached the hall. Elisa realized that her robe was hanging
open, but she didn't care. She heard heels clicking behind her and
decided to face up to her mother.

"Leave
me alone, will you?"

"Of
course," her mother said coldly. "There's nothing I want
more in the world. But you should start thinking about leaving
me
alone,
too..."

"I
try my best."

"...
and in the meantime, I remind you that you're living under my roof
and you will obey my rules."

"Whatever
you say." There was no use; she didn't have the energy to keep
fighting. She started to turn back around, but stopped in her tracks
when she heard her mother say, "People would change their minds
about you if they knew the truth!"

"Yeah?
And what's that?" she challenged.

"That
you're a child," her mother replied calmly. The woman never
raised her voice. Elisa was good at calculating equations, but there
was no one like Marta Morande when it came to calculating emotions.
"That you're twenty-three years old and you're still a child who
doesn't care about her appearance, or about getting a job, or about
other people..."

A
child.
She
felt like she'd been punched in the stomach.
What
could you expect from a child but childish outbursts in class?

"Do
you want me to pay rent?" she asked through clenched teeth.

Her
mother stopped in her tracks. But then, perfectly calm, she replied,
"You know that's not it. All I want is for you to come back down
to planet Earth, Elisa. Sooner or later, you'll realize that there's
more to life than sleeping in that pigpen of a room, studying math,
and strutting around the house half naked while you eat your—"
She slammed the door in her mother's face, cutting the tirade short.

For
a while, she leaned against the door, as if she thought her mother
was going to break it down. But all she heard were expensive heels,
clicking away into the distance. In • order to calm herself down
a little, she looked at her notes and the books spread all over her
bed. Just seeing them relaxed her.

She
soon became engrossed with another matter far more important to her.

Elisa
understood the meaning of those messages from mercuryfriend.

SITTING
at
her desk, she grabbed a piece of paper, a pencil, and a ruler.

Bodies
carrying other bodies on their backs. The soldier and the girl.

She
made a sketch using the same pattern: a stick figure, with another on
its shoulders. Then, using a finer pencil, she traced three squares
around the figures, leaving a triangle in the center. She
contemplated the result.

Next,
she carefully erased the stick figures, trying to leave the lines she
traced beneath them intact. Then she retraced the places she'd
accidentally erased.