Aeneid

She sat down at her desk, crossed her legs, drank from the cup of tea that had been there since the day before and signed her name on a sheet of paper, which she immediately crumpled up and threw in the trash. The floor polisher approaching in the hallway made her jump: she was afraid of being surprised by her colleagues. For part of the year, they would still arrive at night for their cleaning shift. In those early hours, the house of democracy seemed to her an even safer place. Where the hubbub and footsteps of deputies and staff gave way to emphatic speeches and the tumult of retorts and remarks, now a romantic quibbling rang from the mobile phone kept in Eneida's coat pocket, to keep her company while she cleaned the offices. On the secretaries' desks, confidential papers, matters of state, to the sound of music, the work went on against the clock, and then Eneida felt the house a little bit hers, in the way her hands touched everything while appearing to touch nothing, the decisions at the mercy of her gaze, even though she cleaned without seeing anything, except the time to finish and leave. The team's mission was to preserve the exact mess they had found, pretending that the piles of paper cleaned themselves. To not see or be seen. To leave no trace of their presence. To vanish. At twenty-six, Eneida was not a cleaner on the Assembly of the Republic team. She was an expert at disappearing. They cleaned the chamber, none of them could vote. They made fun of the costumes and the comical poses of the oratory. They parodied them among themselves around the aisle of the bus, on the way home, like a silent film. The most charming and the best-dressed deputies were the subject of debate. And Eneida imagined herself invited to lunch, or to a fancy reception. Some greeted her when they passed by, but most didn't even look at her. Without realizing it, living with her eyes on the ground became second nature. After dinner, if it was summer, Eneida and the kids would gather in the courtyard with the neighbors, around a plastic table. The older ones would play sueca, the children would play around, the women would braid each other's hair. It was time for the news on the television and Eneida would see the big names in the Assembly again. She had the silent satisfaction of knowing each person's handwriting and what was hidden in certain drawers. When the kids went to bed, alone in the living room, she felt pretty, looking at her crossed arms and legs. She would go and get the small mirror and the moisturizing cream. She would smooth her hair back and look at her tired face. She would put lotion on her hands and arms, her legs. She would pose like a member of parliament, even in secret from her thoughts. She imagined herself entering the Lost Steps with her briefcase in hand. She regretted not having tried harder at school. How could she go from there to somewhere else, what other path could she open? One of her friends from the shift had gotten a job in a makeup store and ended up taking a course. Other women in the neighborhood sold snacks. Some were interns and, although they didn't come home during the week, they earned twice as much. She wanted to study something. She didn't know where to start. She focused on the memory of her school years, a time when, out of sadness and lack of direction, overwhelmed with domestic obligations and romantic priorities, she had given up on her studies.

Eneida and her sad daydreams. Already in bed, she imagined doing her work badly, spitting on the floor, messing up the papers. She felt like painting the lips of the breasts red, drawing obscenities on the window panes. In that serene interval, the only one of the week, while the children snored, surrendered to her breath, under the blanket, before falling asleep, she did not dream of another life, but of a simpler freedom. A day off. She sat up in bed, picked up her cell phone. “I have a fever, Mrs. Antónia. I can’t come tomorrow. I’m very sorry, my best regards. Eneida.” Almost without noticing the movement of her fingers as she wrote the message — she sent it immediately, almost without meaning to. Then, she went to bed with the light off. But she was restless, got up and went to sit in the living room, and stayed like that for the rest of the night, contemplating the furniture in the darkness.