One day, Senyora Concepció’s husband asked her why they didn’t have a housekeeper. The question took her by such surprise that, at first, she didn’t know what to say.
“It’s never come up,” she finally responded. “Since I don’t work and you don’t like to spend money. . . ”
Senyor Damià, her husband, was the type of man one could call stingy. He had an iron grip over the household budget: he made sure the lights were never left on; he hated to waste water; and he never turned the heat on before the first of November, nor the air conditioning until July rolled around, no matter the weather. He gave Senyora Concepció a bit to run the household, a weekly allowance with which she had to pinch every penny to cover the grocery shopping at the supermarket, placate the whims of her husband (who had a tendency to demand his favorite dishes once a week), and attend to the unexpected. If anything suddenly came up, if the dishwasher broke or the heating bill was surprisingly high, Senyor Damià would scrutinize the cost and the reason behind it. If he considered it just, he would dole out the exact amount, but not without first complaining that everything cost an arm and a leg and chalking it up to a miracle that they weren’t destitute, with all they spent. In terms of what one could call spending money, to satisfy a small desire or a superfluous trifle, Senyora Concepció had none. Anything she wanted to buy required approval from her husband—a dress or new shoes, a necklace or some earrings—and was only authorized if he considered it necessary. For the small expenses—magazines or a small box of chocolates, an afternoon at the movies—Senyora Concepció managed relatively well, camouflaging them among other weekly expenses. But when the cost of what she wanted was too high, it was genuine torture to have to defend it before her husband, who attacked her with the argument that he did not spend the whole day at the office—working many hours and often getting home late—to have his salary spent on stupid, useless things.
With this system, Senyor Damià had managed to set aside a small fortune that his wife didn’t know about; he had it in the bank, of course, in an account with a fixed interest rate. “A little nest egg for retirement,” the man would say to himself when contemplating the bank statement. He also squirreled away a bit of cash in the house, in case of emergency, behind the cuckoo clock that hung in a corner of the living room. It was an antique that had been his grandfather’s; old and worn out, the clock had no value other than the sentimental. But Senyor Damià loved it very much, mostly because it was his secret moneybox. Stuck in the back, hidden from the eyes of his wife, in a brown envelope, were at least 600 euros in fifty-note bills.
Fortunately for the couple, Senyor Damià was often torn between his two obsessions: that of keeping up appearances among his coworkers, neighbors, and friends, and that of his stinginess. This internal conflict at times forced him to authorize (with disgust) certain expenses he would have otherwise considered completely superfluous. Like that of the housekeeper. The issue had come up at an office lunch recently. Senyor Cots, who stood above him on the corporate ladder, had asked if his housekeeper had any openings, because his had retired and he needed a substitute. At first, Senyor Damià attributed this frivolity to the fact that Senyor Cots was widowed and needed someone for the most basic domestic tasks, which were unbefitting for a man of his standing; but afterward, upon seeing that everyone was able to contribute a personal anecdote on the matter (in spite of the fact that the hiring and supervision of these kinds of employees were done by the women of the house), Senyor Damià felt duped.
All manner of progress had entered their home in this same way, and Senyora Concepció was very grateful that her husband was so fussy about what others would say and spent such great effort in giving the appearance that theirs was a comfortable and modern life just like anyone else’s. This resulted in things that in other cases one might consider basic, like central heating and air, a dishwasher, and some jewelry to wear to the annual company dinner. Now, Senyor Damià had discovered that he was the only one at the office without a housekeeper—aside from the employees, because they shouldn’t have one—and was ready to remedy the situation.
“Tomorrow you will start to ask around and look for one, I don’t want people making a fool of me,” he told his wife. “And one that doesn’t charge much, if possible.”
Senyora Concepció cleared the table without a reply, and thought to herself that the next day she would ask the neighbors; she seemed to recall that Senyora Dolors had someone who came to do her ironing and some of the more tedious tasks. She wasn’t sure what to make of it all. The only thing she knew clearly was that it did not give her any satisfaction to think about having someone around her home all day, poking through her things, even if it was to clean them.
Senyora Concepció was initiated into the marvelous world of housekeeping the following afternoon, first in Senyora Dolors’ doorway and then over a cup of coffee in her dining room, since Senyora Dolors’ legs got tired from standing. For a good while, her neighbor convinced her that she would never find anyone as tidy and conscientious as herself—that is, if she herself was a good housekeeper. Senyora Concepció was quick to say that yes, she was very tidy and kept house well, and went on to explain a few of her personal tricks for removing limescale from the bathroom and for leaving the pots and pans gleaming.
“Oh, forget about all that, Concepció,” the neighbor snapped. “What you will get, at the most, will be someone who pushes a mop through the bathroom and washes the dishes. Don’t expect quality, that’s all I have to say.”
Faced with these assertions, Senyora Concepció began to worry. Senyor Damià was very particular about things around the house, to the point of being maniacal; she had gone through a terrible ordeal when they got married. Before she finally figured out how she should iron the creases of his pants and fold his towels, they had more than a few growing pains.
After Senyora Dolors’ first long list of reasons why having a housekeeper was a universal cause for complaint, there came a second. It turned out that, not only did they not do the job well, but you also couldn’t take your eye off them as they had a certain tendency toward laziness—and they charge a hefty sum, too!
“Between 10 and 12 euros an hour, sometimes,” affirmed Senyora Dolors.
Senyora Concepció couldn’t believe it. That much? She felt sure that Senyor Damià would never accept that kind of expenditure. She was also surprised that it was difficult to find a housekeeper, and that they weren’t readily available, considering one could make so much doing what she had done for free.
That evening, Senyora Concepció presented the case to Senyor Damià. He wrung his hands as she assured him she had verified all the information, just as he had taught her to do with the price of anything before any expenditure. She was absolutely certain, everyone agreed on the costs.
“And how many hours does she have to come?” he asked, shaking like a leaf.
“It seems the norm is four to six hours,” the woman responded, as she had also been informed of the customary frequency with which one contracted these services.
“We’ll be ruined!” lamented Senyor Damià, saying that there was no chance of it happening, that he wouldn’t be taken for a fool.
But in spite of this radical opposition, two days later, eaten up inside by the fact that he wasn’t maintaining the same status as his colleagues, he gave in, bitterly telling his wife to look for someone.
“But educate yourself. She should be formal and hard-working. And watch her closely. Tell her that if we don’t like her, we won’t think twice about letting her go.”
Senyor Damià wanted his wife to undertake this hiring as if she were selecting the lead actress in a musical; she shouldn’t be satisfied with any old applicant, but should instead demand the best, keeping in mind the fact that they would have to pay her. For him, this expense, completely exorbitant and clearly not anticipated, was like a stab to the liver.
“All of this so as not to appear poor,” he thought, and that evening, when he had finally made his decision, he went to sleep without drinking the glass of sherry he normally had after dinner, disgusted with the state of things and thinking about how he could recoup this new expense in his financial plan.
Senyora Concepció preferred to stay up mulling things over for a while and so sat in her armchair in front of the TV. It made her livid to think of paying a small fortune to another person to do the work she had done her entire life, at no charge and with excellent results. She found it absolutely unfair that someone would come and intrude in her domain and would take from her the position of housekeeper—it’s not that she was crazy about mopping or dusting, but the house was her domain and she didn’t want any intrusions—and on top of that someone who charged to do it! The longer she sat there, the more angry she became.
“If I’m doing all that, he should pay me instead,” she concluded. That night she dreamt that she went to work at the home of Senyor Cots, dressed in a hairnet and an apron, and that the poor widower was so happy with the cleanliness of his bathrooms that he asked her to leave Senyor Damià and come live with him, offering her an astronomical sum for her work.
Maybe it was the absurd dream she had that night or, in the end, the idea that was gestating unconsciously in her head; although it was a harebrained idea, it had its logic, and it would allow Senyora Concepció to solve more than a few problems. Sitting on the bed, once her husband had left to go to work—having gotten up, just like every morning, to make him coffee with milk and magdalenes (then remembering they were out and that she needed to buy more when she went to the bakery)—Senyora Concepció analyzed the issue at hand.
In the first place, her husband wanted, at all costs, to hire a housekeeper, regardless of the expense it incurred and the burden to their budget. In the second place, there was the question of her having done this job forever, and, on top of that, more satisfactorily. Because of this she found a certain indecency in paying good money to a stranger who, moreover, would snoop around in their private matters. For that kind of money, she herself could be someone’s housekeeper, if her position allowed her.
And right then, the idea that was going around Senyora Concepció’s head crystallized into a brilliant scheme. Naturally she couldn’t be anyone else’s housekeeper; she was a lady, and her husband, thank God, made a good living so she didn’t have to work. But . . . could she do this job for herself? She had already been doing it for many years, only now she had the opportunity to charge for it. The thing was more simple than it seemed, so much so that Senyora Concepció was terrified some aspect of the question would escape her or get out of control.
All she had to do was tell her husband she had found someone, a trustworthy woman who charged, let’s say, 11 euros an hour; not too much or too little, so as to not raise suspicions. He would spend the day out of the house and would never have to see her, meaning that she could maintain the farce without problems. She would keep cleaning as she had until now, and every week, she would earn 44 euros. It was perfect, and only involved a small and innocent lie that didn’t hurt anyone. She was so happy that she decided to have breakfast at the cafe in front of the market that morning; instead of the fish she had planned on she would make meatballs for lunch and thus even out the expense, absorbing her little extravagance.
Senyor Damià wrinkled his nose and, at the same time, felt a weight come off his shoulders. The expense pained him, but in this way he considered himself fully in sync with his co-workers. If it ever came up again in conversation, at least he wouldn’t look like a poor schmuck that has his wife on her knees, scrubbing the tile.
“Can I meet her, this woman? I would like to give her my approval,” he said at the end of all Senyora Concepció’s explanations.
“I will ask her, but I don’t think so,” she responded, nervously. She wasn’t used to so much plotting, and she was afraid he’d pick up on her excuses. Improvising, she said she was very in demand and was only free from 11:00 to 1:00 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which were the days she’d come. “If you could get away from work. . .” she added, taking a little risk.
Senyor Damià protested. The last thing he needed was to leave the office for this stupid thing.
“You are a big girl, it seems to me you can handle it yourself,” he admonished her, as if she had requested his supervision.
And this is how Senyora Concepció’s harebrained scheme was put into place, and the housekeeper came to be part of their lives.
Senyora Concepció learned to reallocate her tasks at home and leave the hardest for the days when Conxita came. She had given her this name as a private joke—Senyor Damià hadn’t even noticed both women shared the same name, with a slight variation. Before, she would do part of the work every day: Monday, the ironing; Tuesday, the grocery shopping; Wednesday, the bathrooms, and so on, so as to not overload any one day and also because her well-ordered routine helped her work comfortably, without getting especially tired.
Now, however, everything had changed. Although she kept doing, as Senyora Concepció, some of the things she didn’t do as Conxita—shopping, cooking, washing the dishes—she left the brunt of the work for the two days of the week when she assumed her alternate identity as housekeeper.
It should be said that she threw herself enthusiastically into the role, and that bit by bit, she added details to the profile of her new worker of domestic service. She, who had always dressed properly around the house, like the lady she was, bought a smock at the market and some plastic clogs. She, who did the cleaning with an apron over her good clothes, taking care not to stain them with bleach or splash any other product on herself, now undressed on Tuesdays and Thursdays and sheathed herself in a light and ample dress that gave her freedom of movement. She began to turn on the TV on the days when she was Conxita. The morning programs so criticized by Senyor Damià, classified as entertainment for the masses, were not appropriate for Senyora Concepció, but for Conxita, good heavens, of course she liked them. . . . She laughed and was scandalized by the shouts of the B-list celebrities, she cried and she anguished along with their televised dramas. Mid-morning she would take a break and, on more than one day, would lay down comfortably on the sofa with her feet up on the coffee table, allowing herself a little treat of chocolate cookies and sweet wine. She even lamented that Conxita didn’t have her own cell phone to call in to enter the contests offering prizes as fabulous as they were absurd. She would be the queen with her own phone, she thought, and didn’t rule it out for the future.
What’s more, she was able to build up some savings. Before long it wasn’t a problem to go out for breakfast or to the movies twice a week, even to the theatre one night when Senyor Damià was away on a business trip. She bought a new blouse that she had to swear she’d had for years, and was able to take her pearl necklace to have the clasp fixed, the breaking of which she hadn’t dared confess so as not to endure a rosary of reprimands for her clumsiness, which incurred extra expenses. There was no doubt her life had improved noticeably since she’d hired a housekeeper.
Initially, Senyor Damià inspected the work of his new employee every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, in search of something to criticize, but soon his obsession passed. He had to admit this witch who was costing a bundle did much better work than his wife. He didn’t dare tell her so as not to offend her, but what a difference in the collars of his shirts, and how the faucets sparkled. He admired the clean windows and asked what kind of product she used, certain they had never been so transparent. He arrived at the conclusion that professionals had tricks that amateurs could never learn to master.
Disaster, however, arrived one afternoon, like the snake into paradise. The idyllic world of Conxita and Concepció lived in a precarious balance that shattered one ill-fated day when the housekeeper was sweeping the living room, and, it must be said, was distracted trying to guess which letters were missing in the panel on the TV screen, as the contestant hadn’t gotten them right. Waving the broom around every which way, the top of the handle hit the one thing that Senyor Damià most loved, the cuckoo clock, which fell to the ground and broke. With the great crash, an envelope fell on the ground from who knows where. Conxita picked it up, contrite, and put it in the pocket of her smock without thinking any more about it. She was looking for the piece of the clock that had shot off to see if there was any way of fixing it, but she couldn’t find it. Knowing herself to be fired, the housekeeper served herself one last glass of the wine Senyora Concepció kept for visitors. It wasn’t until a few hours later, when she changed her clothes, that she remembered the envelope and looked to see what was inside.
That evening, Senyor Damià at first became red as a woodpecker upon seeing that the housekeeper had destroyed the cuckoo clock—that was the word that he used, “destroyed”—but then went pale as he felt the back of the clock.
“Explain to me exactly what happened,” he demanded, white as a sheet. “You were here when that woman broke it, correct?”
Senyora Concepció confessed, visibly remorseful, that no, no she wasn’t there, that she had taken advantage of having the woman in the house to step out for a moment to buy bread and, when she had returned, the clock was already broken. Conxita had shed a sea of tears after the accident and had apologized, begging for mercy.
“That we could even forgive a crime of this magnitude!” roared Senyor Damià, furious. “This woman must be fired immediately. And I want to do it myself.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Damià, but I have already done it.” And, in response to her husband’s stupefied expression, she added, “I know how much you love your grandfather’s clock and I couldn’t stand for this type of carelessness.”
That evening Senyor Damià didn’t eat dinner, sickened by this turn of events.
Senyora Concepció tried to apologize, telling him that she had put too much trust in the woman and that she had been wrong, that she would keep it in mind for the next one they hired. Senyor Damià’s eyes widened as big as oranges. “Another housekeeper? Have you lost your mind?”
Senyora Concepció, very serious for the first time the whole evening, argued that it was completely impossible, now that they’d tasted domestic service, to give it up all of a sudden.
“Plus, don’t you remember why we hired her? Do you want to be known at the office as the poor schmuck who has to clean his own toilet? Or do you not care what people think of you?”
Senyor Damià stood up from the table. Never in his life had he suspected that having a housekeeper would cost him so much.
Senyora Concepció, on the other hand, smiled as she washed the dishes. She thought that the next housekeeper would surely be called Immaculada, and could charge 15 euros an hour. At the end of the day, Conxita charged such a good price because she was an amateur, but Immaculada wouldn’t be.