I nod. ‘Oh dear. Well… I’m really very sorry. I’ll keep it down. I should probably stop crying actually. It’snohelp!’
The woman looks down into my hand at the screwed-up loo roll and blows the air out from her cheeks, giving a little shake ofherhead.
‘Come with me, cariño,’ she commands, promptly spinning around and marching across the hall into the flatoppositemine.
Hmmm. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea to enter into a second stranger’s house in the same day. But… this Mrs Ramirez looks harmless. I don’t think she’ll want to do my hair… God, Ihopenot.
Not everyone in New York is a weirdo,Olive.
I pop my head outside into the hallway. She’s left her front door openforme.
I step out of my flat and tentatively cross the hallintohers.
As I enter, I notice that Mrs Ramirez’s studio is exactly the same as mine, only everything’s the other wayaround.
Her walls are filled with framed pictures of landscapes and seascapes and mountainscapes and there are little ornaments dotted here there and everywhere. Glass ducks, and matryoshka dolls, tiny cactuses and exotic-looking bowls andvases.
‘I’ve travelled,’ Mrs Ramirez explains, noticing me taking it all in. She sits herself down on a comfy-looking armchair and props her crutch up beside her. ‘I like to bring something back from every place I’vevisited.Come.’
She ushers me in from where she’s sitting and holds out a small handkerchief embroidered with wispy swirls of red, gold and silver. I sit on another armchair opposite her. She places the handkerchief into myhands.
‘It’s beautiful!’ I remark, marvelling at the elaboratestitching.
‘I got it from a fabric market in Bali,’ she says. ‘It’syoursnow.’
She gives me a kindly smile. And despite my fed-up mood, I can’t help but smile back,touched.
‘Now, I’ll take that.’ She plucks the toilet tissue from where it’s bunched up inmyhand.
‘I can’t actually use this handkerchief on my nose!’ I say. ‘It’s much tooprecious.’
Mrs Ramirez dismisses me with a quick flick of her hand. ‘Oh, mypobrecita, what else are you gonna do with it? Goaheadnow.’
She’s pretty forceful, like a mum telling off her toddler. I press the soft square of fabric against my eyes, and remove the last of theteardrops.
‘Isn’t that better? Now, what will you have to drink? How about a soothing Salabat tea? I brought it back last year from the Philippines. It’s something special, I’lltellyou.’
Salabat tea? What the hell is Salabat tea? I don’t like the soundofit.
‘Oh, don’t go to any trouble. I’m okay, Ipromise.’
‘It’s no trouble for me. I need you to make me one, so you may as well have oneyourself.’
‘Excuseme?’
‘It’s the middle of the night! You woke me up!’ She points at her bandaged leg. ‘And I’m recovering from a sprained knee. The least you can do is make me a soothing tea,’ she says it with a smile, but she definitely is notjoking.
Tucking the handkerchief into my dressing gown pocket, I potter over to Mrs Ramirez’s kitchenette area. All of the fittings are exactly the same as in my room, but the space looks completely different. The counters are covered with spice jars and cookbooks and exotic-looking knick-knacks from who knows where. There’s even a big wooden sculpture of a face hanging on one of the cupboard doors. I reach out to touch it. It’s rough and primitive looking. It’s sounusual.
‘I got that from Papua New Guinea,’ Mrs Ramirez says. ‘Wonderful place. It’s a ceremonial mask, made by the craftsmen of the Sawospeople.’
I nod, not wanting to admit that I’ve never even heard of Papua New Guinea, never mind the Sawospeople.
‘You must gosometime!’
‘Maybe I will!’ I say. I neglect to tell her that that I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who left her home country for the very first time less than forty-eighthoursago.
‘The tea is in the jar on the middle shelf of the cupboard on the right,’ shepointsout.
