‘Can I introduce you to a young lady, se?or?’ said the barman.
‘No, I’m just here for a drink,’ I replied.
‘That’s what all first-timers say,’ he laughed as he refilled my glass. ‘Are you European?’
‘Yes, British.’
‘You’re a long way from home. What brings you here?’
‘I’m seeing the world, and picking up a bit of work here and there.’
‘What kind of work?’ he asked, carefully stroking his goatee.
‘Carpentry, repairs, building work, decorating . . . that kind of thing.’
‘You ever hit a woman?’
‘Of course not!’
‘Do you do drugs?’
‘No.’ Well, not since I’d left San Francisco.
‘Do you like to fuck pretty girls?’
‘What?’ I laughed, stopping just short of snorting whiskey through my nostrils.
‘Do you like to fuck pretty girls?’
‘Sometimes! But like I said, I’m only in here for a drink.’
He turned his head and shouted towards a room. ‘Madama! Oiga, madama! ’ A middle-aged niblet of a woman, with grey hair swept back into a ponytail, limped quickly towards us.
‘Cuál es el problema, Miguel?’
‘I’ve found your man. What’s your name, hombre?’
‘Simon,’ I replied.
The woman scowled as she looked me up and down, muttering something under her breath. Then she grabbed my hand and bent my fingers backwards.
‘Ow!’ I winced and tried to pull them back. But her grip was remarkably strong.
‘Don’t drink my spirits, do the jobs you’re given properly and make sure the men don’t hurt the girls,’ she spat in an unidentifiable accent. ‘And don’t fuck the pretty ones.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I replied, snatching my hand back and nursing my throbbing fingers. She disappeared into a back room and I stared at Miguel, puzzled.
‘What just happened there?’ I asked.
‘Welcome to Madame Lola’s.’ He smiled, raising a shot glass. ‘You got yourself a job!’
1 August
I was accorded a peculiar mixture of respect and envy from the male townsfolk for working in a bordello. A walk into town to pick up supplies saw me ignored by patrons if accompanied by their wives, but I was acknowledged with a nod or a knowing smile when they were alone.
I’d acclimatised quickly to my unusual surroundings. It became the norm to hear a leather riding crop beating the skin of a repressed businessman from behind a closed bedroom door. I didn’t think twice when a misplaced key meant I had to cut a naked police officer from a bedpost he’d handcuffed himself to. And I barely noticed the priest in women’s underwear being chased through the corridors by girls in French maid outfits, like a Mexican Benny Hill.
The brothel had been standing there for as long as the village, a forty-five-minute drive away from Guadalajara, Mexico’s second-biggest city. While some men travelled miles for its courteous and discreet reputation and highly desirable girls, at least a quarter of the bordello’s clientele came from within a mile or two of its own doorstep. Some even slipped out of their marital beds once their wives were deep in sleep, and crept back home a couple of hours later with a smile on their face and a non-the-wiser partner.
For me, it was a place of work and not play. Of course, I had urges, but the purpose of exiting San Francisco was to leave behind all that had been faulty in Darren and myself.
However, the course of my life was to change yet again when I fell in love with a whore.
23 October
‘You got it bad for her, don’t you, hombre?’
I almost fell off my stepladder when Miguel crept up behind me.
‘She’s going to break your heart,’ he laughed. ‘Chicas like that always do.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I replied, lying to the both of us. I replaced the lightbulb, folded my ladder up, returned it to the storeroom and left the girl alone.
I headed towards the pickup truck to drive into town and buy new electrical cables. As I looked towards her bedroom window, her closed curtain moved ever so slightly. I longed to be behind them with her. The truth was, I was smitten.
I decided as I drove that those who worked for Madame Lola believed themselves to be the fortunate ones. Skinny women, Oriental women, ageing women, tattooed women, European women, redheads, shaven heads, and one who tipped the scales at a quarter of a ton . . . all flavours and tastes were catered to on secure, clean premises.
Other prostitutes weren’t so lucky. As I approached town I spotted them, barely clothed and standing by roadsides, or sitting on broken plastic chairs with their knees pulled apart to attract passing trade. Others hovered in fields like worn-out scarecrows.
Most men visiting Madame Lola’s brothel behaved respectfully towards the girls, but the exceptions believed they’d also paid for the right to be heavy-handed if it heightened their sexual pleasure. And that’s when Miguel and I stepped in.
I’d always deplored violence, especially towards women. My mother, Dougie’s mother . . . both of their lives had been destroyed by the unwarranted rage of a man.
Beth had walked out on Dougie five years into their marriage. I’d arrived home to find him sharing dinner with my family, desperate to avoid returning to an empty house. When I wasn’t there to offer support, he’d bent Catherine’s ear instead. But I’m sure there was much he hadn’t told her.
‘I’ll never have what you have,’ he slurred one evening after she left him. He misjudged the distance between his empty can of lager and the kitchen table. Catherine was upstairs asleep and I longed to join her.
‘What do I have then?’ I sighed, opening myself up for a fresh wave of self-pity.
‘Someone who loves you. A family.’
‘You’ll find that. You just need to meet the right person.’
‘No, I won’t, because I’m just like my father. Sooner or later we all end up like our parents, no matter how hard we try and fight it. You will too.’
‘That’s rubbish. I’m nothing like Doreen and you’re nothing like your dad.’
‘Yes, I am.’ He stopped and rubbed his eyes before he whispered, ‘I hit her.’
‘Who? Your mum?’
‘No, Beth.’
‘What?’ I hoped I’d heard misheard him. ‘Do you mean “hit her” as in you did it by accident, or as in on purpose?’
‘A lot.’ He hung his head in shame.
I leaned against the back of my chair, astounded and disappointed. After witnessing all his mother had been subjected to, he’d still been inclined to repeat history. ‘Why would you do that?’ I asked, baffled.
‘I don’t know. I just get angry and frustrated all the time and then I lash out. I can’t help it.’
‘Of course you can help it! You don’t just hit your wife for no reason. Why?’
He looked up at me slowly, his eyes channelling deep into mine. ‘If anyone should know, it’s you . . .’ His voice trailed off, and he picked up his jacket and stumbled out of the house.