Household Change

Nuti quit yesterday. Dropped her keys on the counter, took the €20 Cristina had forgotten to pay her on Friday, and slammed the door. That was at noon. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating two fried eggs, and very surprised.

Nuti was the maid. Is that politically correct? She was the woman who came five days a week to cook, clean, and do laundry. She was short, with long grey roots in her purple-red hair, and was usually unhappy. She told me there were too many people at her house to feed, and they always needed cigarettes, and there was never money enough; I learned to avoid all conversations that might lead to money. She had moved from Rumenia some ten years ago, seeking a better life. What immigrant doesn´t? Her better life consisted of a three-room apartment, a TV, and a new daughter-in-law, and she had traded dearly to get even these.

So last night, we trooped downstairs, Cristina and Maria and Miguel and I, to be initiated into the mysteries of the laundry room. We had a crash course in sorting clothes, in measuring detergent, in matching socks and folding shirts. Maria was soon bored but Miguel stayed, somehow intrigued. His folded shirts were wrinkly and uneven, but he was proud of them. And afterward, we celebrated with a rousing piggy-back-ride and a wild onion swordfight.