Hadrian's Wall (10 page)

“
Not yet.” My voice
failed.

She nodded again, this time giving me a smile that
seemed forced.

“
Well, good luck!” She stood up,
but her eyes remained downcast. “I need to change my clothes and
get to work.”

Yeah, I
’m going to need all luck I can
get!
I thought as I was
gathering up the dishes and putting them into the
dishwasher.

A few minutes after Mrs. Jones left the kitchen, I
returned to my bedroom to take my usual cold shower. I was worried
about my appearance. I spent several minutes trying to get the best
possible look for the job interview.

As I left by side gate, I noticed Bill Jones and his
daughters getting into the car. They gave me hostile glances and
then ignored me, talking excitedly among themselves. He put the car
into gear and pretended not to see me passing in front of it.

Of course, it was too much ask him for a ride to the
interview location. I dared not approach them.

Fifteen minutes later, I entered the two-story
building where candidates were to be interviewed. All over town,
people had commented that this would be a great boost to the local
labor market. I hoped that it would be the solution to my problems
too.

The building was undergoing renovation, probably for
the firm that would soon be established in Berlin. The front rooms
had floors covered with old newspapers and the smell of fresh paint
permeated the air. Apparently, only two rooms down the hall were
equipped to use for the interviews. I followed the sound of voices
coming from there.

As I made my way along the hallway, I spotted a
small sign that said “Restroom” and following an impulse, I ran in.
My heart seemed ready to leap into my throat. It was a few minutes
before the appointed time, so I tried to concentrate on what I
would say during the interview. I really needed to make a good
impression on the recruiter. I breathed deeply several times and
looked at my reflection in the oval mirror.
I’ll get it! I’ll get
it!
I washed my face and
straightened my hair, trying to calm down.

I was thinking positive, with a firm intention to
land a job. When I entered the makeshift reception room, I felt my
confidence wither a little as soon as I saw the other candidates. I
realized that a man was separating people according to the job
profile intended or the qualifications presented in the curriculum.
Three young men were sent to a different office and two others were
escorted into the next room.

I slowly approached the man in charge. He briefly
glanced at my CV, but gave no indication of not liking what he
read. He motioned for me to remain here and then he gave me a nice
smile and invited me to sit. I looked around at the other girls.
Most of them were looking at the floor or staring out the window,
which gave me a chance to analyze them without their noticing. All
of the girls had a nice appearance and were very well dressed. I
was worried because compared to them, I was at a distinct
disadvantage. It was ironic—but I had drawn the conclusion that to
get a job, you had to make it look like you didn’t need
it.

As soon as the young men left the room, an older man
appeared in the doorway and began to call us, one at a time in
order of arrival. There were ten girls waiting in the reception
area and since I was the last to arrive, I knew it would take a
while.

It was almost mid-day when my turn came. The man
who interviewed me was very nice. I felt comfortable with him, even
when looked at my CV and said truthfully that my lack of experience
didn’t work in my favor. He was so gentle with me that I was able
to organize my mind enough to justify why the company would win
with my contracting. He became convinced that I was a hardworking
person.

That was the first big news of the day: I had won
the first round. The final interview would take place in the
afternoon. That’s when the candidates would talk with someone who
would make the final decision.

I left the building so happy that I didn’t even
notice the heat or the bright sun. I decided to have lunch at a
nearby diner, where I stayed as long as I could and then I took a
walk around the block, returning to the building at the appropriate
time.

Again, I look for the restroom to wash my face and
straighten my hair. I absurdly believed that this ritual had
brought me luck this morning, so I didn’t want to overlook any
detail at this stage of the game! I took a deep breath to calm
myself and went back to the reception room.

This time the place was almost empty. There were
only two girls sitting by the window. I walked up and sat down in
the empty chair between them. I waved, but neither responded—not
immediately anyway. The girl to my left had nodded her head
slightly. She was a good-looking young woman. She wore a dark blue
coat, a slight amount of makeup, and she wore her hair in a bun at
the nape of her neck.
Perfect...
not even one hair out of place
. I grimaced with disgust at the same time
I made a discreet inspection of my old jeans and black T-shirt. The
girl looked so... sophisticated, while I looked so... messy.
Ouch!
It was obvious that she’d had
the opportunity to go home and change clothes.

To my right, the other candidate was wearing a
costume—more informal, but no less fashionable: black, low-waist
pants, a purple blouse with frilly neck, attached by a flashy belt,
and a black suede vest to complete the supermodel look. Her hair
was a sideshow—silky, shiny, voluminous, and well-cut... almost
like Farrah Fawcett’s in
Charlie’s Angels
.

Subconsciously, I put my hand on my hair, trying
to straighten it with my fingers. Compared to hers, my hair looked
like a witch’s broom. Over the years, I had cut my hair myself so
there were a lot of split ends. The only attractive thing was its
color. If it was cut properly, perhaps its golden light brown
highlights would be more noticeable.

I noticed that “fashion girl” didn’t try to hide
her amusement while openly evaluating my appearance. She was
probably thinking that she get the job and she was probably right,
but I was still perversely hoping that the interviewer would be
a
very
vain woman
who didn’t want another beauty to eclipse her. Or, if the interview
was a man, I hoped that he had no interest in the opposite sex. My
God, how I needed that job!

I was startled when the door opened and someone
called the “bun girl.” She was inside for about ten minutes. When
she left, she seemed downcast. If
she
was downcast, just imagine how I would feel in just a few
minutes! The man reappeared in the doorway and called my name. He
was impatient. I jumped up and walked into the room.

I immediately noticed that interviewer could not
have been more than thirty years of age. He looked like one of
those old car dealers you saw on TV—the brush haircut with matching
vest and bow tie. While he circled the table, he made an abrupt
gesture for me to sit. I swallowed. Where was the kindly man who
had encouraged me to participate in this second round? He liked
me...I preferred to be dealing with him than with the arrogant
young man who now faced me. He stared at my half-page CV and
grimaced.

How did Albert let this pass?
he said to himself, loud enough
for me to hear without worrying whether or not he was being
rude.

He picked up the previous candidate’s CV which had
a with few more pages than mine and weighed both on the palm of his
hands.
Apparently, he liked theatrical antics to demonstrate his
point of view.
I tried
to swallow the urge to say something insulting or
outrageous.

“
What led you to believe you would
be hired by this firm?”

“
My willingness to learn and do a
good job,” I answered quietly. Anyone who looked at me would notice
that I was about to cry.

“
Hmmm...
” He
raised an eyebrow. His gaze lost a bit of its cynicism and now
reflected feeling sorry for me. “And how would you do this work
well?”

“
I know how to use all major
computer programs. I am a well-educated person and I get along well
with other people well.”

He sighed.

“
I am creative, too. I can
draw, I can color handle... I can improvise. I’m organized. I
understand how to prepare and maintain files because I noticed how
the tutors did it at the orph... I cleared my throat before
correcting my
faux pax
...
“th
e institution
where I worked as a volunteer.”

He sighed again.

“
To be a secretary or a
receptionist, it is not enough. You have no proven experience
record.” He tapped lightly on a sheet of paper from my resume as if
to prove what he claimed. In addition, you must dress well and have
a good presentation.

I sighed, defeated. Now, I had nothing to lose,
so...

“
I guarantee to you that I’ll dress
well, if I have a decent salary every month end.”

He laughed. “There’s logic in your reasoning.” He
became serious again. “But I have no time to train you or to wait
thirty days while you get up-to-speed. I need someone ready to ‘fit
in’ immediately.

I got up. There was nothing else to say. “I’m
sorry for taking your time.”

He escorted me to the door and called the last
candidate. I didn’t stay to know the final result—that probably the
job would be “Farrah Fawcett’s.”

I had blisters on my feet because my shoes were
not suitable for long walks. I’d acquired my ballet
flats...actually my entire wardrobe, while living at the orphanage.
They were so worn that I’d worn a hole completely through the sole
of the right shoe. My foot hurt like hell! However, by far, they
were the most beautiful and elegant shoes I ever had.

Despite the pain, I continued walking until I
reached the Jones’ yard, all the while muttering to myself. What I
needed was a hot, relaxing bath, but unfortunately, I’d only be
able to have part of my wish—the bath...and it be a cold
one.

A cold breeze was blow and I needed to hurry. Would
anyone be upset if I entered the house to get some shampoo?

Maybe not, I guessed, but with the Mrs. Jones’
daughters, anything was possible. I was so distracted thinking
about my bath that I didn’t realize the house was not empty. Voices
from the living room warned me and I became curious.

Usually, Ms. Jones arrived much later. The girls
and their father always arrived later after she did. I stopped
halfway down the hall from the bathroom.
Damn it!
I was about to catch another conversation, but it
wasn’t my fault if...

“
She doesn’t go willingly,
I’ll give her
a little help
so
she’ll be forced to leave,” said one of the
girls.

“
What do you mean, Jenny? How do we
get rid of Melissa?”

It was of me they were talking about, of course.
Melissa was my name. So it was me they wanted to get rid of...My
eyes filled with tears. I held my breath and waited for the
answer.

“
It’s very simple. I’ve planted the
doubt about the disappearance of some of my stuff. Now all we have
to do is get away with something of real value.”

The other sister groaned, as if not
understanding.

“
Pay attention, loser! Tomorrow’s
Saturday—Family Poker Day, when Grandma comes to visit,” Jenny said
grudgingly. “Have you noticed she always takes off her huge ruby
ring when she helps Mom with the dishes? Well, you’ll be in charge
of distracting both of them and I’ll get the ring and put
it...guess where?”

In my bedroom
. I supplied the answer to her
question.

“
And if Grandma doesn’t bring the ring
this time?”

“
She always has money in her wallet
and Mother has jewelry in her closet, so we have other
alternatives.”

“
Why don’t you like her, Jenny? She
seems okay to me,” said Tina.

“
Wake up, Tina! If she
stays here long enough and captivates our parents, we’ll have to
compete for privileges with her—money, gifts, trips...and I’m not
interested in sharing what’s rightfully mine with a crazy girl, no
less! What if Mom suddenly decides to...like...
adopt
her? Are you willing to share our inheritance with
her?”

I didn’t wait to hear Christina’s response. I’d
heard enough. I forced my feet to move. I walked like an automaton
back to the garage, having completely forgotten about shampoo and a
bath. Along the way, I thanked my guardian angel for giving me the
opportunity to hear that enlightening chat. There was no doubt—I
had to get out right away.

* * *

Having accepted that inevitable fact, I blocked all
chaotic thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me as I packed my
suitcase with only the belongings that I considered important. The
backpack would have to be left behind.

Once that job was finished, I picked up my
suitcase and walked down the stairs, being careful not to stumble
on the steps. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, uncertain
about what to do. I felt half anesthetized.
Now what? What should I
do?
I bit my lip several
times, thinking about the best way to end this situation. If it
were up to me, I’d run away without looking back, but I knew that
wasn’t appropriate. I owed an explanation to Mrs. Jones.