Chiqui...

was everything we had imagined her to be and more.

She wore leopard print jackets, gold jewelry and tailored pants. She smoked effusively and had the low, husky voice to match her habit. She didn’t eat; she just took pills. But she made sure that her Moroccan maids prepared plenty of treats for us; there was always a refrigerator stocked with gazpacho and different forms of casseroles, and what would soon become the notorious “third drawer”- full of cookies, breads, and crackers. Her apartment was a playground of art and snacks and alcohol, but we soon learned that even life under Chiqui’s roof took some getting used to.

Our first weekend, we returned from a day of shopping to find Chiqui pacing the room, wringing her hands in agitation.

“Oh!” She said, slapping a hand to her brow and whirling toward us.

“Ninas!” She cried. “You can’t imagine what I have been through today, worrying about you. I called your cell phones, I called your school…. but neither told me where you were. Oh!” She said again.

We looked at the clock- it was not much later than 8pm.

“But we only….”

“Oh!” She cried. “Your first weekend in Spain- you don’t know the city, you don’t know the language. Anything could have happened!”

“Ninas,” she sat us down on the couch with a serious expression. “I want you to call me when you won’t be home for dinner. It’s muy importante.“

Soon it was our second or third Sunday afternoon in Spain and Bonne and I were dragging ourselves back from the respective apartments of David and Roberto. I arrived first, to find Senora in her armchair, looking grave.

“Is something the matter, Chiqui?” I asked, taking a seat on the couch beside her.

“Oh! Ninas.” She said. “You make me distressed.”

I gulped, racking my brain for what we could have done wrong this time. She had witnessed us running around the apartment last night in our mini-skirts and make-up, clutching tumblers of diet coke and vodka. It had been quite clear that we would not be returning for dinner, or probably even breakfast. After all, it was common for nights out in Spain to last well into the next morning.

Thus, I failed to see the reason behind her strained expression. Finally, she sighed heavily and spoke.

“Today we had a party for the extended family. Everyone was here, eating and drinking and laughing together. The young ones would go to the refrigerator to get yogurts and orange juice and snacks. Well, there was a bottle of Vodka on the first shelf of the refrigerator. And all the little children thought it was water.”

I put my hand to my mouth.

She nodded solemnly. “Si.”

“Oh no,” I whispered, heart pounding, envisioning the worst. “I’m so sorry, Chiqui. Are they all ok?”

It was just then that Bonne let herself in, forming the beginnings of a cheerful greeting but stopping when she saw our somber faces.

“What’s going on?” She asked, coming to take a seat beside me.

“The little children at Chiqui’s family party drank our vodka,” I muttered sideways through my teeth.

Bonne looked stricken. “Oh no!” She cried.

Chiqui nodded solemnly again.

“They weren’t prepared for the taste of it and spit it out right away,” she said. “The poor children! They didn’t want to eat or drink anything for the rest of the afternoon.”

Bonne and I breathed out a simultaneous sigh of relief that Chiqui interpreted as concern. She took the opportunity to nod solemnly for a third time.

“Si,” she said.