Her neighbor from across the way, the one who collected the condominium fees, was smoking in the open hallway the residents shared. She must have been over fifty, and nearly every night, more or less at the same time, she came outside to smoke and flaunt her round little body and her badly dyed blond hair. She greeted Denise and asked a couple of questions that Denise dodged with a “Good, all good” and an overwhelmed expression. She distrusted that friendliness, and she wondered with a certain irritation if the woman didn’t have anything better to do. To Denise, the condo-fee neighbor was just an old woman who went outside right at the hour when almost everyone was coming home from work, just to spy and gossip about every insignificant thing that went on in the building.

She made an instant coffee and went to her room. Tossed her backpack on the bed, turned on the computer. She sat down at the desk. Stood up again and almost knocked over a mug holding leftover coffee and paper shreds. She was an expert in accumulating paper—old Post-its, receipts, tickets, metro balances—which she tore into even smaller pieces and left scattered everywhere. In her room, every movement implied danger. The chair’s wheels got caught up in the sneakers, the clothes thrown on the floor, the socks and bras, the PC cables, the phone charger, the extension cord, the cords of the speakers and the lamp. She was constantly tripping over things and ended up practically imprisoned, sunk in the quicksand of her room.

She went to the French girl’s room and sat on her double bed. Soon after she’d moved in, the French girl had commented on how strange she found it that Denise slept on a twin bed; apparently in France only children had single mattresses. Denise observed the room with her coffee in hand. The smell was very different from the one in her own room. It was a terribly pleasant and feminine smell, reeking of Lush soaps and perfumes and the L’Occitane lotions that the girl’s mother sent from France. Denise had been living with the French girl for six months, and she often snuck into her room when she was out. She liked to inhabit this foreign space. Nose around here and there, rifle through the souvenirs from the girl’s travels, hold them in her hands: a little Mapuche doll, postcards, photos with friends, little wooden boxes holding copper earrings, bitter chocolates, and gourmet jams. From each object rose an affirmation of her self: this was hers and she was proud, and Denise wanted to feel part of that even if it was only for a few minutes, just like when she used to walk through the Ñuñoa streets.