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knew about the subject was that she liked plants. Teresa extracted her heel from the soft earth and tried to clean it on the grass while, inevitably, the other heel sank in. All her efforts were in vain. The heel she had cleaned was doomed to sink in again, the other one was going to come out muddy and, clean it as she might, would then get dirty again. But to point out this information, denying her capacity to absorb it for herself, would have seemed as disrespectful and impatient as her husband’s haste. I was already feeling anxious: the commission on the sale of this land was earmarked for various improvements pending in my own home. I wondered which option to choose. The first time I had sunk into The Cascade I had ended up taking off my shoes and looking round the site in my stockinged feet. We were young and Ronie had laughed: we both had laughed. But Teresa and I are very different. All the women here are very different, even though some people make the mistake of believing that women who live in a place like this grow to resemble one another. They call us “country-club women”. That stereotype is wrong-headed. Yes, it’s true that we go through the same sorts of experience, that the same sorts of thing happen to us. Or that the same sorts of thing do not happen to us, and in that respect we are similar too. For example, we all find it
hard, at the start, to give up certain habits: there is no room here for high heels, silk hosiery or curtains that drop to the floor. In another context, any one of those details would signal elegance, but in Cascade Heights they end up signalling dirt. Because heels sink into the lawn and emerge covered in soil and grass; because stockings ladder when they come into contact with rough-edged plants, MDF or rattan garden furniture; because much more dust blows into houses than into apartments and it gets spread around by children, dogs or long drapes – and everything looks filthy.
    It took Teresa a few yards to grasp that there was nothing she could do. She opted for walking on tip-toe – a compromise solution I’ve seen other city women try – and settled for looking from afar, instead of walking around the plot hand in hand with her husband. Meanwhile, El Tano strode ahead, his hands in his pockets, planting his feet firmly in the ground. It was clear that he was marking his territory with every step. If he had been an animal, he’d have pissed on it. There was no doubting his body language: this was the land he had been looking for. His stance should have made me think cheerfully of the commission that was close at hand, but instead it unnerved me and I told him that I would have to check with the owner that the land was still for sale.
    â€œIf it’s not for sale, why are you showing me it?”
    â€œNo, yes – it is for sale, or it was. Caviró Senior, the owner, placed it with my agency a couple of months ago but, I don’t know, I’d like to be sure.”
    â€œIf he placed it with your agency, that means it’s for sale.”
    And that would be the case in many places, but not in The Cascade. In The Cascade one has to learn to operate
with a certain flexibility. Sometimes people tell you they want to sell, then a son turns up, claiming a stake, or they fear selling will bring social embarrassment, or they can’t agree with their wives. And the agency has to pick up the pieces. In this case, that’s me, Virginia, or “Mavi Guevara”, to use my business name. Some people put a house or plot up for sale to test the market, or because they want to know how much it’s gone up in value since they bought it, or because a valuation is too abstract a measure for them, and they need to see in front of them someone who wants what they have and has the cash in hand to get it. And then they say no, they don’t want to sell.
    â€œI want this land,” El Tano said again.
    â€œI’ll do what I