Chapter Text
Madrid, 1958. Lavapiés.
The House did not seek customers. It was simply there. A severe, almost bourgeois house wedged into a Lavapiés street where artists lived alongside laborers and the windows always remained slightly covered. The heavy curtains at the windows never opened all the way. It was a building that promised nothing, and that was precisely why it worked.
Inside, the air changed at once. A mixture of old face powder, cigarette smoke, and sweetish alcohol. A smell that did not attack, but enveloped. It clung to you, in your hair, between the buttons of your clothes.
Fina entered one Sunday in May. With her was Tasio. As always. Friends since before time had a name. They had grown up together, scraped knees, long afternoons, secrets shared without fear.
When Fina had told him that she liked women, Tasio had not asked questions. He had listened, nodded, lit a cigarette. As if it were a natural thing. Like the moon in the sky. Like mass on Sunday. He had never tried to correct her. Only to protect her.
At twenty three, Fina carried an unresolved desire within her. She had had silent crushes, brief as fevers. Held back glances, hands that had never dared. She had never kissed a woman. She had never felt the warm weight of a female body against hers. Tasio said it was not right. That life did not wait for those who stood still.
It was he who spoke of the House of Flowers. A brothel. Illegal, of course. In Lavapiés. He went there. He said a man had to know how to move under the sheets, and that it was a good place to learn. Fina could not explain how she had agreed. She had let herself be pulled along, as one does with things that are frightening and attractive at the same time.
The hall was large, dark. From a corner came the sound of a grand piano, old, with a few out of tune keys, playing a cheerful, off beat tune. The walls were painted dark blue. The lighting was low, deliberate. An imposing staircase, covered with a now worn purple carpet, rose toward the upper floors like a promise never spoken.
At the bar, men of every age drank, laughed, let themselves be touched. The women moved among them with confidence, skimpy dresses, different perfumes, ready smiles. It was a world that seemed closed in on itself.
Fina felt her heart race. Her hands were cold. She was too dressed, too stiff. She felt transparent.
Tasio ordered a vermouth for her without asking. He placed it in front of her as a gesture of care. Shortly after, Jesús arrived. The owner. Elegant without ostentation, dark eyes, a presence that imposed itself without raising his voice.
“How long it has been, my friend. Carmen was already missing you.”
They laughed. They embraced. Then Jesús turned to Fina. He observed her carefully, the way one looks at fragile things.
“And you?”
Tasio explained. Jesús listened, nodded. No judgment. He clapped his hands.
The girls arrived almost immediately. A small crowd of bodies and perfumes. Hands brushing, quick caresses, little giggles. They called her cariño, amor, cielo. One lifted her chin, another brushed her waist. Fina laughed nervously, blushed, searched for air. She was overwhelmed and at the same time curious.
Then she saw her.
She was not among them. She was a little apart, seated as if the scene did not concern her.
She seemed to belong to another room. She sat composed, back straight, legs crossed. Blonde hair softly gathered, long neck bare. She wore a simple black dress that clung to her body without provoking. It did not need to.
When she lifted her gaze, the room changed weight.
She had blue eyes, very light, cold as clean glass. Eyes that did not ask permission. Her face was beautiful in a sharp way, without indulgence. Her lips firm, her smile rare. Marta did not offer herself. She waited to be chosen, and even then she remained distant.
She was the star of the Jardín. The most beautiful flower in the garden, Jesús always said.
She had learned to measure every gesture. To undress without giving herself. To be precise. Efficient. Untouchable.
Those who chose her returned. Those who tried to hold on to her were pushed away, with elegance. Marta always put her rules first. No unnecessary caresses. No promises. No love.
Fina could not tear her gaze away.
Jesús noticed.
“Marta. To the room.”
Marta stood up. The noise around them seemed to lower. She crossed the room slowly, her gaze fixed on Fina, her step calm, sure. She stopped in front of her.
Then she smiled. A barely hinted smile, cold, perfect.
“Come.”
She took her hand. The contact was firm, warm, without hesitation. Fina felt a shiver run up her arm. Marta did not turn back. She guided her toward the staircase, one step after another, away from the music, the smoke, the noise of the world.
Toward her room.