Suddenly, the vampire appeared in the doorway! Tall, cadaverous, eyes glowing with the fires of hell. His fingers curled around the door frame, spider-like.
Remedios trembled. Her heart beat wildly, as if it wanted to explode inside her chest.
He inched forward, movements rat-like. He focused on his victim, his prey.
She clutched the wooden arm of the chair and squeezed her body into a tighter ball. "Diosito! Mio Diosito! Protect me, Santa Marianita de Jesus!" she cried, but he kept coming.
"Submit to me!" he insisted, his voice low and seductive, the tone not one that could be argued with. "I am stronger. I will have what I want!"
"No!" She shook her head. Her sweaty hand slipped off the chair arm where she had gripped it so tightly.
His face came close, ungodly close, and then his blood-red lips turned upward into a sinister smile. A smile that split apart to reveal two long sharp teeth. Teeth that glistened with saliva. Teeth that wanted her neck. Demanded the vein, plumped with her life's blood, pulsing in terror. Teeth that would bite and rend and take what they needed in order to survive.
A loud, harsh buzzer caused Remedios to jolt.
She leaped from the chair and hurried into the kitchen to turn off the oven timer. Quickly she opened the door and lifted the lid of the clay pot; the meat looked and smelled delicious, just the way the Richviews liked it — rare. It had taken her almost three months to be able to prepare it the way her employers preferred. She wanted to please them, but something about that red colour when she cut into it, all the blood, made her feel nauseous, and she found herself frequently overcooking. Remedios had never eaten rare meat. At home in Ecuador, everyone overcooked meat, to be safe. She preferred it well done, so that it did not resemble any more the poor helpless animal that it had been.
With a deft hand she switched the oven knob to "warm", and turned on the element under the pot on the stove-top that would steam the summer squash. The salad and dessert had been prepared in advance, the table set, all was well. She headed back to the living-room for the end of the movie, only to find a commercial on the TV for feminine hygiene products, as they liked to call them in North America. It had taken her most of the six months she had been in San Diego to make sense of this new language, but finally she was beginning to feel as if she had mastered at least the basics. Now she could shop and take the bus without incident, mostly, and the Richviews seemed more comfortable around her. At least as comfortable as they could be.
Just as the commercial finished and the movie resumed, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Well, that was that. She switched off the television and returned to the kitchen. She would never know how the movie ended, but of course the vampire would be staked. He always was, or at least most of the time. She preferred movies where the vampire was destroyed. The ones where he escaped caused her nightmares.
It was a peculiar thing, that she watched these movies so fervently. Even back in San Francisco de Quito where she was born vampire movies were her favourite films, even though they terrified her. She hated the vampire, always taking advantage of those weaker than himself for his own advantage, yet she could not stop watching. Her mother — may the saints intercede with the Holy Father on behalf of her eternal soul! — preferred the soaps, and in Ecuador there were many. "Why do you want to watch those awful movies? Why frighten yourself? Turn them off!" her mother had said so often when she was alive. "My soap operas are much better, like real life."
"Yes," Remedios answered, "always the same. A family as poor as us, with as many problems as we have, worrying. About money, about health, the arguments because one does not get along with the other… It is like every day! And they always come to the same conclusion: you must accept your lot in life."
"This is not a bad way to be," her mother said. "Life is full of trouble. When you have family, you are better off than those who do not. And when you accept what God decrees as your life, you are better off. Remedios, you were always the strange one. I knew this from the moment you were born, at midnight. That is why I named you God's remedy."
And now Remedios thought that yes, her mother had been wise. Life is much simpler when one accepts what is one's role. And her own destiny had not been such a bad one. Coming from the poverty of de Quito to the opulence of California to work as a domestic — not many were able to do that. The Richviews were decent people, they gave her four days off each month, did not make exceptional demands most of the time, and she had been able to send money home to support her sisters and brothers. She knew she had no right to complain. Many of the domestics — mostly girls from Mexico she had met at the shops — told of terrible conditions, where they were forced to work long hours at low wages, and sometimes they could not get paid. It was difficult to do anything about the conditions because they were all in the United States on a working visa, and the minute they ceased to be employed they were deported.
Remedios told herself often that she was lucky. Her conditions were good, and far better than in her homeland. There, everyone lived in poverty except government officials and landowners. From the President down to the policia municipal, extortion was the rule. Even out of the money she sent home, almost half went to the corrupt local government, and another quarter went to her Uncle Antonio, her mother's brother-in-law, who had arranged with the Richviews for Remedios to work for them. Mr Richview told her if she saved the money in an American bank account where it would gather compound interest, rather than send it home and have most of it eaten away before it even reached her family, she could be almost a millionaire in twenty years. But she could not do that: her sisters and brothers had to eat, and she was now the head of the family.
The front door opened and Mrs Richview rushed in. Remedios heard the children, Jessica and Robert; Mrs Richview drove them to and from school. Jess ran into the kitchen, all flying yellow hair and sky-blue eyes. Immediately she hugged Remedios. "Guess what we did at school today? We made buttermilk! The teacher put milk into a churn and we all took turns pushing this big thing down into the milk and then we had buttermilk and we all drank some!"
Remedios laughed and smoothed back Jessica's hair. So large for a six-year-old — just a year younger than her youngest sister Dolores. Dolores was not in school, since the family could not afford to send her. Remedios had not seen Dolores in half a year and missed the baby of the family. She missed all of her family. Juan, and the twins Jose-Luis and Maria, and even her sister Esperanza, who she did not get along well with. And her grandmother, of course, who took care of all of them.
"Wash up," Mrs Richview was telling Robert, "and I don't want to keep saying that. Your father will be home any minute, and you know he likes to eat right away on Wednesdays so he can get to the homeowners meeting."
"I'm not hungry," the boy complained, as he did most nights.
"Well, then don't eat very much. You can have a snack later."
"But I want to go to the CD store with Brad."
"On a school night? I don't think so."
"But, Mom, his brother is driving us and you said last week—"
"Oh, there's your father's car. Hurry up so we can eat."
"But I want to go with Brad. You said—"
"God, Robert, stop reminding me of things I've said! Look, eat something, so we can have our weekly family dinner, then you can go…"
And so it went with the Richviews, always busy, always going somewhere, living their lives so quickly, and so separately. So different than in Ecuador. Her family had spent most of their time together. And no one went out after dark — the streets were just not safe. They said on the news that it was not safe in California. Remedios had only been to Los Angeles when the Richviews flew her here. She had never been to East Los Angeles, or to the Barrio. Still, she could not believe there were gangs like in de Quito: young boys, some no older than five years, roaming the streets and alleyways all night, carrying knives, ready to cut the throat of anyone they encountered to obtain food, or money to buy food… No, California was nothing like home.
Remedios placed the bread and butter on the table as Mr Richview came through the door. Jess ran to him, and he lifted her high in his arms. Remedios looked on, wondering what that would feel like. Her own father had died when she was young, just after the birth of Dolores; perhaps he had lifted her that way, but she could not remember him being healthy and strong. Her grandmother said her father's death had caused her mother's death, because it was not long after when her mother became very very ill. Remedios could still remember the blood flowing from her, and how pale she became at the end, because of the pain. They had no money for a doctor. There was nothing to do but to watch her mother die slowly over the next two years. She was weak; it was God's will, her grandmother said.
Mr Richview headed for his small office at the back of the house, beside the garden. Remedios knew it was not a good time, but she had been trying to find him alone for a week, and there never did seem to be the right moment.
She stood in the doorway, watching him taking papers from his briefcase. "Mr Richview. May I speak with you a moment?"
He did not look up, and she wondered if her voice had been too low for him to hear her. But after another few heartbeats, he seemed to notice her standing there. "Yes? What is it?" He spoke with his "office" voice, the one she heard him speak with on the telephone when he was discussing the stock market.
"Mr Richview, I… I would like to have a raise. Ten dollars a month."
He stared at her for a moment blankly, then went back to sorting through his papers, saying, "You've only been with us six months. We'll discuss it in another six months."
There was nothing to do but return to the kitchen and bring in the platter of meat.
The Richviews sat around the table, all talking at once. "This is very good, Remy," Mrs Richview said about the meat, and Remedios blushed. It was Mrs Richview who had taken to calling her Remy because the children could not easily pronounce her name. Now they all called her that. Remedios did not mind. She was just grateful to be working for such a good family.
Robert pecked at his food like a bird. Then, when the horn blared outside and Mr Richview snapped, "Tell him not to use the horn, it disturbs the neighbours," and Mrs Richview said, "When did people stop coming to the door?" Robert jumped up, grabbed his jacket from the coat tree by the door and left.
Mr Richview was the next to leave. He ate quickly, then went upstairs to change his clothes for the meeting with the other homeowers who lived in this area. Mrs Richview took Jess upstairs as well, to help her with her homework, and to "… have a sauna. I've got my cell with me. Please tell any callers on the house phone I'll get back to them," she told Remedios. Mr Richview hurried out the door. And Remedios was left alone to clear away the partially eaten plates of food.
As always, she felt guilty as she scraped the remains into the garbage disposal. With just what was left on these plates, she could feed her entire family for one day. Early on she had eaten the leftover food from their plates, but Mrs Richview caught her and insisted it was not "sanitary" and that Remedios must throw it away.
Remedios carved off a piece of meat from the outside of the roast, avoiding as much of the red part as possible, and made her own plate, with a small piece of squash, and a little bowl of salad. All her life she had eaten the largest meal in the middle of the day, and something light before bed; she could not get used to having so much food in her stomach at night. Before she sat down to eat, she wrapped the rest of the meat in clear plastic, stored the salad and squash in airtight containers and placed everything in the refrigerator already bulging with food. The children had eaten their desserts. Mr Richview ate some. Mrs Richview's pudding went untouched, as always — she never ate dessert. Remedios placed the pudding next to her plate. Finally she sat down to eat.
She missed the food she had been raised on. Rice, and rich red and black beans, heavily spiced, sometimes with a little meat, if the family could afford a cui. And the flat bread! There was nothing like it here. She had made a traditional Ecuadorean meal when she first arrived. Mr and Mrs Richview ate a little, but the children would not even try. Mrs Richview said that it might be best if she told Remedios exactly what foods to cook every week, and how to cook them.
Just as she was about to take a bite of the meat, Mrs Richview said from the hallway, "Remy," and she jumped to her feet.
"Yes, Mrs Richview?"
"I forgot. This package came for you, to the postal box."
Remedios met Mrs Richview at the doorway and took from her a small brown parcel. Even before she saw the address, she knew it was from home. The oily dark paper, and the hemp cord holding it together. The parcel had gone through two postal systems, and was damaged.
"Thank you," she said, and waited until Mrs Richview was halfway up the stairs before returning to the kitchen table.
She opened the package. First she found a piece of newspaper, el Comercio, with an article about the les Chupa-cabras. Now there were sightings in Ecuador! She read the article about the vampire-like creature, the "sheep sucker" that attacked not only sheep, but horses, cows, even dogs and cats, biting into them, draining their blood. The article said eye-witnesses had seen el Chupa-cabra, and described it as four or five feet tall, having the body of a bat, with large wings, and scales along the back of the neck, a cat's face, and the teeth! Remedios shivered just reading about it.
Next, she found a note, from her grandmother. Or, from Uncle Antonio, the only one in the family besides herself who could write in Spanish. Her grandmother had told him what to say, of course.
"Remedios, my dearest one. You are blessed by the Holy Virginsita, and God has seen to it that you were born strong, and must help your family. You are the one we rely on."
The letter went on with news of the family. Grandmother suffered pains in her arms and legs, and felt very tired. The twins had both been sick, coughing a lot, but were now well again. Dolores, who had been born with a club foot, was having difficulty walking. The neighbour examined the foot and said it was turning more inward; was it possible there could be money for a doctor? Esperanza was pregnant. This did not surprise Remedios — her sister had always been pretty, and always liked to flirt with the boys. But it meant one more mouth to feed! News of Juan was the most troubling. He had begun to go out at nights, and Grandmother suspected he was using cocaine and travelling with the packs of boys that murdered.
Remedios lowered the piece of paper, shaken. Tears sprang from her eyes. What could she do? She was not there. If she went home to try to make Juan behave, they would have no food. And he was now thirteen. Even before she had left home, he had been nearly impossible to control. Esperanza had never listened to her, and that would not change. Could she find money for a doctor? Already she sent everything home but for ten dollars a month, and that was only for little things she might need for herself; the Richviews gave her food, clothing, bus fare — she did not need much. Perhaps she could send half of that home every month and then in three or four months there would be enough for a doctor, and Dolores could be taken to one… But half of the ten dollars would go to the government, and Uncle Antonio. Home. If she were there, Grandmother would not have to look after everyone. But then who would earn the money? There was no work in de Quito. Or in most of Ecuador. All her thoughts seemed to end in impossibilities, and she could do nothing but cry silent tears.
Eventually, the ringing telephone forced her to pull herself together. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and wrote down the message for Mr Richview, then returned to the kitchen. Her plate of food looked very unappetizing; she scraped the uneaten meal into the garbage disposal.
With all the troublesome news she had forgotten about the parcel itself. Perhaps she should have opened it before reading the letter, before becoming upset.
Inside she found a small cardboard box, and inside that a little black leather pouch, very worn, tied shut with a black leather thong, a pouch she had never seen before. She opened it to find a rosary. There, the gold crucifix at the end. And the Virginsita. And… Diosito! Mio Diosito! What was this? There were no beads that formed this rosary, but los dientes! Small teeth. She picked it up to examine it in the light, and at the same time reached for the letter.
At the bottom, her grandmother had added, "This belonged to my mother. The rosary is made from a baby tooth from each of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, including you. I gave it to your mother, and she wanted you to have it, when it was time. You are to give it to your eldest daughter. Maybe you will now see how special you are, Remedios. Your family needs you."
Remedios looked closely at the rosary. All these baby teeth! It was true, her mother had sisters and brothers, and her grandmother too. So many teeth, all coated to keep them from turning too brown. There were back teeth, and front, from every area of the mouth. Some had come from her sisters and brothers, a tooth from her mother was here, her grandmother, but she did not know which belonged to whom. She looked at the familiar pattern of the rosary: one, three, one from the crucifix to the connector. Then: one, ten, one, ten, one, ten, one, ten, one, ten. Sixty altogether. And all similar. All but one. One she now noticed, and how had she missed it before?
A tooth like no other on this chain. Longer than the rest. One of the two they call the eye teeth. Pointed, sharp, not like a human tooth at all, more like the fang of an animal. Like the tooth of a vampire.
Remedios gasped, and the rosary slipped between her hands and hit the tile floor below.
Stupid girl! she chided herself, bending instantly to retrieve this precious gift from her mother. Thank the saints, may none of the teeth have broken.
She examined them all, one by one. Yes, none had broken or chipped. Oh, how lucky! And then she stared in horror at the long incisor. Gingerly she touched her fingertip to the point. Sharp! Like a knife.
Unnerved by this gift, by the letter, Remedios returned the rosary to the pouch. She stacked the dishwasher quickly, cleaned up the kitchen, then took the parcel to her room. She found the rosary and the letter so upsetting she placed the entire package in the bottom dresser drawer, under her T-shirts. Suddenly, she felt exhausted. Without undressing, just removing her shoes, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes with the lights still on.
Remedios awoke with a start from a deep and disturbing dream she could not remember. Her bedroom at the Richviews' looked strange, unfamiliar, with shadows moving in the corners, concealing… what? El Chupa-cabra!
She bolted upright and stared hard at the shadows, examining them from the safety of her bed, listening; the house seemed unnaturally quiet, as if she were the only living, breathing soul under the roof. Outside her partially opened window there were no sounds in the dark night air, not even crickets. As if pulled by an invisible force, her eyes became focused on the dresser, and what she knew lay in the bottom drawer, hidden, but not. The awareness caused her heart to race, and her lungs felt compressed, as if there was no room for air, or not enough air to fill them. Her stomach cramped.
She got up from the bed and wandered into the hallway, listening. No sounds came from the upstairs. She padded barefoot to the kitchen, the familiar place where she spent so much time. She plugged in the electric kettle, and that simple, everyday act calmed her.
The undercurrent of terror she felt began to dissipate and she was left with a gnawing in her stomach she understood to be hunger. She opened the refrigerator, took out the plate with the roast, and reached for a carving knife from the rack. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Remedios cut deep into the flesh, to the bloodiest part, pulling out the reddest bits with her hands and stuffing them into her mouth, licking the blood from her fingers.
She looked at her hands, stained crimson with the meat juice, the blood, and suddenly remembered this: in the days between seasons, when the weather begins to turn even cooler at night, when she had been a child, very young — had Esperanza been born yet? — she had tasted blood!
Her mother, her father — he looked tired always — her grandmother before her hair had turned all white… She stood with them, her mother's hands on her shoulders, in the square of the village. The square, with the church at one end, was crowded with friends and neighbours, other relatives. "It is a feast day," her grandmother said that morning, "el Dia de los Muertos, the day when the people pray to all the saints for all the dead." How can you pray to all the saints, Remedios wondered, because there are so many? Her grandmother said the day would be filled with prayers. The mass had been long, with all the names of the dead read out by the padre, many together for the poor families, and individual masses for the families that could pay more. The procession from the church where they had just attended the tiring masses was under way, moving around and around the square, the prayers chant-like, led by the padre, with the people echoing and responding to his words. The pungent scent of burning incienso filled the air, and the altar boys rang bells as they followed slowly behind the priest, while others sprinkled dark purple flower petals before the procession.
Remedios sucked on the guagua de pan that came from the basket of Dia de los Muertos bread her grandmother had baked that week — the little bread men and women representing the dead. This one had red sugar eyes and bright green hair and lips, and she wore a colourful dress. Esperanza, her grandmother called this one — Remedios's mother's dead sister, Esperanza, the one her sister would be been named for. "Her name means 'hope'," her grandmother said. She stuffed little Esperanza into her pocket to place later on the altar in their home, an altar that held the large picture of Sainte Marianita de Jesus, and many many candles. It would also hold some of the flowers they brought back home from the cemetery.
Remedios felt hungry, and wondered when they could return home and eat the good, thick locro soup, and drink the hot purple jelly-like colada morada that her mother only made for the Day of the Dead feast.
The colourful pageant lasted a long time, with large wreaths carried back and forth through the square, with little stampas of the saints, and prayer cards for the dead affixed to the red and yellow flowers. The padre held a big banner with a picture of the Virginsita, and two other priests carried an enormous one of Santa Marianita de Jesus, who gave her life to save the city from earthquakes, both images decorated with glitter and seashells and many flowers. Remedios felt sleepy and sat on the hard ground, leaning against her grandmother's legs.
And then, when she opened her eyes, the light had faded from the sky and the night descended over them like a dark figure swooping across the heavens to stifle all life… She realized they were now in the cemetery.
Here, the home of the dead. Stacked in cement drawers, one atop the other, four and five high. Many dead but little space, her mother said. She stayed seated on the ground before the graves of their ancestors while the adults placed beautiful white death lilies, and floral wreaths against the graves and behind the marble plaques that bore the names of the departed. The air became thick with the scent of flowers, and alive with the hum of chanting, and Remedios felt drowsy.
"Bring them!" the padre called. Suddenly, the night had become black, with only the light of the stars overhead. Dogs! So many! Where had they all come from? Hardly any of their neighbours could afford a dog. These animals roamed the streets, wild, in packs, competing with the people for food. How had they been lured here? It was the food scraps; Remedios had never seen so many dogs in one place, nor so much food handed over to them.
Much time passed with heated discussions as the men observed the dogs and argued in a friendly way: which animal was strongest, which the weakest? Would the large one be more determined than the second largest? And this little white one, it showed aggression — perhaps he would grow to become the dominant male that mated! Finally, finally, one was selected. A she-dog not so small, with brown fur, but she seemed to lack energy. The weakest, her grandmother said. "Someter," her uncle said, telling the dog to submit.
Remedios stood rooted to the earth as Uncle Antonio sliced the throat from side to side. The animal reared, gnashed her teeth, howled — a haunting sound. She dropped to the earth, first on her front knees, then her side. Before she stopped twitching, the women rushed to the corpse and collected the spilled blood into basins, Remedios's mother among them. Each family gathered as much of the precious life-blood as they could, struggling to keep it from seeping into the earth. Then another dog was captured and brought snarling to the front, and Remedios tensed, tears still stinging her eyes. He was strong, this one, filled with life, not as large as the biggest animal, but his spirit felt enormous, and all could sense that. "The one best suited to survive," Uncle Antonio said, and Remedios watched her uncle feed that dog the blood of his slain sister. And then she watched her uncle sip of the blood himself.
"Here, Remedios, drink this," her mother said. "It will make you strong. You are the strongest, you must survive."
Obediently, she placed her lips against the cool metal basin and drank the steaming thick blood down, as if it were milk. "The weak feed the strong," her grandmother had said as she drank. "Sometimes the strong ones escape the herd and become wild, because once they have tasted it, they can only feed on blood. It has always been this way and will be this way again. The strong must be encouraged to survive, or all die."
Remedios stared at her blood-covered hands. Why did they not repulse her as before? She sucked the sweet juice and could almost feel it charging her body with energy, just as she now remembered the blood of the weak dog sparking through every inch of her being.
She put the roast away and returned to her bedroom, to the dresser. Carefully she removed the rosary from the leather pouch and held it under the night-table light.
So many teeth! Some looked so fragile they might crumble to dust if she touched them too much. Others seemed larger, stronger, more capable of cutting, chewing, taking in and transforming the food that would nourish and sustain. And then the one so unlike the others. One designed by nature for survival. A fierce tooth. It could defend and protect, or destroy. She lifted the rosary over her head and placed it around her neck, letting it drop under her T-shirt. She felt the cool teeth rest against her skin. The point of one tooth pressed slightly between her breasts.
Remedios did not even need to ask herself the question she had been avoiding, for she knew in her heart the answer. The vampire tooth had come from her own mouth. A tooth unlike the others. The tooth of the strongest. The one who could live and survive in a place not like her homeland. The one who could look after an entire family, and make certain they were provided for. The one who had the strength to prey on the weak in order to survive, for survival was crucial. Her grandmother had said this; this is why they fed her the blood of the weak dog. Why her mother had named her God's remedy; her mother was wise. She knew Remedios was born to remedy the wrongs that had been her legacy.
And now, images came to Remedios of the vampire, and of el Chupa-cabra, and she no longer felt threatened.
As the sky grew lighter, the knowledge that Remedios had unearthed with the rosary did not fade, but solidified within her, melding worries and insecurities, leaving behind a certainty from which to act.
The house lay shrouded in quiet, still as the dead. Remedios passed the rooms where Jess and Robert slept without pausing. She continued along the second-floor hallway, watching her shadow creep over the walls. Finally, she reached the master bedroom and opened the door quietly.
Inside the room the air smelled of sweat mixed with the fragrance of Mrs Richview's perfumes. Remedios stared at the couple for a moment, making her decision. Her employers lay sleeping soundly, Mrs Richview with plugs in her ears, and a mask over her eyes. Mr Richview sprawled close to the edge, on his back, snoring loudly. Remedios made her way to his side of the bed. She crouched beside him and reached out to touch gingerly the bulging blue in his neck. His breath caught for a moment. He opened his eyes and stared fearfully at her. She placed her finger to her lips and quietly whispered, "Someter." His eyelids lowered as if he longed to return to his dreams. He turned his head, the vein an offering.
Remedios pierced it easily, quickly, naturally, like any strong animal that had learned somewhere in its life to love the taste of blood.
Remedios sat at the kitchen table, feeling refreshed. She signed her name at the bottom of the letter to her Uncle Antonio, telling him that he must use a portion of the money he took from the family as his "fee" to provide medical care to little Dolores, whose name, she reminded him, meant "pain". The pain of his failing to comply, she assured him, would not be only for Dolores, but it would become his pain as well. She would cease sending home money until he did this. And if he refused? Yes, her family would suffer. Dolores would suffer more. But he would suffer most — she would personally see to it.
She folded the letter and placed it into an envelope, sealing all their fates.
Just then, Mr Richview walked into the kitchen. "Good morning, Remedios. How are you today?" He looked tired. Bewildered.
"I am very well, Mr Richview. May I speak with you?"
"Yes, of course. About what?"
"I ask of you three things. First, I would like to visit my family for two weeks. I will need a plane ticket."
He rubbed his neck for a moment, an absent look on his face. "That can be arranged."
"Next, I must have an increase. I would like to be paid an additional hundred dollars each month."
Rather than scowling, or being even more annoyed then he had been the evening before, now Mr Richview nodded, a dreamy expression filling his face. He spoke to her respectfully, as to an equal, to Remedios, a strong person, who knew what she wanted, what was fair. "All right. I think we can find an extra hundred dollars for you each month."
"And for the last," she said, "I would like for you to deposit this new money into a bank account, like the one you told me of, that will make me a millionaire in twenty years."
She was only mildly astonished to see him nod approval. "Well, I can't promise you'll be a millionaire, but if you don't touch it, I can promise you'll have quite a bit of money. That's a wise decision, Remedios. I'll stop at the bank today and pick up the forms for you to sign so you can open an account; my accountant will make the deposits automatically, and you can go in any time and update your passbook. Once the principal increases, we can invest it in a high-yield fund. You need to be brave, take a few risks. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It's a tough world, dog eat dog. Only the strongest survive."
"The strongest and the smartest," she said, thinking how much more sense it makes to live off the strong rather than the weak.