{"id":26132,"date":"2026-02-08T13:05:40","date_gmt":"2026-02-08T17:05:40","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=26132"},"modified":"2026-02-08T13:05:42","modified_gmt":"2026-02-08T17:05:42","slug":"maria-fernanda-ampuero-ali","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/maria-fernanda-ampuero-ali\/26132\/","title":{"rendered":"Mar\u00eda Fernanda Ampuero: Ali"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cAli\u201d is a short story by Ecuadorian writer Mar\u00eda Fernanda Ampuero, published in 2018 in the book Pelea de gallos<\/em>. It tells the story of Ali, a kind-hearted woman who, unlike other women in her social circle, is unusually generous and attentive to those who work in her home. However, as time goes by, her behavior begins to change in a disturbing way. Through the collective voice of the workers, the story shows domestic life from the inside and gives a glimpse of how, in that everyday space, tensions and memories accumulate, destabilizing the apparent normality of the home.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Mar\u00eda<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Ali<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Mar\u00eda Fernanda Ampuero
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Ali was strange, strange even in her generosity. She didn\u2019t give us, for example, expired food or hand-me-down clothes. She gave us the good stuff. The very same things she ate or wore. I mean, her clothes were too big for us, but she always sent them to the tailor beforehand. And whenever she took a trip, she brought us new clothes, purses, makeup, gifts, as if we were her relatives and not her maids. Miss Ali was just like that. When she made up the grocery list, she asked us what we wanted because, as she told us, there might be something we didn\u2019t like, something that didn\u2019t agree with us, right? We\u2019d never thought of that. The lady of the house usually ordered whatever she liked, and we had to eat it\u2014that was that. Or, for example, when we went to the supermarket, she gave us her wallet. Just like that: her wallet, in our hands. So she was strange, but good strange. Oh, Miss Ali, you really are good, we\u2019d tell her. Other girls said that the ladies they worked for would give them overripe fruit, suspicious-looking meat, black avocados that were only good for hair, or shoes with a split heel, pants with a rip in the crotch, lotions that had started to separate. Just crap. All the same: Thank you, miss, yes, very pretty, very delicious, miss. And the ladies checked their purses and bags when they left and sometimes even looked under their skirts in case they\u2019d hidden some food in their underwear. And they were told: If you weren\u2019t such thieves, we wouldn\u2019t have to act like the police on top of everything else we have to do. The ladies said this as they groped the girls or patted their legs over their pants or had them empty their purses onto the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the other girls said jealously: So, the fat lady is really nice, huh? The fat ones are always better. I hope I find one. These skinny bitches are so miserable. And they\u2019re mean. All they think about is how to get skinnier, and they take pills: Marlene, where are my pills? I\u2019ll bring them to you, miss. What\u2019s in those pills? She walks around like a crazy person, her eyes bugged out, looking like an owl. Ugh, mine, sometimes when she has an event coming up, she\u2019ll go for days on just cheese and mineral water, and if you say good morning, miss\u2014or even if you don\u2019t say it\u2014she\u2019ll tear your eyes out! Mine throws up: she orders a large pizza, some chocolate, potato chips, she shuts her door, eats every last bite, and then I hear her throwing up again and again. Poor Karina, the girl who cleans, she\u2019s the one who has to wipe it all up\u2014and no thank you<\/em>, no nothing. No, but they do pay us, don\u2019t they? The minimum, sure, but they pay us. Those ladies\u2019 grandparents didn\u2019t even pay their girls; they were their owners, so to speak. They were taken from the fields\u2014their own mothers gave them away\u2014and were given a bed and food, and, in return, they said: Thank you, master, may our sweet Lord and Savior bless you and grant you a long life. Sonia worked for one woman who drank and took pills and slept all day, and when she woke up, she\u2019d be furious and smack Sonia silly if she tried to keep her from hitting the kids. When she fired her, oh, how Sonia cried, because Sonia adored those children, and those little ones cried: Don\u2019t go, Sonita, don\u2019t leave us here all alone, Sonita. And the baby bawled like it was his own mother leaving him\u2014so painful, because Sonia had raised that little boy. Yes, that happened right near here, in the neighboring town with the lake. Somehow her husband had a big important government job, with the mayor. And when the woman was with her friends, everything was all perfect, divine, like a dream. Their little laughs, right? Covering their mouths. Those faces they make: so fake, full of that shit they inject themselves with that makes them look all surprised, more like plastic dolls than women, their eyes all open wide, their lips like frogs. They\u2019re all swollen, so ugly, they look like they\u2019ve been cursed, but they pay a pretty penny to look like that. For parties, they hire whitegloved waiters so they won\u2019t get their dark hands all over the white china or the tablecloths that cost more than we earn in a year. And they fill the tables with that pastel-colored raw fish. And they put flowers all over the house. And they bathe in perfume. Must be to hide the smell of vomit. The smell of dirty pajamas and sheets, covered in shit, period blood, farts, from when they don\u2019t get up for days on end. No one sees them like that, when you have to go in and whisper, miss? It\u2019s mister on the phone, he wants to know if you\u2019re up yet. Tell him yes, that I\u2019m in the bathroom. Don\u2019t let anyone bother me, Mireya, go with the driver to pick up the children and feed them, and for the love of god, don\u2019t let them in here, you understand? And the kids don\u2019t even ask for their mom. They did at first, but then they started heading straight to the kitchen on their own. And there they tell you about their day, their soccer game, their tests, their friends, the good and the bad, the things they have in their heads and in their hearts, and you tell them things too, and in the end they\u2019re like your own children. They grow up right there in the kitchen: eating with you until they get big, and then it seems weird to them to love you so much, even though deep down they know that you were their mother, and they see you one day in the future, once you\u2019ve left, and they don\u2019t know whether to cry or run into your arms like when they were little and fell down, or to just nod their heads at you because they\u2019re now little ladies and little gentlemen of society who know you don\u2019t greet the help with hugs and kisses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The fat lady was a good mother, then?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, Miss Ali was an excellent mother almost to the very end. Then she got her wires crossed and couldn\u2019t do it anymore, not anymore. She couldn\u2019t even have Mati near her, she couldn\u2019t touch him at all. We couldn\u2019t believe it, a little thing like that, like baby Jesus, with those golden curls and that little round face, an angel, running to hug her, and Miss Ali with that strange voice, too high, like someone had stepped on a rat, would shout for us to come. As if she were in mortal danger. Of the poor little creature. Her baby. Alicita was already bigger and that girl was always real smart, sharp as a tack. With those big blue eyes that so clearly understood everything. Inhuman, that girl\u2019s eyes, like she could see everything inside your head. She must\u2019ve seen something ugly in her mother because she knew right away. At first sight. She refused to go into whatever room her mother happened to be in. She stopped thinking that she even had a mother: she already saw herself as an orphan, playing by herself and caring for her little brother. It just made your heart break to look at her, so somber, dressing him or telling him to stop crying over silly things, to grow up. And the husband, well, the young man did the best he could with his fat, crazy wife. He went off to work like all the men in the city: at eight o\u2019clock sharp, all in their four-wheel-drive SUVs, all with their shirts and pants ironed by us. And his face, so sad you could die. He already felt like a widower, with his little kids and their insane mother. Once her fits started, her madness, Miss Ali slept in the guest room, and she asked us to bring food to her in bed. She hardly saw her husband anymore. When they did run into each other at home, she told him to go away, and when he tried to hug her, she didn\u2019t let him: she let out her shriek like a trampled rat and went back into the guest room, and he stood outside, doing nothing for a long while, sometimes with his hand on the doorknob. The young man made us so sad. All of them made us sad, really. Miss Ali smelled bad, poor thing. Mati didn\u2019t sleep well at night. Alicita hardly talked. And the husband, we don\u2019t know, he worked until late and just said thank you, thank you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Whenever Do\u00f1a Teresa, Miss Ali\u2019s mom, came over, things got even worse. She made her bathe, cut her nails, shave, wash all her clothes, air out her room. You could hear the screaming across town. Do\u00f1a Teresa\u2019s driver always came in to help get Miss Ali out of bed, and that man\u2019s presence set her off like he was the devil himself. We all ended up scratched and bitten and crying because when Miss Ali saw that man, she freaked out: she turned into a scared bull, two hundred pounds of fury. We practically had to tie her up to get her to the bathroom. When the driver left, Miss Ali seemed to calm down a little, and since we<\/em> understood it, we didn\u2019t know how the mother, Do\u00f1a Teresa, didn\u2019t, how she kept bringing the man with her. We\u2019d banned the driver and the gardener and the window washer and the boy who brought the groceries and Alicita\u2019s swimming instructor and any other worker from entering the house when Miss Ali was awake because we\u2019d already seen what happened with men. At first, we would ask her: Miss Ali, what\u2019s wrong? What\u2019s wrong? What happened? When she started having her fits, she sometimes forgot her own name, and she would say, Close the door, lock it, don\u2019t sleep with the door unlocked, lock my daughter up, lock her up tight, don\u2019t give anyone my daughter\u2019s key, lock her up. And she\u2019d check the lock on her bedroom door a hundred times. But her mother didn\u2019t ask. May God forgive us, but that lady seemed blind, heartless. She didn\u2019t even talk to Miss Ali. She only came because of her leg, and she only asked about her leg, but any idiot could see that her knee was the least of the girl\u2019s problems, that silly slip by the pool and the bottles and bottles of painkillers they started giving her, some prescribed by the doctor and others not officially prescribed. In the kitchen, we started talking about looking for other doctors, head doctors, for real lunatics, but who would listen to us girls? Miss Ali was no longer the same person, and every day she became less like herself. It seemed like we were the only ones who saw it. It wasn\u2019t her leg\u2014why did they keep talking about her leg? Why did they go on and on about the leg, the leg, the leg? Her leg got better, but she, who was she<\/em>? She was the kind of mom who would watch movies and eat pizza with her kids in bed. They would all draw pictures, sculpt clay, make up their own skits, play dress up. She\u2019d even take us all out for hamburgers. She used to take care of the plants, to eat colorful cereal for breakfast like her kids, to watch Mati sleeping and then say to us, Can you believe I made something so beautiful? She wasn\u2019t the woman who ran away from her husband and kids, monstrously fat, stinking, locking and unlocking her door forty times a day. No, that wasn\u2019t our Miss Ali. One day, her father, Don Ricardo, came without warning. We let him in, he asked where his daughter was, and we told him she was in the guest room. We were in the kitchen making the coffee he\u2019d asked for when we heard the front door slam shut. We ran to Miss Ali\u2019s room, and there she was: her eyes big as saucers, one hand gripping the sheet under her chin, and the other brandishing a pair of nail scissors. She was pointing the scissors at the door, her arm shaking all the way up to her shoulder. Miss? She started to scream. Make him leave, make him leave, make him leave! Who?Your dad? He already left, pretty girl. Make him go. Lock the door, please, don\u2019t let him back in. Lock all the doors, don\u2019t let him near the girls, don\u2019t let him near Alicita, I see him, I see him, and I hear him and I know. What do you know, miss? What do you see? She started to scream that she hurt. What hurts, sweetie? Where? The scissors were still pointing toward the door. But then she did it, fast: she gripped the scissors and she sliced down from her hairline to her jaw. We\u2019d never seen so much blood. Our lady\u2019s face cut open like raw beef. Vinicio, Don Ricardo\u2019s driver, heard the screams from outside. We put her in the car and took her to the hospital. On the way, we called the husband. Oh, that young man. We waited for news at the house, with the kids. Alicita didn\u2019t ask any questions about her mother. We told her she\u2019d had an accident, and she didn\u2019t even look at us. Miss Ali came home looking even worse. The bandages on her face looked horrible. She wanted to see for herself and tried to take them off all the time, so they put bandages on her hands too, and took away all the mirrors. We heard from her mother\u2019s friends that the doctors said it wasn\u2019t good for her to see herself yet, that she had to undergo some treatments first, plastic surgery, because the wound was very ugly, very purple, that she had an infection and it went down her whole face, from her forehead to her neck, that it was a miracle she hadn\u2019t lost an eye. We also heard that it had been an accident. That she hadn\u2019t known what she was doing. That she had been half-asleep, that she had always been a sleepwalker, since she was a little girl, a sleepwalker! No one asked us what happened, because if anyone had asked, we would have told them that she took the scissors and stabbed them into her skin and dragged them down like she wanted to destroy her face, that she was alert, lucid, that her father had just been in her room and that she was terrified of him, that she asked us to keep the girl away from him, and that he was the one she actually wanted to stab with the scissors. But everyone talked instead about sleepwalking, and us girls\u2019 opinions didn\u2019t matter, so we went about feeding Miss Ali through a straw and fluffing her pillows and making sure she was comfortable and calm. We took care of the children and the young man, who was like a lost soul. We watered the plants for Miss Ali, we cuddled little Alicita, her heart a little colder every day, we answered the telephone and said, Yes, miss, okay, no, she\u2019s asleep right now, yes, Do\u00f1a Teresa, she\u2019s better today, yes, she had carrot puree for lunch, yes, sir, yes, don\u2019t worry, we\u2019re here, it\u2019s nothing, goodbye, yes, miss, I\u2019ll give her the message. When the mother, Do\u00f1a Teresa, came, Miss Ali turned to face the wall, and she sometimes stayed that way the entire afternoon. The woman brought her friends with her to keep from getting bored, even though it was clear that her daughter didn\u2019t like people to come: she hid her head under the sheets and stayed there, like she was wearing a shroud. We were constantly serving coffee, glasses of water, diet sodas, and cookies; we had to order desserts from the caf\u00e9 in the mall. Do\u00f1a Teresa\u2019s friends might have thought they were being nice by visiting Miss Ali and yakking and gossiping about everyone, but we went in sometimes and we saw her there, immobile, miserable, like a chained animal, and sometimes she had streaks of tears where the bandages didn\u2019t cover her face. When all those ladies left, what a relief, we had to air out the whole house from all the hair spray and perfume. We were like tadpoles trying to breathe, opening and closing our mouths. Finally the house emptied itself of a thick liquid, as if it were a fish tank with strange fish in it: all painted nails and styled hair and gold accessories. They left. We went back to being like before. Miss Ali came out from under the sheets and asked for the dessert they\u2019d left behind. We laughed and ate the desserts, and we had our Miss Ali back for a minute until she grabbed our hands and said, terrified: Does the lock on the door work? And to Alicita\u2019s room? And we said yes, of course they worked, and we patted her greasy hair, and she asked us to take care of her, and she fell asleep until her first nightmare came. In her nightmares they were trying to undress her. In her nightmares someone made her do things she didn\u2019t want to do. In her nightmares she locked all the doors. In her nightmares there was always an adult with a set of keys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Around that time, the young man took the children to his mother\u2019s because something happened with Miss Ali and Alicita. The truth is, we still believe she wouldn\u2019t have done anything bad, that she just wanted to help her daughter, to teach her, but the young man walked in when Miss Ali was in the bath with her naked little daughter and that plastic thing that was like a big cock, and the man went crazy, he shouted at her and hit her, he called her a crazy bitch, what are you doing, you fat crazy bitch, you stupid filthy bitch, I\u2019m going to lock you away, and she just cried. That\u2019s what the girls from next door said they heard, because we weren\u2019t there. It was Sunday. So the young man took the kids in their pajamas, in the middle of the night, to his mother\u2019s house. After that, Miss Ali couldn\u2019t even lift her head. Do\u00f1a Teresa came to stay, and Miss Ali didn\u2019t say a word around her. When we were alone, she sometimes opened her eyes and asked about Alicita. We told her she was fine and she asked to see her. Then she\u2019d start to cry and the mother would send us to get her pills. A doctor friend of Do\u00f1a Teresa\u2019s had given her some pills that left her drooling and staring off into space. We thought it would be better for her to cry because it seemed like Miss Ali had a lot to cry over, a lifetime\u2019s worth, but the mother gave her those pills like they were candy. All the time. It made us sad to see her like that, turned into such a monster. That scar crisscrossing her face like a purple worm, her tremendous size, her drool, her lost eyes, the white bathrobes that her mother had brought from the United States so she\u2019d always look clean. Days passed. And months. Christmas came. Yes, that was the worst part: Christmas. Miss Ali seemed a little better, she stood up, went down to the kitchen, had cereal for breakfast, and told us that she wanted to buy Christmas presents, so we imagined she wanted to get her kids back, her husband. We were so happy, and we left her alone for a little while to get dressed to go to the mall. When we returned, she had gone into the bathroom and locked the door. We heard a lot of water running, for too long. Miss Ali? We knocked on the door. Miss? We went to find the keys, and when we got back, there she was, wrapped in a towel, her hair soaked, long and straight, stuck to her back. She smiled at us. What\u2019s wrong?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The mall was a madhouse: Christmas carolers, screaming children, and hundreds of people. We were worried\u2014Miss Ali hadn\u2019t been out of the house in months\u2014but besides a slight limp and her weight, no one would\u2019ve known there was anything strange about the woman, that she had been through what she\u2019d been through. That\u2019s the way it is, isn\u2019t it? You see people, and you have no idea what goes on inside the walls of their home. Almost immediately, she looked at us and said she had to buy some important gifts for some important people, and that those people couldn\u2019t see those gifts, so we had to separate for a little while. Everything seemed to be going well. She winked and smiled at us, walked off with her purse, in her tracksuit, her red running shoes. She looked like a normal girl, the same Miss Ali as always, who was going up to the fifth floor to buy us who knew what. We watched her go up the elevator\u2014Christmas music was playing, and it seemed like she was her old self again, that she was going to be a mother to her children and a wife to her husband, and we thought that it was a miracle from Baby Jesus because we had prayed so much and they say that God actually listens to poor people because he loves them more, so the misery of poverty had to be good for something, to help us get Miss Ali back, to end her nightmare and everyone else\u2019s. We saw her peek over the balcony of the fifth-floor caf\u00e9, and then we knew, immediately we knew\u2014there\u2019s something that tells you, something unexplainable\u2014that something terrible was about to happen. Several simultaneous screams, then the sound of a body being annihilated, like a sack of glass, stone, and raw flesh, one side of Miss Ali\u2019s skull smashed, melted, and more screaming, a scream that comes from inside you, a scream like a stab, a scream from the heart and lungs and stomach, and Miss Ali lying there, like a huge doll with her legs splayed, an inhuman position, like she was filled with stuffing instead of bones. We stood there, frozen, our hands over our mouths, until the doctors came, the police, the husband, Do\u00f1a Teresa, Don Ricardo, and someone started shaking us, telling us to go home and take care of all the people who immediately started to arrive, desperate to know why, how, and Do\u00f1a Teresa, clutching a handkerchief, said accident<\/em>, terrible accident, wet floor, she was unstable, you know, her knee, but she insisted on going to the mall because she was a wonderful mother, of course, of course, her friends said, and she wanted to buy Christmas presents for the kids. What a nightmare, yes, an accident, our poor, sweet girl, the friends said. But when the lady left the room, one of them took out her phone and read the news about the \u201cShopping Mall Suicide\u201d while the others listened, their ring-covered hands over their mouths, their eyes wide, unblinking. Another lady said quietly that she\u2019d heard strange things about the family, things between the brother and the sister, between the father and the daughter. The others angrily shut her up: Don\u2019t repeat stupid things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the burial, a woman at the cemetery handed out white roses so that Miss Ali\u2019s loved ones could place them on her coffin. When she walked by, she skipped us and gave roses to some very elegant ladies wearing big black sunglasses who we\u2019d never seen before. The day after the burial, Don Ricardo gave us each a hundred dollars, for the days we worked that month, he told us, and before we left, Do\u00f1a Teresa checked our purses and bags in case we had stolen anything. There, where she didn\u2019t check us, we had Miss Ali\u2019s wedding ring, her pretty watch, and a pearl necklace she\u2019d never worn. Do\u00f1a Teresa didn\u2019t say goodbye, nor thank you. Behind her, Alicita watched us with those huge, intelligent, frightened blue eyes. The exact same eyes as her mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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