Silver Nitrate(10)
“I aced an audition, although it’s still too early to say anything definitive about a paycheck. It might be people being polite rather than liking my performance. But forget that, the thing I wanted to talk to you about was Abel Urueta.”
“What about him?”
“He lives in my building.”
Montserrat stopped pushing the shopping cart and turned to him in surprise. “Urueta? The director Urueta?”
“Sure,” Tristán said. He reached into the cart and looked at the label of a pack of instant noodles that Montserrat had dumped there. “How do you eat this?”
“With a fork,” she said dryly.
“No, I mean how the fuck do you eat this? Shit, Montserrat, stop at the deli, get a slice of ham and a bit of cheese and make yourself a real lunch. No wonder your gums bleed. You probably have the nutritional deficiencies of a seventeenth-century sailor. Urueta invited you and me for dinner. We should get a bottle of wine for that.”
She shook her head and stared up at him. Even with her combat boots, Montserrat barely grazed Tristán’s shoulder. She mostly looked like a tiny, ferocious elf. A very shocked one at this moment, with her mouth open, awe and confusion overwhelming her.
“You’re serious?”
“Of course I am. You don’t eat right. I’ve told you a million times before, and then you complain that the dentist—”
“I mean about Urueta. You met him and he wants to have dinner?”
“Saturday.”
“When did you meet him? How?”
“A couple of days ago.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened again.
“I can’t go Saturday.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you’ll be working. It’s insane how busy you’ve been lately. All of July and half of August you were cooped up in front of the monitors.”
“That was then. Besides, how would you know? You were too busy during the summer to see Hellraiser 3 with me, and they only had that one special screening at Palacio Chino.”
His love life had been imploding in July and August, but it wouldn’t help if he mentioned that. Montserrat would probably think it was juvenile. Her solution to romance problems was to stop returning phone calls.
“Come on, you want to hang out Saturday. I know you do.”
“I need the work,” she said, with that stubborn grimace he knew well. “Mario has been treating me like shit, and I can’t turn down anything right now or he’ll use it to claim I’m unreliable. I got into a fight with him and he won’t let me forget it. I’m trying to patch things up and be nice until December or I’m not getting a bonus.”
“You’re always fighting with him. I bet he doesn’t even remember he got mad at you.”
“He remembers.”
“You can take one afternoon off.”
“I told Araceli I’d drive her to the hospital. And afterward she’ll probably want to buy candles at the Mercado de Sonora.”
“That stuff doesn’t work.”
“Well, nothing does,” Montserrat muttered, giving the shopping cart a hard push.
Tristán stuffed his hands quietly in his jeans pockets and walked next to Montserrat. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know you’re busy, but it would be good to take a break. You’ll burn out if you keep up this way.”
“I don’t burn out.”
She turned to the left, almost colliding with another woman’s shopping cart. The woman swore at them. Montserrat walked faster. She slowed down next to a large pyramid constructed with boxes of Zucaritas. Tristán reached for one of the boxes, flipping it between his hands. God, this was basically sugar in a box.
“Maybe I could skip the candles and take Araceli to the hospital,” she said, giving him a hesitant look.
“Good. And you know what, we don’t have to stay for dinner with the guy if he’s boring. We can drop off the bottle of wine and then go to my apartment and order from Benedetti’s.”
“You said I eat shitty food and you want to order pizza.”
“You do eat shitty food. But it’s okay to eat shitty food when we’re together.”
They grabbed more groceries. Tristán refrained from commenting on Montserrat’s purchases. At the checkout, he stared at a magazine on a rack and once again wondered if someone would be running a story about Karina. He didn’t want to, but he was counting down the days to the anniversary of her death.
They dumped the groceries in the trunk of the car. Once they were seated, he took off his sunglasses and glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes fixing on the scar under his eye. His left pupil was always a little more dilated than the right one because of the accident. He knew it wasn’t very noticeable, but it would never cease bothering him.
Yes, he realized he was lucky to be alive. But no, he couldn’t forget what had happened.
At least the dinner would provide a welcome distraction for both of them. Montserrat certainly looked like she needed a night of merriment, and he had to admit, seeing himself in that rearview mirror, that he too was stressed. Talk of actors in rubber suits playing monsters should cheer them up. Besides, he’d meant it when he’d said they could leave if it was a bore. He’d bought a second bottle of wine for that purpose. Just in case.