Silver Nitrate(19)

It had been Karina’s father who—despite retiring from producing, he still maintained his connections—had spearheaded that smear campaign; it was Karina’s father who had loaded the ammo and taken a shot at the young actor. Tristán couldn’t prove it, but he knew it, just as he knew his career was over. God forbid a leading man make the mistake of looking the least bit queer.

The rumors ballooned, and Tristán’s father yelled at him, saying he had shamed his whole family. Eventually, people lost interest in him. The bruises from the accident faded, but so too did Tristán’s name from gossip columns. Nevertheless, Tristán had to wade with caution when it came to his family. His father was still going on about how he had been corrupted by deviant producers and directors, even though he hadn’t minded those “deviants” when the dough started rolling in and Tristán shared his wealth with his family. The less said to his brothers about his romantic life, the better. His mother simply worried people would be mean to him if they learned he dated both men and women.

There was a lot of talk about you, back in the day. About your special parties, yeah. Such a snide little remark with such huge implications.

“I did not organize a party the night of the accident,” Tristán said tersely.

“I thought—”

“I did not. Check stories from that day, you’ll see it wasn’t my party.”

“People said you were cheating on Karina,” the reporter said, quickly pivoting, perhaps unwilling to admit a mistake.

“Who have you been talking to?” he asked, his cool slipping, the nonchalant, smooth tone he cultivated turning coarse. This was bullshit. But so much had been whispered about him. “Forget about it, I’m hanging up.”

“Were you driving the night of the accident?” the reporter asked. “Did you in fact kill Karina Junco?”

Tristán set the receiver back in its cradle and went into his bedroom. He found his wallet and took out the snapshot he’d been ignoring for the past few weeks and stared into Karina’s face. He imagined the photo De Telenovela would run of Karina. She might even get the cover, looking sweet, with ribbons in her hair, as she had looked in the promotional images for Juventud.

The tragic end of a would-be star.

Tristán would be a vulgar footnote in her two-page spread.

By one a.m. he was plastered and had to call a taxi.

He pressed the wrong button when he stumbled against the intercom outside Montserrat’s building and had to dial again, but he climbed the stairs with the ease of an Olympic champion. He knew, without looking at her as she opened the door and he walked into her apartment, that she was furious. The door slammed behind him. He tossed himself on her couch.

“It’s late,” she said.

“I didn’t get the part.”

“You could have told me tomorrow.”

He looked at her with half-lidded eyes. She was wearing an oversize t-shirt that reached her thighs and thick socks that were pulled almost to her knees. Her big toe poked out from one of the socks.

“You sleep in that?”

“Are you coming to consult on my wardrobe?”

“I came to tell you I lost the campaign. They’re going with someone younger. They want to reach the twenty-something demo. Something like that. They’re going with a blond dude. A clone of Luismi who cut a record two seconds ago. Maybe he modeled instead of singing, who the fuck knows. I’ll tell you, I—”

Montserrat hit him in the face with a cushion. She wasn’t gentle about it, either. She swung it with all the force she could muster. “You’re a thoughtless, drunk prick! I’m exhausted!”

“It’s not that late!” he yelled, tossing the cushion back at her. She swatted it away.

“No? Maybe you’re confused; this is not a nightclub. Were you partying and forgot your address?”

Tristán stared at Montserrat, rubbing a hand against his face, his eyes now wide open.

“Did Yolanda dump you a second time?” she continued. “Or were you unable to score at the bar? What’s the motherfucking stupid reason why you’re here at this hour?”

“Karina’s ten-year anniversary is next week,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Montserrat’s angry snarl turned into a shocked open mouth. She grabbed hold of the hem of her t-shirt and twisted it with one hand. “I’m sorry, I forgot,” she said. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically soft. It reminded him of when they’d been kids. She’d been sweeter, then. Not with everyone, but with him. She’d made sure to cover his eyes when there was a monster that was too scary on the screen and told him when he could look again. When he broke his arm, she wrote in their secret alphabet on his cast. She composed the eulogy for his pet turtle’s funeral.

“So did I. For a second. I agreed to an interview, and I didn’t think it would be about that.”

She stood next to the couch, looking at him, and he in turn looked at the ceiling, clasping his hands together and resting them against his chest. They’d played at pirates, but Montserrat played at vampires. Sometimes she made him pretend he was the vampire in a coffin made of cardboard, his hands pressed against his heart like that.

But vampires didn’t grow old, and when he’d looked in the mirror a few hours earlier, he was definitely riddled with gray hairs.