Silver Nitrate(31)

A magical face-lift, Montserrat thought, but she was careful not to say that. Next to her, Tristán seemed amused, and she wondered if he was thinking something similar.

“Who were the magicians that agreed to perform on screen?” Montserrat asked. “I imagine Ewers was one of them, but what about the other two?”

Abel stood up and reached for the bottle of whiskey, refilling his glass. He topped up Tristán’s drink and then stood in front of them, glass in hand pressed against his chest, before letting out a sigh. “I was one of them. Ewers thought you needed three spell casters. The father, the all-powerful male force, was the role he played. Then there was the son, the innocent. That was me. The ‘Kid Urueta.’?”

“Who was the third?” Montserrat asked.

“Originally, it was Alma. She represented the mother, the feminine principle of magic. But then Ewers confided in me and said he wasn’t going to cast a spell for Alma after all. He was ill, you see. He needed a spell to save his life. We would cast a different spell instead. But he couldn’t let Alma know because she wouldn’t agree to it. So, he recast the part.”

“You went behind Alma’s back and got another woman to read the lines he needed?” Montserrat said.

“I didn’t want Ewers to die, and I loved Clarimonde.”

“Your girlfriend was the third magician?”

Urueta clutched the glass and spun around, his back to them. “Ewers believed she was more powerful than Alma, and it solved the problem of the modified spell. Alma wasn’t supposed to know about it. But then José went and babbled to her, and also told her that Ewers was sleeping with Clarimonde.”

Tristán opened his mouth in surprise and let out a snicker. “Wait. Your girlfriend was banging the crazy German? Did you know about that?”

Urueta turned around and looked at the younger man angrily. So much for Tristán’s tact and for letting him speak. Then again, the men had been pounding back the whiskeys as if they were water. Montserrat was certain they were both a little drunk or Urueta wouldn’t be talking so freely.

“After we met Ewers, Clarimonde became interested in magic, in occultism, like I did. Call me stupid, but no, I didn’t think she had an interest in him beyond that, and neither did Alma. José was another member of our circle, and he somehow learned about it and told Alma, then told me. We were in post-production, and I had to stop our work for a few days because Alma was furious. Then Ewers died and everything went to hell. Alma wouldn’t let me finish the damn picture. She cut off the money and had the film confiscated. It was a bad memory for her, she said.”

“He was mugged,” Montserrat said, remembering that detail. “So it wasn’t disease that killed him in the end.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was bad luck. Bad luck followed all of us after Alma shut down our production. My relationship with Clarimonde didn’t survive. I heard she married a guy who made his money in real estate and she had children with him, but they all died in accidents. The scriptwriter? He fell down the stairs and broke his neck. The stuntman? He was thrown from a horse and never walked again. The musician who was supposed to compose the score? Died of a blood clot at the age of thirty-five. My career ended after The Yellow Door. I made smaller and smaller movies. I was done less than a decade later. I couldn’t even shoot a shampoo commercial.”

Suddenly Urueta leaped forward and let go of his glass. It shattered, making Montserrat jump in her seat. Urueta snatched the album she had been holding from her, feverishly turning the pages. “Look at this! A review from 1959 talking about my excellent sense of timing! Look at me here, on the set of The Opal Heart in a Bottle. A career doesn’t vanish from one day to the next! We were all cursed!”

Urueta took a big breath then slowly walked back to the couch in front of them and sat down, closing the album and placing it on his lap. He smiled, the corners of his lips lifting only a tad.

“I guess you can see now why it’s a bad idea to interview me. I’m a crazy old man.”

“You’re not crazy,” Tristán said.

Montserrat was surprised by the sureness and honesty in his voice. So far, Tristán’s attitude had been one of wry amusement. But he sounded sincere. He did like the old man.

“Maybe you had bad taste in friends back in the sixties, but you’re not crazy,” Tristán added with a shrug, showing a little of his trademark mordancy after all.

“Thank you for that.”

They were quiet. Urueta’s living room, which she’d found cozy on previous occasions, now seemed to her stuffy, and the man’s antiques and knickknacks had an air of stale sadness. The broken glass shards lay scattered between them.

“I don’t normally talk about this, this story…about Ewers because…when I said I talked about ‘the curse’ at parties, I did, but I was drunk when I brought it up. I learned not to, after a while. People stare, they think you’re a nut. But I like you both. You’re good people and I’m telling you the whole story, the whole truth,” Urueta said, looking at Tristán, then at Montserrat. “I don’t want to be interviewed about that movie, but I will agree to do it if you help me. I do need help.”

“I can ask the TV show if they’d pay for the interview,” Montserrat suggested.