Silver Nitrate(38)
“It’s a lead role.”
Tristán’s smile finally shattered, giving way to frank surprise.
* * *
—
“Yes, a lead in a soap. I’ll be Fernando Mondego, Count de Morcerf, the villain in a new take on The Count of Monte Cristo,” he said, holding his glass up with two hands. Otherwise, he’d spill Abel’s bourbon over the carpet.
“I knew it! I knew it would work!” Abel declared, raising his own glass. “I got a call this morning: the Cineteca wants to do a retrospective of my work.”
“That’s fantastic! But we should have toasted to that instead of me!”
“Oh, there will be plenty of toasts to go around from now on. It’s like I said: the spell worked, our luck is changing. We need music!”
Abel quickly walked toward the audio console and began looking at the pile of records next to it. Tristán sat down next to Montserrat, who was toying with an olive she had speared with a toothpick.
“I’m going to have to go on a diet,” Tristán said, looking at Montserrat in wonder. “God, I have to lose at least five kilos.”
“You’re mad,” she said.
“Definitely not. I’ve let myself go lately.”
“Nonsense, my boy. It’s all in the face,” Abel declared as he dropped the needle and Chet Baker’s “So Che Ti Perderò” started playing. “James Dean wouldn’t diet.”
“Mmm, but James is dead,” Tristán declared as he leaned forward and popped the olive Montserrat had been holding into his mouth. He laughed, and she gave him a frown. Yeah, she was still ticked off even if she had agreed to attend Urueta’s get-together. He’d thought it would be a serious conversation where they’d both tell Abel that he needed to cool it off with the phone calls and obsession about spells, but it was turning into a celebration.
“Don’t worry, my dear, your luck will change, too. Give it a little time,” Abel said as he walked back to where they were sitting.
“I’m glad you’re feeling more relaxed,” Montserrat said, which was a diplomatic answer considering she had been ready to strangle the old man only twenty-four hours before. “By the way, I have your duplicate here.”
She reached into her purse and held out a small can of film. “I have the original at Antares’s vault. You need to find a safe place for it, maybe at the Cineteca.”
“Not my freezer, then,” Abel said with a smile.
“I’m not letting you have it back unless you promise it’s never going to sit next to your ice cube tray again.”
“I promise. And I have something for you, my dear, to thank you for the sound editing you did.” Abel handed Montserrat a book. “It belonged to Ewers. It’s one of the souvenirs I keep.”
“The House of Infinite Wisdom by Wilhelm Ewers,” Montserrat said, opening the book and reading out the words printed with a simple typeface on the first page, for the book was hardbound and lacked a dust jacket. “It looks like a manual.”
“It’s part of the literature he distributed to his followers. I thought you could use it for your TV segment.”
She looked up at Abel in surprise. “You’ll do the interview?”
“Why not? Maybe after my retrospective is solidified, but it’s as you said: free publicity. Now, do we need to get more olives onto this table?” Abel asked, picking up the bowl that Tristán and Montserrat had ransacked.
* * *
—
It was late by the time they stumbled down to his apartment. Well, Tristán stumbled. Montserrat drank little and tended to keep her head straight even when intoxicated. He, on the other hand, did not struggle with inebriation. He let it wash over him.
Urueta’s music was still ringing in his ears, and he hummed that tune sung by Billie Holiday that played as they had said their good nights. “For Heaven’s Sake.” He couldn’t remember the third line, so he kept repeating the first two as Montserrat guided him to the bedroom.
“Is it that late?” he asked, the digits of the digital clock jumping at him in the semi-darkness of the room. He bumped a leg against the bed.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. We kept at it for a while, didn’t we?”
“Sure did.”
He peeled off the sweater he’d been wearing as he sat at the edge of the bed and yawned. “Does that mean you’re not angry at me anymore?”
“The problem seems to have resolved itself. Lucky you.”
“Luck,” he said, grinning as he took off one shoe, then another. He rubbed one foot against his ankle and yawned. “I’m horny.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Well, I get horny when I’m drunk,” he replied, flopping back on the bed and staring at the ceiling. “You should slip under the covers and whatever happens, happens.”
“That would be a lousy idea.”
“That’s the whole point of being drunk,” he said, closing his eyes. “It’s doing every stupid thing that comes into your head and then worrying about regrets in the morning. By the way…I feel bad about yelling at you. I know you’re not my maid, or my chauffeur. I was angry. And dumb. Very dumb. Sorry.”