Silver Nitrate(69)
Nothing. The plan for a documentary piece was over. Maybe Tristán was correct, maybe they ought to cease their inquiries and pretend they had never heard of Ewers or his movie. But she couldn’t look away and must find out who had killed Abel. That she knew, like she knew when a musical cue was about to play on screen. She didn’t want to attribute any supernatural qualities to this feeling, but perhaps there was something of that to it. Abel had said once a spell is in motion, it must conclude.
It could also be a run-of-the-mill obsession, simple boredom. The tiresome echoes of her humdrum life that now pushed her to find that frisson of excitement. She felt alert and eager, like she hadn’t in a long time.
“It’s none of your business,” she told Nando.
“When you ask for someone’s help you should at least pretend to be polite. I thought you were going to buy something, but you’re wasting my time,” Nando said, scratching at the skin right above the elastic waist of his sweatpants.
Montserrat took a couple of bills from her wallet and slammed them on the table, next to the beer bottle. She didn’t have money to be throwing around, but she also didn’t want to spend an hour chatting up Nando. “There. Now give me his contact information.”
Nando took both bills and stuffed them in his sweatpants’ pocket and shrugged. “Beats me.”
“You don’t know.”
“I have no idea,” Nando said, shaking his head and taking another swig of beer.
“You fucker. How were you going to get the script authenticated, then?”
“I met the guy when I was selling at El Chopo. He stopped by my stall, I gave him my info. I’ve bought a few things from him. Lobby cards, other scripts, that kind of stuff. But he’s the one who contacts me.”
“Give me back my money, you bastard,” she said, stretching out a hand and glaring at him.
“You’re cute when you’re pissed off. If you want to play detective, maybe you should seduce me to get your answer.”
“You touch me, I’ll kick you in the balls,” she said matter-of-factly.
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you need him, you could try the coffee shop where I normally meet him. It’s always the same place. The Maupassant. They sell crepes, about two blocks from Metro Chilpancingo. I think he’s friends with the owners. What’s your research about? Golden Age writers?”
“Something of the sort. Does he still write?”
“No. I think he’s a copy editor. He has memorabilia from back in the day and sells it from time to time, to pay for a vacation or whatnot. Nice fellow.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall, gray hair, has a beard. Wears a hat. Do you want to look at a new shipment—”
“Thanks,” Montserrat said. She quickly stood up, shook Nando’s hand, and before he could attempt to give her a kiss on the cheek, hurried outside the apartment. Creep.
“Crush a spider in your left hand,” she muttered to herself, wishing she could crush this guy.
The Maupassant was on Minería. It advertised authentic Parisian crepes as well as enchiladas on its windows. Neither offering seemed to be drawing in the crowds. When Montserrat walked in, the place was deserted. The small, white tables had vases with plastic flowers, and the walls were decorated with cheap posters showing the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. A white board announced the weekly special: empanadas de atun a la vizcaína and Nutella crepes for dessert. The woman behind the cash register was watching a small black-and-white TV set. She’d set a glass with a sign that said “tips and donations” on the counter. It only held a couple of coins.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m trying to find a gentleman by the name of Romeo Donderis. He also goes by José López. I was told he knows the owners here.”
“The owner’s not here today.”
“Could I leave my number? He could call me back.”
“You can leave it, but I don’t know when he’ll be coming in,” the woman said with a shrug.
Montserrat wrote her number on a napkin and handed it over. “Hey, can I look through your Yellow Pages?”
“I suppose. Come behind the counter.”
Montserrat did. The Yellow Pages were next to a battered Garfield phone with the cat’s pupils rubbed out. Montserrat opened the second volume, looked under “Publishers” for Ediciones B. But it wasn’t listed. Marisa had said Clarimonde Bauer had run into financial issues, so maybe the company had gone out of business. Still, she remembered the address printed in the book. It was downtown.
“Do you have change for a bill?”
“What do you think this is, a bank?”
Montserrat took out a bill and stuffed it in the glass for tips. She handed another bill to the woman, who frowned but gave her the coins she needed.
Montserrat thanked the woman. The creperie employee waved her away and went back to watching television.
At the corner there was a public telephone, its plastic shell defaced with crude graffiti. She tossed in a coin and dialed the number for Tristán’s pager. After all, he did say he would keep it clipped on and wanted to be informed of what she was up to. She left a message with the address she was going to and indicated she’d stop by his apartment that night.
Montserrat took the subway to Bellas Artes and bought a map from a newspaper kiosk a few paces from the station’s exit, and after consulting it walked around the Alameda, avoiding the vendors who occupied it this time of year, offering to take pictures of the kids with Santa Claus or the Three Kings for a modest sum of money. She dodged pedestrians and peddlers of plastic trinkets, ignored decorations of giant artificial poinsettias hanging from buildings and signs advertising romeritos con mole, and followed her map down a small net of streets filled with ancient gray buildings.