Silver Nitrate(7)
Ten days was ridiculous, though. Tristán reached the pay phone and dialed the number for the apartment manager’s office. Because this was supposed to be a nicer building, there wasn’t the usual portera in a checkered apron, her hair in curlers, that people could harangue about a problem. You had to phone a number.
The girl at the management office said she was aware of his phone issues, and no, there was no update on when that would be fixed and it was really Telmex’s fault anyway so maybe he should be harassing them instead. When he pointed out that the apartment had been offered to him with three months of free phone service the girl replied that she didn’t have his contract in front of her but it was still Telmex who had to fix his phone line. He hung up, muttered to himself, and began walking back to his apartment. Tristán was trying to cut down on his smoking, but frustration made him stop in front of a newsstand, where he bought a pack of cigarettes, some Chiclets, and an issue of Eres. He knew he shouldn’t grab the magazine. It only upset him when he saw the well-groomed faces of younger actors who had obtained roles he’d been up for. And there was the danger that they would be running a story on Karina. But he felt masochistic that afternoon.
Karina. He managed to forget her for three quarters of the year, but eventually succumbed, took out her pictures—he carried one in his wallet, but he had many others, tucked away in a shoe box—and spent too many hours staring at them. When he’d been younger, he’d believed he would be able to put the accident behind him. Now he could admit that might never happen, that in fact the ache was getting worse. Each year made the pain sharper. Most people couldn’t understand that. Whether they said it outright or not, they considered him weak, foolish, a failure.
Tristán stopped in front of the mailboxes, fetched several letters, and stuffed them in his back pocket, then lit his cigarette and headed to the third floor. After he walked into his apartment and tossed his jacket on the couch, he finally looked at the envelopes and realized one of the letters was a welcome message from the management company and the other two were not addressed to him. Those letters were for Abel Urueta, apartment 4A.
That was a name you didn’t hear these days. Montserrat and Tristán had spent more than one truant afternoon at the Palacio Chino and the Cine Noble eating mueganos and watching horror movies, including Urueta’s old flicks. Nowadays the Cine Noble showed pornos, and the Palacio Chino was falling to pieces, all its golden décor slowly tarnished by grime and neglect. Few folks made movies in Mexico anymore, almost everything went straight to video, and it was a stream of cine de ficheras and cheap comedies with men who pawed at a woman’s tits. La Risa en Vacaciones, with its hidden cameras and cheap jokes, was what passed for entertainment. And now Abel Urueta, who had directed three magnificent films in the 1950s, was a mere footnote in the history of entertainment.
Tristán felt something close to childhood glee as he looked at the letter. He quickly walked the steps up to the fourth floor and knocked on the door of 4A.
A distinguished-looking gentleman, his gray hair parted in the middle and a handkerchief knotted around his neck, opened the door and regarded Tristán curiously. He’d never seen a photo of Abel Urueta, but he thought this was the right guy. He had Stanley Kubrick eyebrows—arched a little, the eyes intense—coupled with a half smile fit for Luis Bu?uel.
“Mr. Urueta? I’m sorry, I seemed to have received your mail by accident,” he said, extending the letters.
“That damn postman,” the older man said, shaking his head. “One year I don’t give him cash on Postman’s Day and he acts like I spit on his face. Well, forgive me if I didn’t have change that morning. It’s practically armed robbery dealing with people these days. Accident! That fellow keeps slipping my correspondence in whatever mail slot he pleases.”
“Sorry about that. I can drop by other letters if they end up in my mailbox.”
“That’s nice of you. You must be the new guy in 3C. The woman who used to live there had a yappy dog that pissed in the lobby. She coughed all the time, too.”
“I hope I’m an improvement, then.”
“Definitely. Well, I’m Abel Urueta, as you probably guessed by the envelopes,” the old man said, extending his hand.
“Tristán Abascal.”
They shook hands. Abel smiled. A flash of recognition crossed his eyes.
“I know that name. And that face. You’re an actor.”
“More like a voice-over actor these days.”
“My boy, what a waste to do voice work! You have the face of a young Arturo de Córdova.”
Tristán, who in his haste had dispensed with his trusty sunglasses, felt both oddly shy and proud. He was used to being admired—at least back in the day; there was less admiration and more dissection these days—but this compliment, from someone who had worked with the real Arturo de Córdova, touched him. Even at the height of his popularity Tristán hadn’t starred in movies. He’d been a soap opera actor, an extra on several forgettable flicks, and he’d even done a toothpaste ad. Films were another realm, and for him film stars of the Golden Age were gods preserved in celluloid.
“Thanks. It means a lot. I have to say your movies were amazing, sir. Whispers in the Mansion of Glass was perfect,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like an absolute dork.