Silver Nitrate(72)
“Not in ages, but I don’t have the role yet, and I’ve never had to pull any of these stunts to land a part.”
“Last time you landed parts you weren’t close to forty with a bit of gray in your hair,” Dorotea said with a chilling finality. “Smoking also fucks with your skin, Tristán. You could use a little less nicotine and a bit more humility.”
The wig they’d put on his head itched. Tristán excused himself and headed to the bathroom. He simply stood there, arms folded, contemplating Dorotea’s black shower curtain with its gold starbursts and the black tiles on the walls.
Tristán removed the wig and looked at himself in the mirror, which was fancifully surrounded by light bulbs like something an actress would employ when applying her makeup. He paid close attention to his left eye. The stark, unrelenting lights around the mirror did not flatter him.
He ran a nail underneath the scar, pulling at the skin, smoothing away the small wrinkles. He smiled at his reflection, showing his teeth. At least constant dental treatments had kept those in good shape. There were no stains, no matter what Dorotea said.
Tristán smoothed his cravat with a sigh, thinking about his first roles, the days when he made the lists of Top Teen Idols. He thought about the time Karina had posed with him for the cover of De Telenovela. He even remembered the headline: “Karina Junco and Tristán Abascal reveal who was their first kiss.” Karina’s first kiss was her neighbor, the son of an industrialist who graced the society pages. Tristán invented a high school girlfriend, even though he had not dated anyone seriously. He’d been too focused on his modeling work and the acting classes. His first kiss had been during a gig for a fotonovela. He’d turned bright red. It had been embarrassing. So he’d made up a story of a girl and a romantic date.
His whole biography, as narrated by the magazines, was a lie anyway. It never mentioned the Abaids, nor the neighborhood where he grew up. It erased those cheesy photo shoots and replaced them with talks of a miraculous discovery at a discotheque where Tristán had been spotted by a talent scout.
Karina’s biography had also been a sham. She was sold as a “good girl,” the kind who might go dancing on the weekend, but was waiting for Mr. Right; a girl who longed for marriage and motherhood. But Karina threw epic tantrums, outdrank men twice her size, and had more drugs in her purse than a pharmacy. He’d dug that about her; her wildness and unpredictability were what had attracted him in the first place. Her sense of humor, sexiness, and wiles completed the picture. None of that made it into the specials about her death. She was treated like a vestal virgin.
He supposed the inventors of plastic stars would craft an equally false narrative for him for his triumphant comeback.
Tristán Abascal, who has spent the last few years focused on traveling the world, has decided to take up the mantle of actor once more. “I went into an early retirement because I felt overwhelmed by the impositions of fame and I needed to find myself. But acting is in my blood,” he said. The handsome actor hasn’t been entirely removed from show business, and has dipped his toes into the world of TV dubbing.
Yeah, he could recite the whole puff piece already, even though it had yet to be written. They’d have to mention Karina, but that would be in the fifth paragraph, and there would be a heartfelt quote about her talent and sad death, without any gory details of the car crash. His substance abuse issues would be airbrushed away.
Tristán splashed water on his face and watched it go down the drain. He closed the tap and lifted his head, turning toward the towel rack. A sound came from the shower: the light tinkling of a curtain rod.
Tristán stood still and breathed in. He wanted to leave, he did. The sound, ordinary and commonplace, made him shiver. Yet he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes glued to the black plastic curtain with golden starbursts. It reminded him of a body bag. Yes, you could picture the outline of a body wrapped in black plastic.
The curtain rippled. It pulsated. Like a vein, or a living thing, like it was breathing. He had the sensation that he was moving forward, even as dread held him in place, even as the curtain was yanked aside by a hand, making the curtain rings rattle against the rod.
The shower curtain fell to the ground: an insect molting.
Karina stood in the shower, her clothes askew. He might have recognized her by the gold locket with the “K” around her neck, or her hair, or even by the simple fact Karina had been the only ghost he’d ever seen in his life. But instead, it was the low sob she let out that made him whisper her name.
She stood there, her head tipped down. Her lips moved without uttering words; she was a fish gasping for air, and then came that horrible gurgling noise that was seared into his mind as blood began to pour down her mouth, staining her chin.
The lights in the bathroom were as bright as they had been seconds before, yet the quality of the light seemed different to him. He would not have been surprised if the bathroom had suddenly been drenched in ghastly reds and blues.
He was trembling wildly. Tristán reached for the sink, attempting to steady himself. He thought he might faint.
Then Karina lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were terribly dark. Not the dark brown he remembered, but the black of a starless night. Black like a raven’s wing. The eyes did not see him. They were fixed on something else, something far away.