Silver Nitrate(73)

He feared to make any movement, thinking it would attract her attention. He also felt oddly tired and out of breath. His stomach churned. Yet even though he remained frozen in place, she stepped forward, moving toward him. Her hands, which had been closed by her side into tight fists, now opened and dropped glass fragments onto the floor. They crunched as she stepped on them, slicing her feet, making them bleed.

Tristán found the strength to turn around and run.

In his terror he smashed his face against the locked door. Pain blinded him, and he let out a hoarse cry. He felt the blood sliding down his nose, staining his lips, and his eyes were tearing up from the pain. He closed them and managed to find the door handle by touch alone, yanking it open and stumbling out into the hallway. His hands brushed against picture frames hanging from the wall as he tried to steady himself.

“Tristán!” Dorotea said.

He opened his eyes and realized she was standing a few paces from him, together with the photographer. They both stared at Tristán.

“A no-nosebleed,” he stammered. “I have a nosebleed.”

“Let’s head back into the bathroom.”

“No! Not the bathroom.”

“Tristán! Where else—”

“I should go,” he said. “I feel shitty.”

“Okay, look, fine, get out of that costume before you stain it with blood,” Dorotea said, reaching into the bathroom and handing him a towel, which he pressed against his face. She pushed him toward her bedroom, where he’d left his regular clothes.

Tristán changed as quickly as he could. His hands were still shaking, and he had a hard time with the buttons of his dress shirt; in his haste he smeared the collar with blood. He was putting on his jacket when Dorotea knocked and opened the door, looking at him with a severe face.

“You said you were clean, Tristán.”

“I’m not on anything,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. The nosebleed had finally stopped. The terror remained, his stomach an uncomfortable knot, and he knew despite his protestations Dorotea must be thinking he was now into even worse stuff than before. “I should go. We can finish the shoot another day.”

Dorotea did not reply. Or if she did, he did not hear her over the roaring in his ears. He had the beginning of a headache, and his nose still ached brutally. He put on his sunglasses, hailed a cab, and went in search of Montserrat.





18


The shock of seeing Tristán’s face gave way to relief. Tristán steadied Montserrat and wrapped his arms around her. “Dear God, Momo,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d find you.”

Montserrat clutched him tight and let out a sigh. Her mouth felt dry. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“You left a message.”

Did she? Montserrat could hardly remember what she’d done earlier that day. The building had left her with trembling hands and a quickly beating heart. She took a deep breath, glanced at the doorway behind her as if making sure nothing or no one had stepped outside. Then she took his hand and pulled him down the street. “Come on, let’s go. I saw something weird in there.”

“You too? Well, I guess trauma comes better in pairs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw Karina again.”

Montserrat turned a corner, unsure where they were headed. She walked quickly despite the pain in her leg. “What, at your apartment?”

“No. I was at a shoot. A ruined shoot now. I messed up.”

“What was she doing?”

“I don’t know…she was standing there. Dead and standing there.”

She gave him a side glance. “The blood—”

“Mine. I banged my nose. And the damn shoot! Fuck! Everyone is going to say I’m doing LSD, crack, and cocaine all at once. Just you wait. I won’t blame them if they do, either.”

“They won’t fire you, Tristán.”

He snickered. “They haven’t even hired me. Enough is enough, let’s hail a cab, head to the Mercado de Sonora, pay for a limpia—”

“You think that’s going to work?”

Tristán paused, pushing his expensive sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “No. You’re right. We burn all of Ewers’s things, we get a limpia, and then we pretend we never heard of the man.”

She stopped and stared at him. Burn them! The thought outraged her, but before she could say a word, Tristán was speaking again and raising a hand, trying to attract the attention of a taxi that was headed their way. “It’s the only way to handle this, Momo. We forget about all this shit and burn it, and then burn the ashes, too.”

She pulled his arm down and pulled him with her, across the street. “Are you kidding? I’m not letting you touch Ewers’s book.”

“Why the hell not? We throw gasoline on it and burn it in an alley.”

“It’s not going to solve anything!”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been reading. Look, I made a protective charm,” she said, taking out the napkin and showing it to him.

Tristán grabbed the napkin from her hands and inspected it. “You know, that’s the problem. You’re getting too involved in this abracadabra crap.”