Silver Nitrate(76)

“I went to the market,” he said.

Montserrat frowned, but held the front door open for him, and they walked up the stairs to her apartment. Once inside, he placed the bags on the table and began taking his purchases out.

Montserrat looked at the candles and packages curiously, reading the cheesy, garish labels with exotic names out loud. “Jinx Removing Powder, Black Chicken Soap for Spiritual Cleansing, Authentic Hunchback Oil.”

“I didn’t know what to buy, so I figured more is better, right?”

“Venus Soap for Attractiveness,” she said, showing him the crude rectangle of soap wrapped in pink paper. The label had the picture of a naked woman.

“They threw that one in for free. It’s for me.”

She laughed. “Of course. Not that you would need it.”

“Well, Dorotea did say I’m getting a bit old.”

“Nonsense. You’re beautiful and talented,” she said, taking out two red envelopes with crosses printed on them and adding them to the pile of objects.

“You should be my new publicist,” he said, winking at her.

She scoffed, but the sound carried no real exasperation. He was being a clown, but she could deal with that.

“I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday. It’s…this stuff is dangerous,” he said, pointing at Ewers’s book, which lay on the table. She’d been reading it at breakfast. “And you can get a bit obsessed with things.”

“I’m not—”

“It’s not a bad thing. That’s why you’re such a good sound engineer. Because you are methodical and careful, because when you have a problem, you don’t throw your hands up and give up. I’ve seen you work way into the night trying to get a sound mix right. It’s great. But I see some of those same dynamics at play here.”

“Don’t lecture me about compulsions,” she said, pulling out a chair and grabbing one of the red envelopes and shaking it, making its contents rattle. “I mean, you of all people.”

“Me, yes. Who else?” he replied, pulling out a chair in turn and sitting next to her. “Because I care, okay?”

Montserrat nodded. She dropped the envelope and folded her hands in her lap, looking down, not glancing at him.

“I’m scared, Momo. Real scared.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean you should be such a dick.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be a dick to me either, yet here we are.”

Tristán bumped his shoe with hers. Like they did when they were kids, telegraphing their thoughts, grinning as they planned mischief in his mother’s kitchen. He smiled. It was such a warm and friendly smile; the first time she’d seen it she’d been infatuated with him. A second was all it took.

“What time are we going to see Clarimonde Bauer?” he asked.

“I didn’t mean…you don’t have to go with me, Tristán.”

“What else do I have to do? It’s not like my phone is ringing off the hook with calls from producers.”

“You were right. It could be dangerous.”

“Oh? Did you find something else in that book?”

“Well, no. Not really.”

“Then we’ll go—oh, shit,” Tristán said. His beeper had gone off. He unclipped it from his belt and checked the message. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.”

He promptly picked up the receiver and dialed. Montserrat ventured into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and give him a little privacy. When she came back, he was standing looking thoughtful in the middle of the living room.

“Was that about the photo shoot?”

“No. It was Marisa Montero. She said she wants to meet with me this evening. She’s worried about her aunt. I said I’d see her at a restaurant near her home. Somewhere public sounded like the best idea. I don’t trust her. Could be she slices me with a machete like she’s Jason Voorhees’s mom if no one’s looking. Sluts like me always get killed midway through the picture.”

“How would you know? You closed your eyes all through Friday the 13th, you coward.”

“I kept them open when people were getting naked.”

“Liar.”

“What, were you watching me?”

“Only when you flinched.”

“That would be ninety percent of the movie,” he said, but he did it with a laugh, and she shook her head, smiling back at him.

“You’ll require a charm. I’ll show you how to make one.”

“A charm?” he asked blankly.

“We need a handkerchief.”

“What about all the stuff I bought? Won’t any of that help?”

She looked at the candles, powders, and soaps Tristán had brought with him. “No. You can’t buy magic for twenty pesos and expect it to work.”

“Does Ewers say that?”

He did, and he said plenty more. She’d found a certain comfort in the pages from his book. She liked the idea of systematization; an orderly world appealed to her nature. She could understand his methodic outlook—and there was a method to it, it was only that at first she’d been unable to grasp it. Tristán blossomed in chaos, but Montserrat liked control. Zeroing in on the details, looking at life through a macro lens. Ewers shared this tendency.