Silver Nitrate(81)

Her finger carefully underlined the word “curse.” She turned the page.

    To reverse the flow of a curse, reflect it. Should the sorcerer cast a spell for illness, respond with a spell for health to neutralize it. Should the curse be of a more significant proportion, then a sacrifice may be required. The greater the magic, the greater the price.



Montserrat looked at the corkboard decorated with Ewers’s photos and crossed her arms. She tried to picture him this time not as a grinning fellow at a Mexican high-society party, performing parlor tricks for Alma Montero and her friends, but younger. In the days when his parents organized boisterous reunions. Merely a kid with an imagination, and this made her remember Tristán and the times she wrapped him in old bedsheets and pretended he was a ghost rising from the grave.

But Wilhelm Ewers had been neglected after his brother’s death. He’d grown up alone in a distant, large house, with no playmates to joke with him. My parents heaped praise upon my older brother and left me to spend lonely afternoons in my room, anticipating my early demise, he’d written.

An angry little kid who had been informed he was special and the rest of the world was beneath him. She slid her headphones off her ears, letting them rest on the back of her neck.



* * *



—

She picked up Tristán the following evening around seven. The palm trees lining the avenue that led them into Las Lomas were glowing bright with Christmas lights, but otherwise the festivities were subdued in this part of the city. Neatly trimmed hedges hid expensive houses, and sober driveways sneaked behind tall walls. People in Las Lomas had real gardens, with purple bougainvilleas and pale roses, unlike everyone in Montserrat’s sphere, who made do with potted plants.

This area was “exclusive,” which also meant people had good security. Even if Clarimonde Bauer was still living at the address on the invitation, they could be chased away by bodyguards. They could also end up in jail, if the lady got nasty, and Montserrat did not want to have conversations with cops again. But there was nothing left to do but roll the dice.

They turned left, taking a side street. It was practically impossible to see the numbers on some of these houses or the names of the streets. Nobody cared to put up the proper signage, because if you lived there, you knew where you were headed.

“I think it’s that one,” Tristán said.

Montserrat stopped the car and stared at the house Tristán had pointed out. A white wall surrounded it, and there was a silver metal gate. Behind it you could glimpse a house with a coarse gray exterior. Las Lomas had no single overwhelming style. The rich constructed their homes in whatever fashion they fancied, with Spanish-inspired stucco houses sitting next to Porfirian style mansions. The Brutalist also had its place, as evidenced by Bauer’s home.

Montserrat rang the bell. A servant came out and peered at them through the bars of the gate.

“We’re here to see Clarimonde Bauer,” she said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But please hand her this and tell her it’s about Wilhelm Ewers,” Montserrat said, pulling out one of the sheets of paper with Ewers’s writing.

The servant did not look convinced, but he came back after a few minutes and opened the gate for them, and they walked the wide stone path leading toward the front door of the house.

The inside of Clarimonde’s home was pure and simple: bright lights, polished cement floors, rough white walls. It had the feeling of a fortress, impenetrable, and the living room was all steel and glass furniture, except for the white couch where Clarimonde Bauer sat, dressed in matching white, as if color had been drained from this home.

Clarimonde Bauer’s hair was a light blond, worn in a low chignon. Her blouse and trousers were made of linen, and she had silver bracelets around her arms and rings on almost every finger. A vase with a flower and a bowl with fruit had been set atop a coffee table. There were markers and pencils stacked on one end of the table.

She had a large sketchbook and a piece of charcoal and was busy sketching when they walked in. She was drawing a still life. The first page of Ewers’s letter lay by her side.

“One must have hobbies,” Clarimonde said, still focused on her drawing. “Or else the mind atrophies.”

“When you were young your hobby was acting,” Montserrat said.

“That was a long time ago. I know your voices, but not your names. You are Abel’s little friends.”

“How do you know our voices?” Tristán asked.

“From the dub you made.”

“Then you have the film,” Montserrat said.

Clarimonde’s glasses were rimless and her eyes, when she glanced up at them, were green. “Of course.”

They were standing in front of her now. Clarimonde gestured for them to sit and they did, trying to balance themselves on an uncomfortable white couch that matched the one Clarimonde sat on. The woman set her drawing pad down on the table.

“Did you take it from Abel’s apartment?” Montserrat asked.

“You ask many questions but have not even introduced yourselves. It is a bit rude.”

“We’re Abel’s little friends,” Tristán said.

The woman smiled, although Montserrat wasn’t sure she appreciated the jest. “You brought with you a letter.”