Tristán sat in front of her and took a sip of coffee. The eggs were burned. Montserrat was a terrible cook, but he ate them all the same. His stomach was gurgling. The previous day he’d limited himself to a liquid, alcohol-based diet.
“I have a shift. I can give you a ride home before I head into the studio,” Montserrat said.
“It’s fine. I don’t want you to be late.”
“I wouldn’t be late.”
“I guess that would be nice, then.”
Montserrat nodded. Tristán focused on his plate. She cleared the table. He followed her into the kitchen and watched her as she placed the cups and plates in the sink.
“I’m sorry I woke you up last night.”
“It’s not the first time.”
“I’m still sorry.”
She scraped the fork against a plate, brushing crumbs into the drain. Her hair was pulled back with a scrunchie, and he was surprised to see Montserrat, like himself, also looked older than he remembered. Her face seemed to have acquired a couple of wrinkles on the forehead during the night.
But no, it was the simple passage of time, which he did not ordinarily recognize.
“Back when the accident happened, and afterward, when things were bad with you…the night with the painkillers when you…well, when I called the ambulance…that was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life,” she said. “I’m not sure what I’d do without you. I’d probably go mad.”
Montserrat’s face was calm as she spoke. She set down the dish she’d been holding and turned to him with cool eyes, but her words had burned him as bright as a match under his fingertips.
“Momo, I wouldn’t. Not again. Not really,” he assured her.
“But I know you might. One day. Maybe.”
“Don’t be silly, no. I was drunk last night, that’s all,” he replied, sounding a little breathless. “I’m fine.”
They both knew he was lying. He’d tried to kill himself once only five years before and thought about attempting it half a dozen times since then. Even if he didn’t contemplate suicide anymore, he might slide into another period of drug use and destruction that would sink him into the gutter for good.
He forced a smile on his face and gave her a playful jab on the shoulder. “I’ll run a comb through my hair and try to look half-decent before we get into your car, okay? We don’t want to have the neighbors thinking now you’re sleeping with hobos. Though you did bang that German backpacker that one time, and he looked like he slept on a park bench.”
“Twelve years ago,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The one time I pick up a guy at a bar and you’ll never let me forget it.”
“You have terrible taste in men.”
Montserrat smirked and gave him the finger. Tristán turned around and headed into her bathroom, where the mirror confirmed his suspicions. He did look like shit and needed to desperately scrub his face clean and attempt to freshen up his breath.
He shook his head and decided he should purchase an answering machine. That way he could screen his calls and burn the tape if that reporter ever phoned again. This, at least, might provide him with a better coping mechanism. For now, though, he tried to think happier thoughts.
“Urueta wanted to go antique hunting on the weekend,” he yelled from the bathroom, as he grabbed the bottle of mouthwash sitting next to the sink. “You’re invited.”
“Where?”
He opened the bottle and took a swig of the mouthwash, gargling and spitting. Montserrat stood at the bathroom door and looked at him in the mirror as he washed his face and patted it dry.
“I don’t know. La Lagunilla, I think. That’s how he makes a living these days. He buys antiques and resells them for a profit. He hasn’t shot a film in decades. But if you’re busy, it’s fine.”
“This shift, it’s my last one for a couple of weeks.”
“You have something lined up after that?”
“Nothing solid,” Montserrat said. “They keep giving work to others rather than me.”
“But you’re the best!”
“You know how it is. I don’t drink with the boys, and the boys don’t like me much.”
“I thought that didn’t matter to Gabino.”
“Gabino retired, remember? It’s Mario assigning the work now, and I got into that fight with him, so he’s assigning work with a medicine dropper or moving my shifts around.”
“Fucker.”
Montserrat shrugged. “It gives me a chance to keep an eye on you.”
“Forget about last night. I’m fine. I’ll only be a minute here and then you can get ready for work.”
He grabbed a comb and parted his hair. She gave him a cautious nod and moved away, heading toward her bedroom. Tristán tried smiling at the mirror, flashing his very white smile. Then he made a mental note to keep avoiding the newsstands in case anyone did decide to run a picture of Karina on the front page.
5
She stopped at Woolworth to buy sewing patterns for her sister. They were decorating a section of the store with plastic pumpkins for Halloween. NAFTA was supposed to have brought prosperity to Mexico. She wasn’t sure how much prosperity was rolling down her street, but they were getting a lot more American products, including American movies. Now with the passing of the Ley Cinematográfica, movie theaters wouldn’t have to show as many national films. COTSA had already been butchered, and there were hardly any screens left to show local flicks. Not that COTSA had kept to the rule of exhibiting 50 percent Mexican films before it was dismantled; they skirted the law, preferring to play what sold, and what sold was Rambo. On top of that, the movie palaces were being replaced by American-style multiplexes.
Film was a shambling zombie of an industry; she’d worked on the periphery of it and only succeeded in having half a life. Enigma could be her ticket to financial stability. God knew her current job wasn’t a fountain of riches.
She looked at one of the pumpkins and decided she still preferred sugar skulls. She bought a bag of peanuts at a newsstand and headed to the restaurant. Cornelia arrived wrapped in a great, fluffy coat and dumped her leather purse on the table with a sigh. Her eyeglasses were round, and behind them her eyes looked perpetually surprised.
“Well! I couldn’t find a parking spot. I had to circle the block forever. And the rates they have now! It’s armed robbery.”
A waiter made the mistake of heading toward their table. Cornelia immediately turned to the poor kid and began talking at a brisk speed. “I’d like tuna on lettuce. No, no mayo, no mustard, no tomato, just tuna on lettuce. Okay, maybe tomato. Yes, one little tomato. I’ll have a Diet Coke with a twist of lemon and a cup of coffee. Forget the coffee, I drink too much coffee. Mineral water and a twist of lemon. Can you bring everything out at the same time? You know what, make it a chicken breast with a salad on the side.”
Montserrat had already ordered, so she simply raised her glass of water at the waiter in solidarity. He turned around in silence, with the professionalism of a man who had seen his share of eccentric customers and was not fazed by anything anymore. Cornelia was, as Tristán liked to put it, an acquired taste.