“Slippery motherfucker,” she whispered, but at least she now could pinpoint a man going by that name who had made it into the local film publications on at least one occasion. If she kept looking, perhaps she would find more mentions of him somewhere.
That same afternoon Tristán called and said Urueta wanted to have them over the next day. Montserrat, with her usual punctuality, arrived notepad and pen in hand at the arranged time. Tristán told her to stuff the notebook in her purse. It might scare Urueta off.
“Let me do the talking,” Tristán added.
“Last time you did the talking and you screwed it up.”
“And I’m fixing it.”
“What’s wrong with me doing the talking?”
“You have the subtlety of a steamroller.”
“I do not!”
“You do! Let him drink, let him relax, then ask questions.”
Although reluctantly, Montserrat agreed to zip it, and they marched up the stairs to the old man’s apartment. Abel Urueta received them with a whiskey in his hand and a yellow scarf knotted around his neck, and asked them what they wanted to have. He then launched into a story about Ava Gardner who, according to Urueta, favored gin as her drink of choice. Soon enough, Montserrat was nursing a soda, Tristán was imitating their host by also having a whiskey, and Urueta was looking placid. Montserrat bit her lip and didn’t make a peep.
“Montserrat thought you had excommunicated her,” Tristán said, stirring the ice cubes in his glass and leaning back in the couch they were sharing. “She was ready to pray twelve rosaries as penance.”
Across from them Urueta laughed. “I overreacted. You must understand, I don’t want details of my personal life and my friends shared with a show like Enigma.”
“It’s not as bad as that. Besides, it would mean a lot to Montserrat. She’s trying to land a few gigs with them. All she wants is to hear a bit more about an old movie. What’s the harm in chatting about it? There are no cameras rolling here.”
Urueta glanced at them hesitantly. He wanted to talk, she could tell that much. Tristán was right. With Urueta, chatting about his glorious cinematic past was as much a compulsion as the gin and tonics, whiskeys, and other drinks he regularly imbibed. He was never in a room without a glass in hand for long, and he wasn’t without a story for long, either. In an odd way he reminded her of Tristán. Or maybe he looked like what Tristán might become in a few years if he kept walking the same path.
“I saw a picture of you and Ewers this week,” Montserrat said.
Tristán gave her an annoyed stare. So much for letting him talk. But rather than looking upset, Urueta seemed intrigued.
“Where?”
“It was an old magazine story. Alma Montero was in it, too, along with a young woman. Clarimonde Bauer was her name.”
“Clarimonde was my fiancée,” Urueta said. He set his glass down, stood up, and pulled a book from a shelf, turning the pages. “She wanted to be an actress. Here she is in 1960. She was twenty-two and I was twenty-eight. A couple of young fools. See?”
She had been wrong. Urueta had grabbed a photo album, not a book. She took it from his hands and peered down at the open page. There were several snapshots showing two young people holding hands. The girl with auburn hair was indeed beautiful, and the young man had a cheery smile on his face.
Montserrat did a little math in her head and realized Urueta was now sixty-one. It surprised her. He looked older, worn down. The booze had carved his face with a rough hand.
Tristán peered down at the pictures. “You were awfully young to be directing movies at that age,” he said. Montserrat could recognize the note of rehearsed admiration in her friend’s voice, but Urueta was immediately taken by the compliment.
“They called me ‘The Kid.’ I had three movies under my belt by then. It runs in the family. My mother was a script girl, my father was a cinematographer. I grew up playing around the prop department. I knew anyone there was to know in the movie business.”
“Including Alma Montero?”
“She was a friend of the family.”
“Was Ewers a friend of the family, too?”
Montserrat turned the page of the album. There were more pictures of Urueta, some alone, others with people she did not recognize. Her fingers drifted across the edges of the photographs.
“No. I met Ewers through Alma. In 1960, I had shot three films. Yes, low-budget horror films, but I knew I’d get bigger projects soon enough. Unfortunately, I had developed what you’d call a little bit of a credit problem. I owed money, and it kept me awake at night. Alma heard about this and told me she was going to be financing a film and wanted to shoot the following year. She would pay me a decent salary, and when the movie was done she’d get me in touch with her old Hollywood friends so I could try my luck there. Turn three more pages and you’ll see him,” Urueta said, pointing at the album.
Montserrat did as he said. She turned those three pages and there he was. The picture startled her, not because there was anything unusual about Ewers’s appearance, but because his face had been half hidden in the other picture she’d seen, as if he feared the camera. But there was nothing shy about Ewers in this photograph. In fact, the photo dripped with self-possession.
Ewers was seated with his hands resting on his thighs, and he was leaning forward. His legs were spread wide. His face might have been bland if it hadn’t been for his firm mouth and the piercing blue eyes that stared at the viewer. Something in the tightness of the jaw, in the sharp slope of the eyebrows, demanded attention. There was a trace of rancor in those features. This was a hungry man.
“He looks like a dude who would stab you in an alley and go through your pockets for spare change,” Tristán said, peering down at the picture. “He looks pissed.”
“I don’t think I ever thought that exactly, but he made a vivid impression on everyone who met him, although in the beginning I admit I assumed he was a garden-variety gigolo.”
“How come?”
“Ewers changed his biography and age depending on the listener, but the birth year that seemed to stick was 1923. Alma was born in 1906. With such an age gap, I assumed Alma was simply infatuated with Ewers and wanted to please him by shooting that silly film of his.”
Montserrat held the album closer to her face. Ewers wore a double-breasted trench coat of a light, sandy color. Around his neck hung a large circular silver pendant carved with spidery lines.
“What’s that pendant he’s wearing?” she asked.
“A vegvísir. That Which Shows the Way. It’s supposed to be an ancient Norse talisman to help travelers return home safely.”
“Let me see,” Tristán muttered, taking the album and frowning. “You can probably buy that at El Chopo for a peso from one of the darketos.”
“I doubt it. The runes carved on it were designed by Ewers. But I thought exactly the same thing you are thinking now: that Ewers was a phony.”
“Why did you change your mind?” Montserrat asked.
Urueta retrieved his glass and took a sip. He was smiling as he looked down at the floor. “The script Ewers had worked on was not terribly special. A young woman reveals the secrets of a magical cabal and is punished by the members of that secret society. Her boyfriend saved her six minutes before the movie ended and killed the bad guy. An ordinary movie.