“Are you ready to order?”
“I’d like a Diet Coke. Could you move us to the smoking section?”
“It’s full.”
“If there was a table that opened up, could we move there? What’s your name? Mari. That’s nice. Mari, would you be able to keep an eye out for a table for us?” he asked. “As a special favor for me, please.”
He spoke with that deep, velvet-smooth voice he always used when he wanted to get something. The voice had a success rate of 90 percent. The waitress smiled at him. Montserrat could tell by her expression that she was wondering if she didn’t know Tristán from somewhere. She had that curious look people got around him. Maybe she’d remember him later.
“Well, all right,” the waitress said, blushing.
“Thank you, Mari,” he said.
Tristán Abascal, born Tristán Said Abaid, was Montserrat’s age. Thirty-eight. They’d grown up in the same building, and they both loved movies. But their similarities ended there. Tristán was tall and handsome. Even the years of drug use and the car accident hadn’t completely marred his looks. He wasn’t the same crazy-beautiful boy he’d been, but he still cut a striking figure. And although it had been about ten years since he’d acted in a soap opera, some people still recognized him.
Montserrat, on the other hand, was small and plain. When they were kids, the others mocked her limp. After three surgeries, her foot had improved quite a bit, though it pained her when it got cold. Now that there were bits of silver in her hair, her plain face was only growing plainer.
“So, the good news is I found a place. It’s in Polanco and it’s the right size,” he said spinning his sunglasses with one hand and smirking. The doctors had done a good job with his left eye; there was but a faint scar under it, and the eye was still smaller than the right one, a little lopsided, that pupil permanently dilated just a tad more than the other. It gave his face a faintly mismatched air where once before it had possessed an elegant, near-perfect symmetry. Nothing terrible, but he was self-conscious about it, even after many years. He wore the sunglasses all year long, everywhere he went. In the first few months after the accident, he even wore them indoors.
“How much is it?”
He gave her a figure, and when she raised her eyebrow at him the smirk grew into a big smile. “It’s a bit pricey, I know. That’s why I’m laying off the Dunhills. I’ll need all the voice work I can get. Work has slowed to a trickle.”
“You too? We should buy a lottery ticket.”
“Cash flow problems?”
“Not dire, yet. But I’d like to help Araceli with her expenses.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Good. I mean, as good as she can get. We’re hoping it’ll go into remission, but despite all the treatments and the limpias, nothing’s changed.”
“I should stop by and say hi to her sometime.”
“She’d love that.”
The waitress came back with his Diet Coke and a glass filled with ice. Tristán smiled at her as she poured the soda. He ordered a Monte Cristo sandwich and fries. She knew he’d poke at his food and eat little.
“I need to be out by the thirtieth, and I have the movers booked and everything, but I’ll have the keys sooner than that. I was thinking we could look at it before the move. How about Friday?”
“I’m probably going to be stuck doing a rush job all week.”
“In that case could I borrow your car? I wanted to take a few small things on my own.”
Montserrat had three loves. One was horror movies. The other was her car. The third was Tristán.
She’d always loved him, first when he’d been simply “El Norte?ito,” that slightly confused boy from Matamoros with the funny accent. She grew up in Tristán’s kitchen and had even learned to cook meatballs the way his Lebanese mother did. Montserrat’s parents were divorced, her mother was seldom home, and her sister Araceli was a terrible cook, so she much preferred eating with him.
Theirs was the bountiful affection of children who sat close to the TV set, mouth open, and watched monsters carrying maidens away. After his braces were removed, Tristán morphed into a cute teenager, the one all the girls had a crush on; she too had a crush on him. Around that time, Tristán started taking acting and singing lessons. He was no good with the singing, but he did get work modeling for fotonovelas and as an extra in several forgettable flicks before landing a steady gig at Televisa.
By 1977, when the twenty-two-year-old made his debut in a soap opera, he had the chiseled good looks of a star, and Montserrat’s love became a roaring passion that was eventually dampened by his utter indifference. She loved him still, but it was not with the desperate romantic yearning of her younger years. She’d eventually admitted that Tristán was a bit of a shit at times and more than a little fucked up. He could be a horrible, selfish prick, and his numerous personal problems took their toll on their friendship.
Yet she loved him.
However, despite this deep affection, she would not give him her car. She immediately tensed and put her cup down.
“Is that all you wanted? To borrow my car?”
“Come on, no. It’s been a while since I last saw you. I wanted to say hello.”
“And conveniently borrow my car.”
“It would only be a tiny trip.”
“No. You’re not going to lug around your mattress on top of my car to save yourself money with the movers.”
He laughed. “I’m not tying the mattress to the roof of your car. Come on, Momo.”
“No. That’s it, no. Take a cab. Or have Yolanda drive you there.”
Tristán’s lips were pressed tight together, and he was staring at her. But she wasn’t going to let him have the car. She’d wanted a car the Saint drove on the TV when they were kids, a Volvo P1800. Since she couldn’t get one, she’d settled on a Volkswagen that ran like a dream. It was white, immaculate, and kept safe and sound in a reliable garage spot she rented a block from her home. It was not the car of a TV hero, but it was her precious four wheels, and she didn’t need Tristán stinking it up with his cigarettes, imported or not.
The waitress came by and told them she could move them to the smoking section. Montserrat took her cup of coffee, and he grabbed his soft drink. When they sat down again Tristán again toyed with his box of cigarettes. Montserrat extended a hand and placed it over his. “I’d like it if you stopped smoking.”
“I’ve told you, it keeps me thin.”
“If not for your health, think about your teeth.”
“That’s why I have veneers.”
“Tristán.”
“We switched sections so I could smoke.”
“We switched because you’re a stubborn fucker,” she said, almost hissing at him.
“Mmm,” he replied as he lit his cigarette and took a drag. “Yolanda and I broke up, so she’s not driving me anywhere.”
This startled her. Usually, Tristán called Montserrat at the end of his relationships. He used her as a confessional booth.
“What? When?”