I became obsessed with meeting Alma, and although it was no easy feat, I managed to become well acquainted with her. Yet these meetings only led to disappointment, for in person Alma did not exude anything but a vague power. I had thought her a sorceress and found a woman.
I was baffled when, at another screening, I once again felt that same elusive power but in person could only discern an ordinary actress and retired performer. One evening, I was at Alma’s house idly listening to a few people chatter, and one of them made a quip about celluloid goddesses and their acolytes. This random uttering was the key to the puzzle. I understood that Alma’s power derived from the medium. It was the film itself that seemed to amplify whatever latent abilities she possessed. And it was not only the film, but the act of watching the film with an audience that granted it its might.
A movie is a spectacle, but so is a sacrifice atop a pyramid. It was the truth that Aleister Crowley glimpsed when he staged “The Rites of Eleusis,” a knowledge which I have now perfected.
Through trial and error, I have come to understand the importance of silver nitrate and sound in the creation of a most powerful spell. My runes, by themselves, are child’s play, and therefore I reach the fifth and most important point of my story: my death.
My heart, fragile as it has always been, is sure to fail me soon. I’ve grown weaker and weaker, and I foresee my end. But, as the serpent sheds its skin, I will merely shed one skin in exchange for another. I will rise anew.
My whole existence has been nothing but the prelude to this great event. I can now see how each of the turning points in my life embroidered the picture of my destiny. I have learned from every single sorcerer and shaman who ever crossed my path, and when they would not share their secrets, I have stolen them. I have lied, I have cheated, I have bled and made others bleed. I have amassed all the knowledge that could be had that was mine for the taking.
My will has been honed, and as my body has turned frail, my feeble heart now almost grinding to a halt, my mind has become stronger and will overcome the natural limits of the flesh.
Should everything proceed as we have planned, then upon my rebirth I will burn this letter and with it all traces of Wilhelm Ewers, becoming someone new.
But should an obstacle present itself, do not let this letter go astray.
For I write my story and my will upon these pages, and in doing so I affix myself to the world.
For I preserve my will upon my image and in doing so affix myself to the world.
My dear Clarimonde, I affix myself to your memory, let nothing come between us. Await me.
Wilhelm Friedrich Ewers.
Montserrat examined the thin sheets of paper with their tiny black scribbles, and she had the thought that she was grasping a piece of an ancient exoskeleton, as if indeed Wilhelm Ewers had left a part of himself upon these pages, as though the letter and the book itself were smudged with his fingerprints and his magic. She closed the book and placed it on her desk.
She walked back into the living room, her movements slow. There was something almost voyeuristic about this act of reading Ewers’s letter, yet it had been extremely helpful.
Wilhelm Ewers, she could now confidently state, had grown up during the time of burgeoning occult movements in Germany. When such esoteric groups were suppressed, he survived and moved to South America, where he perfected a syncretic magic bible that liberally borrowed from other magical systems. He took ideas from Crowley, yes, but also numerous unnamed local warlocks and healers. Ewers had learned from or stolen from a vast number of people before making himself at home in Mexico.
The picture of the dead man was acquiring colors and details in her mind, to the point that she could almost picture what Ewers might have said if she’d asked him a question. She supposed that was to be expected, considering that she was interested in doing a story about him for Enigma, but it also made her feel oddly close to him. She didn’t want to admit Ewers was an interesting fellow, but she supposed he’d had a certain flair, and you could still taste that long after his death. Plus the spells, the idea of magic as something that could be imprinted on film, the delicate systematization…
The phone rang. She was tired and stared at it as though it were a strange plastic beast, as though she had never seen a phone in her life. She thought it might be Tristán, suddenly remembering he’d promised to phone and had not called her the previous day. It took four rings for her to pick up the receiver and press it against her ear.
“At 2:29 I will be dead,” Abel Urueta said.
12
“I didn’t know who to speak to. Tristán is not home and I remembered your number and I have no idea what to do.” Abel sounded agitated, out of breath. Had he been running?
“What happened? Where are you?”
“I was selling watches at a shop near the Angel.”
“Are you still there?”
“I’m…yes…I’m at Liverpool and Amberes. Montserrat, I’ll be killed!”
“Listen to me, there is a shopping mall nearby, head to the food court. At this time of the day there will be tons of people. You are not going to get killed in front of the frozen yogurt stand. Sit there and wait for me.”
“Montserrat, I saw my death. At 2:29, and it’s already 1:30.”
Montserrat checked her wristwatch. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. Wait for me at the food court.”
“Yes, yes, I will.”
He hung up. Montserrat fetched the book she had been reading and stuffed it in her purse. Without its cover, removed so she could peruse its binding, its weight felt different; it was a thing transformed, devoid of its skin. Traffic was heavy, and Montserrat gritted her teeth, afraid Abel might get tired and rush off without her. But she found him sitting in the food court, as she’d asked him to. Gone was the sophisticated, put-together gentleman she had met a few weeks ago. Instead, there sat a nervous old man who jumped up the moment he saw her.
“Abel, what the hell is going on?” she asked.
“Last night she called me and today I had a vision.”
Montserrat sat down, placing the purse on her lap, and he reached over for her hand, clutching it tight.
“Who called you?”
“Alma Montero. I hadn’t heard from her in years, but she phoned me and she said she knew I’d been dabbling with Ewers’s spells and that I must set things right or I’d be sorry.”
“What did she mean by set things right?”
“She wants the film and anything that I own that belonged to Ewers. I always disliked Alma,” Abel said, shaking a finger in the air. “She was loaded, but she was a prickly one, even back then. She hardly let me speak this time and called me names. The filthy mouth on that one.”
“How could she know you were dabbling in spells, or that you had the film?”
“It must have been José,” he muttered as he relaxed his grip on her hand. “Tristán complained so much about seeing his girlfriend the other night that I had to consult José. I had not told him…he sent the talisman with the nails because I said I was casting a spell, but I didn’t specify what kind, just that I might need a little something for protection. He took his time and sent what you saw. When I phoned him and specified we had dubbed the nitrate print, he became upset.”