Alma lived in a six-story apartment building near Parque México. The earthquake of ’85 hadn’t leveled it, unlike many other ancient buildings that were condemned or razed, and it stood proud and elegant, the touches of Art Deco in its fa?ade giving it the alluring air of a grand dame slowly going to seed.
The dim lobby of the building had two rows of brass mailboxes and an ancient elevator the size of a coffin that creaked when it began its slow ascent and outright rattled when the doors slid apart and they stepped out onto the hallway leading to Montero’s penthouse apartment.
A maid opened the door and guided them to the living room. The furniture was mid-century modern, all teak and rosewood of a deep golden brown with curved, streamlined shapes. It bore no comparison to Abel’s packrat surroundings. Abel’s home had been a shrine to the past. Alma’s apartment evidenced a fondness for a décor of decades gone by, but it was not a chaotic jumble of memorabilia. It was as if she had culled all the unnecessary frills and kept only the treasures of a long life. For example, the green tweed armchair on which a woman lounged, artfully balancing a glass against her knee.
When they walked in, she stood up and shook their hands.
“I’m Marisa Montero,” she said. “Alma’s niece.”
She was a slim woman, fifty-something in age. Her makeup was heavy, her hair short, her nails red. Every detail of her seemed lacquered and deliberate.
“Tristán. And this is my colleague, Montserrat.”
“Pleased to meet you. Won’t you sit down? And what would you like to drink?”
“Water’s fine,” Tristán said, eyeing Marisa’s cocktail but abstaining. He was trying to keep his nose clean and his apartment dry. This whole spell and curses business had him nervous, and when he got nervous, he went back to Olympic levels of drugs and booze. He didn’t want to tumble off that cliff again.
Marisa repeated their request for water to the maid, who had been hovering behind the couch where they sat, and laced her hands together. She observed them with a practiced half smile.
“You said you are working on a documentary piece about Abel?”
“Yes. It’s very nice of your aunt to let us talk to her about her time working with him,” Tristán said and took out the mini cassette tape recorder Montserrat had procured for this occasion. “We need to tape both of you. I hope you don’t mind,” he said, pressing the red record button.
“I’m afraid my aunt doesn’t give interviews anymore. She had a stroke years ago. It slows her speech and keeps her in bed. She’s at our home in Acapulco for the winter. The city is too polluted this time of the year for her.”
Alma Montero was eighty-seven years old. He had checked before the meeting. It was a ripe old age, but he had hoped she’d be lucid and mobile enough to speak to them.
“Don’t worry, I relayed the questions you had for her and took note of her answers. Plus, I know her very well. I’m sure you’ll have enough material.”
Marisa reached for a leather pad and a pencil resting on a low table. Those must be her notes. Next to the pad there was a silver cigarette case and a matching lighter. The case was decorated with lapis lazuli and enamel, yielding a design of fans. Tristán placed his tape recorder by the cigarette case. The tape was spinning.
“You resemble her quite a bit. Except for the nose,” Montserrat said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment. She was a great star.”
“Beyond the Yellow Door was the only film she ever financed?”
Marisa nodded. “It was a complete failure. She almost lost all her money in that venture. That’s why production had to be shut down.”
“Because of money issues?”
“That and a series of production difficulties.”
The maid came back with a pitcher and two glasses. Marisa filled them with practiced elegance.
“Abel told us the film was cursed,” Montserrat said, carefully taking a sip of water.
“What a silly thing to say.”
“You don’t believe it, then?”
“My aunt read the tarot, she had a horoscope made for herself. A curse is entirely more dramatic.”
“But she dated Wilhelm Ewers, and he was a sorcerer.”
Marisa’s manicured finger tapped her glass languidly. She leaned forward, resting her left elbow on her knee, her chin against the back of her hand. The glass now dangled from the right hand.
“I think she dated a fellow named Ewers, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about or why it matters. This was not on any of the questions you submitted.”
“She financed a whole film for the guy and you don’t know about him? Maybe you’re not as well informed as you say you are about your aunt’s life. We could, of course, drive to Acapulco and ask her about Ewers. But I think you know about him,” Montserrat said. Tristán had to give it to her: she spoke with a steely aplomb that matched Marisa’s polished, neutral face.
The women stared at each other, like duelists gazing across a field, pistols cocked.
“I see Abel still has a big mouth,” Marisa said, breaking the bitter silence in the room.
“Abel is dead. He was murdered a few days ago.”
“That’s tragic. I’m sorry to hear it,” Marisa said in a tone that was sufficiently polite but lacking emotion.
“Your aunt was in touch with him before his passing.”
“They haven’t spoken in years.”
“Why would Abel lie? He said they spoke. She was angry at him.”
“What are you suggesting?” Marisa asked, and now irritation had crept into her voice. Not that he could blame her. Montserrat barked like a hound.
“Montserrat is simply trying to tie up some loose ends. Abel’s passing has left us with pages of notes and many questions that we can’t answer without help. He talked about Ewers, and he said your aunt was aware he was in possession of a few items he used to own.”
Marisa set her glass down and picked up the silver cigarette case, opening it and selecting a slender cigarette. Tristán reached forward, thumbing the matching lighter, and pressing its flame against the slim tip of the lady’s cigarette. She seemed to appreciate the gesture and gave him an interested look. Good cop, bad cop. He’d played the role in a show, ages ago.
“What we want is more background material,” Tristán continued, seeing he had captured her attention. “We need to know if we’re headed in the right direction, or toward a dead end.”
“Very well. I will talk to you about Ewers. But this needs to remain background material, you understand? You can’t quote me.”
“No, of course not.”
“My aunt was, as I said, an avid fan of the tarot, astrology, the Ouija board. All those activities. She met Ewers at some party or another. He was an aspiring actor and part-time fortune teller. He’d read palms at the gatherings of socialites. She quickly took a shine to him.”
“He wanted to act?” Montserrat asked.
“Very much so. She thought he had something, and tried to show him a few tricks. How to pose, how to speak. He was a performer back then, but not a very good one. Not yet,” Marisa said, and she gestured to a heavy green glass ashtray. Tristán handed it to her with a polite tilt of the head.