You should never be afraid of magic. That’s what she had told Tristán. Fear gives others power over you. But her hands were trembling.
“Leave me,” she told the silence, mouthing the words, although she could hardly hear them, and made herself turn around and hurry down the hallway.
She reached the stairs and began her descent, moving carefully, rapidly, yet without running. She had the impression that something was following her, something that moved with a quiet, liquid ease, and left no echoes as they descended the stairs. Something that she could not see, but only feel, although, as she reached the second landing, there in the corner of her eye—the edge of something. A coat. The flap of a loose belt, perhaps, trailing on the floor.
But there was nothing, no one.
“Leave me,” she repeated, the handkerchief clutched in her left hand. She gripped it so tightly she was afraid she’d cut off the circulation to her fingers.
Montserrat could see the doorway now, and the feeling that someone was coming behind her only intensified as she reached the last few steps. But ahead of her, the lobby was onyx dark. A vault.
She hesitated, her fingers feeling the cool ironwork of the banister, and contemplated that darkness that seemed to silently breathe and heave before her. Awaiting her. A trap of silk and gloom.
Nevertheless, that was the only way out. To ascend the steps again would only mean to retreat into the soundless heights of the building, and toward that presence that chased her like a disembodied shadow.
Montserrat swallowed and closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a step.
She thought, as her foot reached down, that the someone behind her was about to lean down and whisper against her ear, breath brushing the back of her neck.
Montserrat.
But no. Those were her frazzled nerves. It was still quiet in the building. Even her steps were soundless. She breathed in dust and dampness, felt sweat trickle down her forehead, heard nothing.
The silence was like silk, toying with her, wrapping tight around her body after allowing one quiet, muffled noise to reach her ears: the tinkle of a circular pendant, nestled against folds of clothing. Vegvísir. That Which Shows the Way.
Someone slipped closer, creeped up behind her and gripped her hand. Taut fingers encased her own.
She stumbled and almost lost her footing as she reached the ground floor, but she was holding on to the banister and gritted her teeth before opening her eyes and shouting.
“Leave me!”
The echo of her voice across the lobby was a slap, reverberating within the building. Somewhere, pigeons batted their wings and flew up and away. The silence drifted up, too, like smoke escaping a chimney. It was gone.
Montserrat whirled around. Behind her, on the staircase, there was no one, and the lonesome hallway on the ground level was also empty. The lobby was dark, but it was the usual darkness of old buildings and enclosed spaces.
She yanked the front door open and stepped out into the street, colliding with a wild-eyed Tristán. The collar of his shirt was smeared with blood.
17
Tristán had hoped he’d be able to duck out of Dorotea’s apartment and meet up with Montserrat downtown, at the address she’d pinpointed as the offices of Ediciones B. But he now doubted that would happen anytime soon. He’d already asked Dorotea twice how long this might go on and had received no real answers. Instead, Dorotea had palmed his cheek and offered him a diet soda.
He supposed he should have been grateful to Dorotea for organizing a full-fledged photo shoot, with makeup artists, a hairdresser, wardrobe, and all manner of assistants coming and going, rather than handing out an old file photo. But he was feeling rather tired. All this attention, coming after years of indifference and neglect, was like gorging on sweets. He was overwhelmed and nervous as a boy who had never stood before a camera lens.
It didn’t help matters that he hated the clothes Dorotea had picked for him. He had thought to have his photo taken in a suit or a tasteful turtleneck, but Dorotea had brought costumes in the style of the soap he was going to star in. It was a riff on The Count of Monte Cristo, a historical melodrama where the ladies would wear anachronistic dresses that showed too much boob and Tristán would be stuffed into slim, dark suits with cravats at the throat. Tristán’s role demanded a long, Fabio-like mane of hair. Tristán’s hair was cropped short, which meant they’d brought wigs.
The photographer regarded him with a critically raised eyebrow and declared he wanted an “Eduardo Palomo as Juan del Diablo” look, not whatever the fuck was going on with that rat’s nest on his head. Off came the wig they had given him and on came a different one.
Tristán had never acted in a period piece. His soaps were contemporary Cinderella tales, stories of country girls who moved to the big city and caught the eye of millionaires. Or else sickly sweet ensemble teenage dramas. He played fresh-faced playboys and heirs to enormous fortunes. Karina had served as his perfect foil. She had that upbeat look and sassy smile that made for good posters.
He wasn’t even sure he could pull period garb off. Some people had faces that were too modern. You couldn’t imagine Bibi Gaytán as a French courtesan.
“I thought you said this was a sure thing,” Tristán muttered.
“Soda, darling?” Dorotea replied.
“I’d like to smoke a cigarette.”
“The photographer doesn’t smoke, darling.”
“And? I do.”
“You should stop. It’ll stain your teeth.”
“So will Coca-Cola,” he said, pushing away the can of soda Dorotea’s assistant was trying to wave in his face. He moved to the side, pulling Dorotea with him by the arm. “This feels like a casting call.”
Dorotea daintily drank her diet soda with a short straw. “You know very well a casting wouldn’t be taking place at my apartment.”
“Then?”
“I told you. The director wants to be sure. We must show him you’re still looking presentable. Anyway, once you do a reading and with these photos, it will be a done deal. I’ve been told we can even use the pictures for the announcement in De Telenovela, once it goes through. When was the last time you had a double spread?”
“Not in ages, but I don’t have the role yet, and I’ve never had to pull any of these stunts to land a part.”
“Last time you landed parts you weren’t close to forty with a bit of gray in your hair,” Dorotea said with a chilling finality. “Smoking also fucks with your skin, Tristán. You could use a little less nicotine and a bit more humility.”
The wig they’d put on his head itched. Tristán excused himself and headed to the bathroom. He simply stood there, arms folded, contemplating Dorotea’s black shower curtain with its gold starbursts and the black tiles on the walls.
Tristán removed the wig and looked at himself in the mirror, which was fancifully surrounded by light bulbs like something an actress would employ when applying her makeup. He paid close attention to his left eye. The stark, unrelenting lights around the mirror did not flatter him.
He ran a nail underneath the scar, pulling at the skin, smoothing away the small wrinkles. He smiled at his reflection, showing his teeth. At least constant dental treatments had kept those in good shape. There were no stains, no matter what Dorotea said.