Tristán smoothed his cravat with a sigh, thinking about his first roles, the days when he made the lists of Top Teen Idols. He thought about the time Karina had posed with him for the cover of De Telenovela. He even remembered the headline: “Karina Junco and Tristán Abascal reveal who was their first kiss.” Karina’s first kiss was her neighbor, the son of an industrialist who graced the society pages. Tristán invented a high school girlfriend, even though he had not dated anyone seriously. He’d been too focused on his modeling work and the acting classes. His first kiss had been during a gig for a fotonovela. He’d turned bright red. It had been embarrassing. So he’d made up a story of a girl and a romantic date.
His whole biography, as narrated by the magazines, was a lie anyway. It never mentioned the Abaids, nor the neighborhood where he grew up. It erased those cheesy photo shoots and replaced them with talks of a miraculous discovery at a discotheque where Tristán had been spotted by a talent scout.
Karina’s biography had also been a sham. She was sold as a “good girl,” the kind who might go dancing on the weekend, but was waiting for Mr. Right; a girl who longed for marriage and motherhood. But Karina threw epic tantrums, outdrank men twice her size, and had more drugs in her purse than a pharmacy. He’d dug that about her; her wildness and unpredictability were what had attracted him in the first place. Her sense of humor, sexiness, and wiles completed the picture. None of that made it into the specials about her death. She was treated like a vestal virgin.
He supposed the inventors of plastic stars would craft an equally false narrative for him for his triumphant comeback.
Tristán Abascal, who has spent the last few years focused on traveling the world, has decided to take up the mantle of actor once more. “I went into an early retirement because I felt overwhelmed by the impositions of fame and I needed to find myself. But acting is in my blood,” he said. The handsome actor hasn’t been entirely removed from show business, and has dipped his toes into the world of TV dubbing.
Yeah, he could recite the whole puff piece already, even though it had yet to be written. They’d have to mention Karina, but that would be in the fifth paragraph, and there would be a heartfelt quote about her talent and sad death, without any gory details of the car crash. His substance abuse issues would be airbrushed away.
Tristán splashed water on his face and watched it go down the drain. He closed the tap and lifted his head, turning toward the towel rack. A sound came from the shower: the light tinkling of a curtain rod.
Tristán stood still and breathed in. He wanted to leave, he did. The sound, ordinary and commonplace, made him shiver. Yet he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes glued to the black plastic curtain with golden starbursts. It reminded him of a body bag. Yes, you could picture the outline of a body wrapped in black plastic.
The curtain rippled. It pulsated. Like a vein, or a living thing, like it was breathing. He had the sensation that he was moving forward, even as dread held him in place, even as the curtain was yanked aside by a hand, making the curtain rings rattle against the rod.
The shower curtain fell to the ground: an insect molting.
Karina stood in the shower, her clothes askew. He might have recognized her by the gold locket with the “K” around her neck, or her hair, or even by the simple fact Karina had been the only ghost he’d ever seen in his life. But instead, it was the low sob she let out that made him whisper her name.
She stood there, her head tipped down. Her lips moved without uttering words; she was a fish gasping for air, and then came that horrible gurgling noise that was seared into his mind as blood began to pour down her mouth, staining her chin.
The lights in the bathroom were as bright as they had been seconds before, yet the quality of the light seemed different to him. He would not have been surprised if the bathroom had suddenly been drenched in ghastly reds and blues.
He was trembling wildly. Tristán reached for the sink, attempting to steady himself. He thought he might faint.
Then Karina lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were terribly dark. Not the dark brown he remembered, but the black of a starless night. Black like a raven’s wing. The eyes did not see him. They were fixed on something else, something far away.
He feared to make any movement, thinking it would attract her attention. He also felt oddly tired and out of breath. His stomach churned. Yet even though he remained frozen in place, she stepped forward, moving toward him. Her hands, which had been closed by her side into tight fists, now opened and dropped glass fragments onto the floor. They crunched as she stepped on them, slicing her feet, making them bleed.
Tristán found the strength to turn around and run.
In his terror he smashed his face against the locked door. Pain blinded him, and he let out a hoarse cry. He felt the blood sliding down his nose, staining his lips, and his eyes were tearing up from the pain. He closed them and managed to find the door handle by touch alone, yanking it open and stumbling out into the hallway. His hands brushed against picture frames hanging from the wall as he tried to steady himself.
“Tristán!” Dorotea said.
He opened his eyes and realized she was standing a few paces from him, together with the photographer. They both stared at Tristán.
“A no-nosebleed,” he stammered. “I have a nosebleed.”
“Let’s head back into the bathroom.”
“No! Not the bathroom.”
“Tristán! Where else—”
“I should go,” he said. “I feel shitty.”
“Okay, look, fine, get out of that costume before you stain it with blood,” Dorotea said, reaching into the bathroom and handing him a towel, which he pressed against his face. She pushed him toward her bedroom, where he’d left his regular clothes.
Tristán changed as quickly as he could. His hands were still shaking, and he had a hard time with the buttons of his dress shirt; in his haste he smeared the collar with blood. He was putting on his jacket when Dorotea knocked and opened the door, looking at him with a severe face.
“You said you were clean, Tristán.”
“I’m not on anything,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. The nosebleed had finally stopped. The terror remained, his stomach an uncomfortable knot, and he knew despite his protestations Dorotea must be thinking he was now into even worse stuff than before. “I should go. We can finish the shoot another day.”
Dorotea did not reply. Or if she did, he did not hear her over the roaring in his ears. He had the beginning of a headache, and his nose still ached brutally. He put on his sunglasses, hailed a cab, and went in search of Montserrat.
18
The shock of seeing Tristán’s face gave way to relief. Tristán steadied Montserrat and wrapped his arms around her. “Dear God, Momo,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d find you.”
Montserrat clutched him tight and let out a sigh. Her mouth felt dry. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“You left a message.”
Did she? Montserrat could hardly remember what she’d done earlier that day. The building had left her with trembling hands and a quickly beating heart. She took a deep breath, glanced at the doorway behind her as if making sure nothing or no one had stepped outside. Then she took his hand and pulled him down the street. “Come on, let’s go. I saw something weird in there.”