When Montserrat had first looked at The House of Infinite Wisdom she had not understood what Ewers meant, but now she thought he was talking about his suicide, which would have resulted in a rebirth.
“Didn’t quite work out, did it, buddy?” she muttered. “But you must have had a backup procedure. I would.”
She turned the pages, looking at the section where Ewers discussed hexes. She considered Abel’s idea that the reason behind his bad luck had been the fact that the movie had not been completed. That the dubbing had not taken place in that third scene. That might have been the case. Perhaps Ewers had embedded a curse into that film, something that demanded completion or else a web of bad luck was activated. In theory, then, their dubbing should have completed the circuit, negated any curse. But what if the cycle was not concluded with the dubbing? What if there was yet another step?
Ewers’s book did not provide more information about what had to be done. Clarimonde Bauer might know. Or else José López. They had been privy to Ewers’s preparations for resurrection, and they might have understood the shape his curse would take, should anyone interfere with his plans, and how to truly finalize this spell.
Was there no other way to avoid Ewers’s curse? Must completion be the only answer? They were now part of Ewers’s magic workings, unintentionally perhaps, but this was a fact. What to do, then? She had theories and no solid answers.
The next morning, she went to Antares. Candy smiled at her tiredly when she asked if the checks for their bonus were ready to be picked up.
“You’ll have to talk to Samuel,” she said.
Montserrat frowned, but the receptionist picked up the phone and called Samuel, who promptly came to greet her. The sterile reception with all its mirrors multiplied his reflection.
“Montserrat, how’s it going?”
“It’s going fine, but I was looking for Mario. I figured our bonus would be ready, and I wanted to pick up a film I left in the vault.”
“Mario is not in the city. He left two days ago. His mom is sick.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“I phoned to say you didn’t have shifts this month but said you were still invited to the party and that we’d talk about the bonus. You never phoned back.”
Montserrat huffed and stared at Samuel. “Okay, do you have the keys to vault two?”
“No. You know he keeps those with him. I don’t have the checks, either, before you start asking.”
“That sneaky bastard! I bet he’s trying to get out of paying us on time! Or did he cut them? Are we all out of bonuses?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why didn’t he leave the checks behind?”
Samuel shrugged. What did he care? Mario was treating him as his right-hand man now, so he probably had been paid without a hitch. Montserrat would have questioned him about Mario’s exact coordinates, except she already knew it was a futile endeavor. She should have guessed Mario would pull a stunt like this. He’d hole himself up at an all-inclusive resort and reappear in January, phoning Montserrat when he needed her and delivering her money four weeks late. It probably helped him balance the books.
“Come to the Christmas party,” Samuel said. “It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know when that is.”
“The seventeenth. Look, I did phone you to tell you about the party.”
“Well, I didn’t get the fucking message,” she snapped at him. “And I’m not interested in your gift exchange, I want shifts. I have seniority here. Why am I being placed at the bottom of the list for jobs? And why are you bringing in a friend to take my shifts?”
That seemed to catch Samuel by surprise, and it was his startled eyes that made her realize the rumors were true and she was not on the way out of Antares: she had basically been shoved out the door already. “Montserrat, let’s get a coffee. I do want to get you shifts for Jan—”
“You’re a snake.”
Samuel frowned. “Have a merry Christmas,” he said and walked back the way he came. Montserrat gritted her teeth, wishing she hadn’t gone off and knowing she had ruined any chance of nabbing a check before the new year. She’d ruined the next year, too.
The receptionist gave Montserrat a shake of the head. “I can’t blame you. Mario didn’t even order turkeys for everyone this year. What a loser, right?”
“Yeah, right,” Montserrat said. She didn’t care about the turkey, but she did mourn the lack of extra money; 1994 was going to begin on a downward spiral.
As she walked, clutching her leather jacket closed with one hand, she wondered what Ewers would have done in such a situation. The spell with the spider wouldn’t have been enough, that was a tiny hex, a minuscule jolt of power. He would have conjured something bigger, something more complicated. At the very least she found his ambition admirable. Big: he thought big, aimed high.
He would have told her to burn it all, trace runes of fire.
“Fuck Antares,” she whispered. “Fuck them all.”
Montserrat drove back to her neighborhood, left the car at the garage, and walked the one block to her building. Sitting outside her front door, twirling his sunglasses, was Tristán. When she stopped in front of him, he stood up. He had two plastic bags with him. His smile was sheepish.
“I went to the market,” he said.
Montserrat frowned, but held the front door open for him, and they walked up the stairs to her apartment. Once inside, he placed the bags on the table and began taking his purchases out.
Montserrat looked at the candles and packages curiously, reading the cheesy, garish labels with exotic names out loud. “Jinx Removing Powder, Black Chicken Soap for Spiritual Cleansing, Authentic Hunchback Oil.”
“I didn’t know what to buy, so I figured more is better, right?”
“Venus Soap for Attractiveness,” she said, showing him the crude rectangle of soap wrapped in pink paper. The label had the picture of a naked woman.
“They threw that one in for free. It’s for me.”
She laughed. “Of course. Not that you would need it.”
“Well, Dorotea did say I’m getting a bit old.”
“Nonsense. You’re beautiful and talented,” she said, taking out two red envelopes with crosses printed on them and adding them to the pile of objects.
“You should be my new publicist,” he said, winking at her.
She scoffed, but the sound carried no real exasperation. He was being a clown, but she could deal with that.
“I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday. It’s…this stuff is dangerous,” he said, pointing at Ewers’s book, which lay on the table. She’d been reading it at breakfast. “And you can get a bit obsessed with things.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s not a bad thing. That’s why you’re such a good sound engineer. Because you are methodical and careful, because when you have a problem, you don’t throw your hands up and give up. I’ve seen you work way into the night trying to get a sound mix right. It’s great. But I see some of those same dynamics at play here.”
“Don’t lecture me about compulsions,” she said, pulling out a chair and grabbing one of the red envelopes and shaking it, making its contents rattle. “I mean, you of all people.”