“Sorry about that. I can drop by other letters if they end up in my mailbox.”
“That’s nice of you. You must be the new guy in 3C. The woman who used to live there had a yappy dog that pissed in the lobby. She coughed all the time, too.”
“I hope I’m an improvement, then.”
“Definitely. Well, I’m Abel Urueta, as you probably guessed by the envelopes,” the old man said, extending his hand.
“Tristán Abascal.”
They shook hands. Abel smiled. A flash of recognition crossed his eyes.
“I know that name. And that face. You’re an actor.”
“More like a voice-over actor these days.”
“My boy, what a waste to do voice work! You have the face of a young Arturo de Córdova.”
Tristán, who in his haste had dispensed with his trusty sunglasses, felt both oddly shy and proud. He was used to being admired—at least back in the day; there was less admiration and more dissection these days—but this compliment, from someone who had worked with the real Arturo de Córdova, touched him. Even at the height of his popularity Tristán hadn’t starred in movies. He’d been a soap opera actor, an extra on several forgettable flicks, and he’d even done a toothpaste ad. Films were another realm, and for him film stars of the Golden Age were gods preserved in celluloid.
“Thanks. It means a lot. I have to say your movies were amazing, sir. Whispers in the Mansion of Glass was perfect,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like an absolute dork.
“You saw that?”
“My friend Montserrat and I, oh…we love your Gothic cycle of—”
A loud whistling noise made Abel groan in irritation, but he motioned to Tristán. “That’s the water for my coffee. Come in, come in.”
Before giving Tristán the chance to reply, Abel left the door wide open and rushed into the kitchen. Tristán walked inside, hands in his pockets, and looked around the apartment. He recognized the layout from the agent who had shown him building plans. This was what was called a “deluxe,” with the front door leading directly into the living room, the dining room and kitchen extending toward the right, while on the left there was a hallway that should lead to the bedroom, a space designated for an office, a hall closet, and a bathroom. Tristán lived in the “standard,” which was a one-bedroom, more affordable option. He had been tempted to look for a bigger apartment—the place he’d shared with Yolanda had been wonderfully spacious—but reason had prevailed in the end. A small place, with a more modest rent, would suit him fine.
Yolanda had kept several pieces of furniture, which meant Tristán’s apartment was sparsely furnished. Abel, on the other hand, had packed all his life between these walls. Tristán admired the sturdy bookcases brimming with reading material and the potted plants by a large window. A Remington typewriter was set atop a table, next to a Tiffany-style lamp. There was a bar cart with a decanter and glasses, a phonograph, and a vase of a magnificent shade of green with art nouveau flower decorations. Abel collected antiques, by the look of it. Lots of them. He also had a whole shelf filled with quartz crystals and stones. Geodes were split open, showcasing their sparkling interiors. A mineral enthusiast. No, a magpie.
He pictured the director walking around the city with a beret on his head. Classy man, this one. Tristán had not been born to wealth and worldliness; instead he’d borrowed his manners from films and soap operas. He could recognize the genuine article, the true sophisticate, and gawked, pleased by his surroundings.
“Do you want a cup of coffee, Mr. Abascal?”
“Tristán, please,” he said, moving toward the dining room. Abel was still in the kitchen. He heard the clattering of cutlery and cups. “Sure, I’ll have a cup.”
“It’s coffee from Veracruz. I put a pinch of salt in it, to make it less bitter, like our mother used to do. Do you like bitter coffee?”
“I prefer it strong. My mother is Lebanese. We added cardamom. I think most coffee at restaurants tastes like watered-down dirt, to be honest.”
Abel laughed. He walked into the dining room carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and placed one before Tristán. On the tray there was also a plate with cookies.
“Is the name Tristán Abascal real or was it an invention by an executive at Televisa? Arturo de Córdova was born Arturo García, but they thought it was too common. Tristán is quite the unique name.”
“The Tristán part is real enough; my mother named me after an opera. The last name is a fabrication. I was born Tristán Said Abaid,” he said as he took a sip of the coffee.
“It happens. Show business is about remaking people. But you were saying you’ve seen Whispers in the Mansion of Glass?”
“The Opal Heart in a Bottle and The Curse of the Hanged Man, too. Montserrat even bought a poster of that. She wanted to get a poster of Beyond the Yellow Door for years, but they don’t seem to exist even if someone once said they had one.”
“Beyond the Yellow Door,” Abel said, pausing and looking at him in surprise. “You’d have to be very interested in old movies to care about that. It wasn’t even completed.”
“I know. Montserrat is a huge horror movie buff. She told me about it.”
“Who is Montserrat?”
“Sorry. Montserrat Curiel. She’s a sound editor. My friend.”
“A sound editor. For movies?”
“For everything, I guess. The coffee is pretty decent,” he said, tapping the rim of the cup with his index finger. It wasn’t, but he was trying to make a good impression. He was particular about the drinks and cigarettes he consumed. Pompous, was what Montserrat always said. Picky, he replied.
Abel offered him the plate with cookies. He took one cookie and another sip of coffee. He found himself lazily discussing film stars of old with Abel. The director knew everyone. Tristán always relished this kind of talk. The anecdotes and tales of decades past filled him with excitement. He loved chatting with Germán Robles, who had starred in proper films back in the day and had switched to voice-over work; now Robles grabbed every gig from the talking car on Knight Rider to dubbing flicks. Or he liked bumping into Joaquín Cordero, who’d also been the lead in a bunch of movies during the Golden Age and who lately played fathers and uncles on soaps.
The older actors were kinder. They didn’t mind having a word here and there with Tristán. Tristán’s peers, especially in the early years after the accident, looked at him like he was a leper. He supposed the has-beens and the seniors didn’t see him as a threat. He was a bit like them. The young ones, though, had their reputations to worry about. Who wanted to be photographed with a murderer?
Of course, Tristán hadn’t actually murdered anyone. He’d been in a car accident and had to have his eye reconstructed after that mess, and then got hooked on painkillers. But the newspapers were not much for nuance. If he’d played nice with the press before, maybe they wouldn’t have jumped for the jugular. But he hadn’t always played nice, and his image of youthful excess, which had once garnered free publicity, had sunk him, eliciting awful headlines: “Party Monster’s Bacchanal Ends in Tragedy” had been one of the best ones. Plus, Karina’s father, Evaristo Junco, was a vindictive asshole who had blamed Tristán for the crash. And unfortunately, Evaristo was friends with many important people.