“They’d execute you for crimes against fashion and personal grooming.”
“I know.”
A knock at the door made Tristán sit up.
“You two, I made supper,” López said. “Come and eat.”
The supper consisted of a watery chicken soup that had Tristán yearning for his mother’s lentil soup with chard and the comforts of his apartment. He should cook more often, he thought. He’d stopped doing it because he felt it was useless to make a feast for one, and there were many days when he simply wanted to remain in his PJs and surf through the television channels for hours on end.
“What we need is to wrap Ewers’s spell up, like tying a knot and cutting the thread,” López said as he reached into a paper bag and took out a bolillo, then shoved the bag in their direction. “The way to do it, I think, is to replicate as much as we can Ewers’s original magic. He used six runes that were going to be shown in the credits, so we write down those six runes in the order he intended, with the help of my leeches and a little blood.”
“Whose blood?” Tristán asked.
“Yours, hers, mine. Whoever volunteers for it. Anyway, we draw the runes on the can of the silver nitrate print. You do still have that, correct?”
“It’s in storage,” Montserrat said.
“After we say the proper words and draw the runes, we can destroy the film.”
“It’s that easy, then?” Tristán said. “We draw runes and it’s done?”
Tristán poured himself a glass of water from a plastic pitcher. At the center of the round table where they were sitting there was a figurine of a Hawaiian dancer, and when Tristán accidentally brushed his hand against it, the dancer moved her hips in a quick motion.
“It’s a spell,” López said, tearing off a piece of the bolillo and frowning. “It takes energy and effort. Spells feed off willpower, strength, life. Plus, you must remember what I’m saying is merely theoretical. I suspect that the only way to dispel Ewers’s magic is to essentially screen the credits, as he would have done at the end of his film.”
“But drawing runes is not the same as screening the credits.”
“Magic is symbolic,” López said. “We basically tell the film that we are screening the credits, that the movie is over.”
“You tell the film?”
“Yes, we talk to the can of film. We say, ‘You are Ewers, and your story has reached its conclusion.’？”
“Sympathetic magic,” Montserrat explained. “Spells like that appear many times in Ewers’s book. You establish a link between two objects. When one object is affected, the other reacts. If Ewers’s magic was preserved in the reels that he shot, then he was preserved, and he can be destroyed.”
“We only have one reel,” Tristán said. “Won’t he still remain around if we don’t destroy every remaining reel?”
“That is why we speak to the film, and we tell it that the story is concluding,” López said. “If I’m right, then he will cease to be. It’ll be like the lights turn on and you step out of a screening room. Any reels in Alma’s possession will lose their charge.”
There was a certain logic to what they were saying, but it still sounded odd. Tristán ate his bread instead of replying, mulling the idea.
“There are, of course, issues we have to deal with first,” López said.
“Which ones?”
“I don’t know what runes Ewers intended to use in the credits. He kept details from me. Abel would have had that information, but he’s dead.”
“Then what? Trial and error?”
“Impossible. We need to speak to Abel. Twice you’ve seen your dead girlfriend, correct?”
“Yeah,” Tristán replied, frowning. “You’re not saying—”
“You seem to have a certain affinity for necromancy. We’re going to need that skill.”
Tristán laughed. López was chewing loudly and staring at him. “No,” Tristán said. “I don’t know anything about necromancy. I’m trying to avoid ghosts.”
“We’ll hold the séance together. We’ll be in the room with you.”
“I’m not a sorcerer.”
“It’s not as if we have many candidates for the post.”
“You do it. Or Montserrat,” Tristán said. “She’s seen Ewers, she’s also seeing ghosts, she could to a better job at it than I ever could since she actually understands what is happening.”
“Ewers is not a ghost. Ewers is neither dead nor alive.”
He’d thought that López was talking in jest. At least, he had hoped he was. But now the man was staring at him and so was Montserrat. He felt as if they were backing him up against a wall.
“I don’t care if he’s a vampire, why the hell do I have to be the one who talks to a ghost? If we don’t know the right runes, we’ll guess. Trial and error, like I said.”
“There are dozens of runes in Ewers’s book. You must summon Abel,” the old man replied, immutable, like he was asking him to go to the corner store and buy him a beer.
“I wouldn’t even know how to do it. I have no idea how to summon ghosts.”
“You have been summoning your girlfriend.”
Tristán slammed his hands down on the table, making the Hawaiian dancer tremble. “I have not.”
“You don’t realize it, but you do it,” López said. “Now you can be a stubborn coward and live the rest of your life inside my guest room, or maybe you can help me put an end to Ewers’s spell.”
López carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin and then fished out a piece of corn from his bowl and began gnawing at the kernels. Tristán pushed his chair back and stood up, glaring at the old man.
“I don’t summon anything,” Tristán said, wishing to choke the geezer if he as much as said another word about ghosts, but the crusty bastard seemed unfazed.
“You probably have something that belonged to her. That’s useful when summoning ghosts. Anything personal or of significance to the deceased helps form a link. A picture also helps do the trick. Then you think about them, you call them forth, you ask them to speak to you.”
Tristán remembered Karina’s picture, tucked inside his wallet, almost forgotten and yet never out of mind. That little snapshot that was bent at the corner. He swallowed.
“Would he be in any danger?” Montserrat asked.
“Ghosts are not dangerous,” López said. “They’re shadows, immaterial.”
“Ewers chased Montserrat through a building,” Tristán said. “I’m sure she didn’t feel safe.”
“I said he’s not a ghost. He’s caught between life and death. Besides, we won’t be asking him to join us.”
“Why not? I’m a great necromancer. Let’s call my girlfriend, Abel, Ewers, and hey, maybe Napoleon is available. We’ll play poker together, okay?”
“Your sarcasm is not solving anything. Ewers cast one hardy spell, and when you dubbed his film, you released power unlike anything I’ve ever felt,” López said. “For good or ill, you can see and speak to ghosts right now, and we need that skill.”