He let out a low, brittle half-laugh as he took the photograph from Montserrat’s open palm. “You’re correct, Momo. I’m a selfish bastard. I’ve let everyone I’ve ever known down. And I’m always running away.”
“López says the living hold on to ghosts. You made a haunted house out of your own flesh and bones.”
“How poetic,” he muttered, sitting down again.
“It’s true. There’s no exorcism that has ever worked for you. But right now, you could do something for all of us.”
“I don’t want to talk to Abel any more than I want to talk to Karina.”
“You have to,” she said, moving closer to him, until she was right in front of him. “López says it needs to be you. He has a picture of Abel somewhere that can be used for the summoning. He’d tell you what to say and do. But the most important part is that you need to be willing to do it. You can’t be forced into it.”
She sat down on the bed. He turned to look at her. Montserrat raised a hand, her fingertips tracing the scar he’d been touching before. Then her hand went down, toward his chest, to the spot where the other scars lay hidden under his shirt. She’d looked at him at the hospital many times, she’d helped him clean himself and bathe in the awful months of his recovery. She remembered all the marks, like a map.
But he still inhaled in surprise.
“I guessed the whole story, Tristán, because I know you.”
“You realized I’m an idiot, then.”
“I knew that the first time you agreed to jump into the grain containers. Who does that because their friend suggests it?”
Tristán smiled, thinking about the feel of the grain against his body, almost tickling him, and Montserrat’s delighted laughter as they tried to climb their way out.
“I don’t think you’d abandon me, would you?” she asked, with a solemnity that made him wince.
“That’s cheating, Momo,” he said. “It’s a cheap and dirty trick.”
He lowered his gaze, looked at Montserrat’s hand still pressed over his chest. She moved away from him slowly, as if fearing he’d bolt away.
“If López is right…if it’s me calling her…if I tell Karina I’m sorry, do you think I would stop seeing her?”
“Maybe. López says you want her with you.”
“I’ve spent ten years thinking about her. It’s a habit. God, Momo, it’s like sinking in quicksand. I don’t want to hear any more talk of sorcerers and spells and runes.”
“Then let’s get this over with! We made a mistake when we dubbed that film; we helped wake Ewers and we can’t pretend we didn’t. We have to finish this,” she said with a certainty that he expected but equally dreaded.
“But what if we don’t?” Tristán insisted. “What if we let things be?”
“You heard López: we caused a nuclear explosion. We need to clean it up.”
“What’s the worst thing the guy is going to do? Maybe, I dunno, he’ll wake up and simply want to watch a movie and see the elephants at Chapultepec. He won’t bother anyone.”
“He’ll want to do more than see the elephants.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I think I do. He’ll be angry, he’ll be hungry, and he’ll want to fuck up the world.”
“How can you be sure?”
Because she knows the guy, he thought, and she was glad she didn’t actually say this, instead making a vague gesture, but it was the truth. She’d spent enough time reading his book that she had a pretty good idea of who he was. Tristán didn’t like that; it made him nervous.
“All right, yeah, I don’t think he and his cult want peace and world harmony. And I know I can’t carry Karina with me anymore, I know now is the time to let her go, but it’s hard.”
Tristán pressed both hands against his face. He felt Montserrat’s hand on his shoulder. He brushed her aside, as gently as he could, then walked out of the room and into a small bathroom. He’d been near water the previous times he’d seen Karina. He didn’t know if water was necessary, but he thought it might help. He also wanted to be alone. He couldn’t attempt this with Montserrat by his side.
He held up Karina’s photograph with two fingers, carefully looking at every feature and detail of the snapshot.
“I should have taken flowers to your grave. You loved pink roses,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
He tried to think of Karina as she’d been in the photo, energetic, full of possibilities, instead of the way he’d seen her in the bathroom the last time: bloodied, with cuts on her face and body. He hadn’t loved Karina the way she needed to be loved, but he did miss her, and he felt true sorrow at the memory of her loss.
The bathroom remained cool and quiet. He didn’t notice a change. He wasn’t sure how you were supposed to formulate spells with nothing but need and loneliness. He drew a “K” on the mirror in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut and whispered her name. He remained like that for a long time, until his head was throbbing and he heard the faint whisper of footsteps on the tiled floor.
He turned his head and she was there, standing next to him. Karina, with her mournful eyes. She did not cough blood, and glass did not spill from the folds of her clothing. She simply stood by his side, and he raised a hand in a mute goodbye.
He took out his lighter and pressed the flame against a corner of the photo. Tristán let the photograph fall into the sink, where it curled up and smoldered, a bitter trail of smoke rising in the air. He stared at the tiny bits of black left behind, opened the faucet until the ashes swirled down the drain. When he lifted his head again, she was gone.
24
They decided they would conjure Abel’s ghost the next night and then head to Antares the morning after that to pick up the film. Montserrat said there wouldn’t be anyone working on a Sunday, especially the weekend before Christmas. Although Montserrat had keys to the building, she didn’t have keys to the vault where the film was stored, and she was going to have to tinker with the lock. They’d break in, essentially. Fortunately, from what Montserrat told them, the security system at Antares was useless due to recent budget cuts. They wouldn’t be tripping any alarms.
López warned them the conjuring would tire them, so he didn’t want to attempt both things in a single day. Tristán thought it was better this way because that meant whatever spell they worked on would take place during the daytime on Sunday, after their prompt return from Antares. Daytime seemed like a much safer time for magic than midnight. The séance, however, would unfold Saturday evening.
“I am not a wind-up toy,” López said. “I’m not going to have a séance before a proper breakfast and careful preparation. Well? Pull up a chair for yourself.”
A “proper” breakfast consisted of eggs without bacon or even a glass of orange juice. López had a few bags of cheap green tea in his kitchen, but nothing else that could function as a suitable drink.
“No coffee?” Tristán asked.