“I was going to go to the grocery store, but then I got stuck with you two,” López told them. “You can go outside and order yourself a latte at a fucking Sanborns, but if you get killed on the way there don’t blame me.”
“Forget I asked,” Tristán muttered.
There was no way he was going to walk to a Sanborns for a lousy cup of coffee that might get him murdered. Instead, Tristán threw himself on López’s couch, sipped a terrible cup of tea, and tried watching the rickety TV set. López had apparently never heard of cable, so he was stuck with a movie featuring Tongolele while Montserrat inspected the books on the shelves and talked to López about spooks, spells, and charms.
In the afternoon, the scent of beer wafted down the streets from the Modelo brewery a few blocks away. If he took a taxi, he would be back in his apartment in less than twenty minutes, even accounting for traffic. But Tristán merely peered out a window into the front courtyard with its metal gates.
“Is there a reason for the tropical décor?” Tristán asked when López told him he needed help with a couple of boxes and they ventured into a room wallpapered with a banana leaf print.
“Ever heard of the Winchester house in California?”
“It was in an episode of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”
“The legend says Sarah Winchester constructed stairs that go to nowhere and designed meandering hallways to confuse spirits.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“No. I like tropical things. But it sounds better if I tell you it has a higher purpose,” the old man said dryly.
Tristán laughed. He took the boxes to the dining room and placed them on the round table. López opened one and began taking out red candlesticks that were wrapped in newspaper. “I don’t have much use for fine dining. But we’ll need candlelight.”
“Why? I saw Karina last night and didn’t have a candle with me.”
“You bid her goodbye?”
“Yeah,” Tristán said, bunching up the newspaper between his hands.
“It sounds like it was about time,” López said and shook his head. “You had a long-standing connection with your girlfriend. It will be harder to reach Abel, and you’ll need any help you can get. Darkness will be beneficial, and these are no ordinary candles. They’ve been blessed. Instead of chasing away ghosts, like white candles do, these candles will draw them in and protect you. Sometimes you can use other things to catch the attention of the dead. Spoiled meat or bones can do the trick, but I think red candles should be enough for you.”
“Good. I didn’t want to have to find a spoiled hamburger patty in the garbage.”
“We’ll need a picture of Abel.” López took off the lid of a file box and began thumbing through folders inside. “I kept a bunch of things from my film career. I didn’t think they were valuable until a few years back when I began talking to Abel again and he said memorabilia can sell for big bucks. Now, here we go,” López said as he took out a photo and placed it on the table.
It was a snapshot of Abel Urueta, as he had looked during the production of Beyond the Yellow Door. The photo reminded Tristán of the reality of Abel’s death, and the fact that he would have to attempt to speak to his ghost.
“You think this will work?” Tristán asked.
“Yes, if you make an effort. It won’t be like those chance glimpses of your girlfriend. It’s one thing to see a ghost and another to hear their words.”
“Maybe Abel won’t want to talk to me.”
“Draw him forth. I’ll explain how, but the most important part is you need to want to do this.”
In the afternoon, there was a supper that consisted of sandwiches with a single slice of mortadella, and afterward López had them sit down in the dining room so he could paint symbols on their hands using a dark ink that had Tristán questioning its provenance.
“What is that?” he asked, disturbed by the smell. The ink had an acrid, unpleasant scent, and he wondered if López hadn’t macerated a couple of leeches from the tank, then ground them in a molcajete. He wouldn’t put it past the guy.
“Several things mixed together,” López said, carefully sliding the tip of a thin brush against Montserrat’s wrist. “The symbols should protect you, just in case.”
“Just in case what? I thought you said ghosts were not dangerous.”
“It’s an extra precaution.”
“And that?” Tristán asked, pointing at the large box of table salt sitting on the table.
“？‘First burn ye therein sulphur pure, and then sprinkle about it with a wool-wound branch innocent water mingled, as the custom is, with salt,’？” López said. “Theocritus.”
“What?”
“Salt. Sprinkle it around and it can repel many noxious beings.”
“What does pepper do? Allow you to summon demons?”
“You must take this seriously.”
“Sure. I will. What time are we doing this, anyway? It’s getting late.”
“After dark,” López said.
Tristán looked at his wristwatch. “I might as well take a nap before we start with all the witching.”
López gave Tristán an exasperated look and shook his head, his fingers wielding the brush delicately. Tristán promptly walked back into their room and plopped himself on the bed. Later, Montserrat wandered in, her hands inked with runes.
“You need to have your hands painted,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it in a bit.”
“Why are you being annoying?”
Tristán was sitting on the bed with one hand behind his head. He leaned on his elbows and sat up, watching Montserrat as she crossed her arms and stared at him.
“I’m not going to chicken out, Momo. You’ll have your séance. But it doesn’t mean I want to spend my day listening to the old man whisper about magic.”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“And you take it too seriously.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re enjoying this. Spells and wizards and Wilhelm Ewers. The way you act about all his stuff,” he said, pointing at the book she’d left open on the desk. “Or the things he wrote and thought…What did he say to you? That night, when he woke you up, what did he say?”
Montserrat sat on the bed, by his feet, and shook her head. “You’re a stubborn fucker. Fine. He told me to follow him into the night.”
“What does that mean?”
She frowned. “It’s a phrase in his book. He’s trying to scare me, that’s all. I said so already.”
“No, it’s bigger than that,” Tristán insisted. “The more you become immersed in his books, in his magic, the more you become immersed in him. You don’t realize it, but sometimes you sound like you admire the guy. He was clever, creative, and determined, right?”
“That’s not what I—” Montserrat began to say, her frown deepening, but he cut her off.