“You know what I mean. Drop me off at home and have a good time.”
“Araceli, I should stay with you. We can rent a movie.”
“No, you shouldn’t. We can never agree on what to watch.”
That much was true. Few people shared her taste. She’d scared a date off once by renting Evil Dead, another with Videodrome.
Montserrat took Araceli back to her apartment and then made her way home. She dropped the car at the garage, then walked the one block to her building. It was a shabby six-floor structure from the 1940s. Although it was not much to look at, it had weathered the earthquake of ’85 without any issues, and its age meant her two-bedroom apartment was spacious, with high ceilings. And as a bonus, she having been such a long-term tenant, the rent was very reasonable.
Montserrat appreciated the height of the walls, which allowed her to showcase her posters. Although her sister thought the artwork macabre, Montserrat delighted in her collection. Her living room featured a beautiful poster of Suspiria and another of Hasta el Viento Tiene Miedo. She had framed lobby cards of other flicks. In her room, above the bed, Boris Karloff stared at her with his sad eyes. The second room, which was haphazardly used as an office, was stuffed with records, CDs, and movies. She had her computer there, a comfy chair, more posters, a desk, and a corkboard that was mostly used for pinning random photos, postcards, and tickets from concerts she’d attended. A poster of The Curse of the Hanged Man, Urueta’s last horror film, was framed and placed above a file cabinet she used to store documents. The hanged man in question was a tiny figure in the background, dangling from a tree, and in the foreground there was a woman in a white nightgown, kneeling by what appeared to be a door that looked suspiciously coffin-shaped.
This was Urueta’s best film. The Opal Heart in a Bottle had a beautiful sequence with a boat gliding through a swamp, but its framing story of a woman who remembers her past lives when pressed into a hypnotic trance felt tacked on, at best. Whispers in the Mansion of Glass redeemed itself with a delirious chase in a labyrinthian catacomb. The Curse of the Hanged Man had a tighter script, and one could feel Urueta was beginning to come into full bloom. It made her curious about what he might have done if he’d kept directing horror movies, but Urueta’s filmography became entirely forgettable once the sixties were in full swing.
Montserrat riffled in her closet for clothes. She had been too busy to bother dragging her clothes to the laundromat, and therefore her wardrobe choices were limited. She owned a couple of blazers and skirts, which she never wore, and three good-quality dresses she had not dry-cleaned in ages.
She settled for a pair of black jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt that was only a little frayed at the neck. For a note of color she painted her lips a dark red. Her frizzy hair was always trouble, and most days she simply tied it back in a ponytail. Somewhere, under the sink, there was a hair dryer and a hair iron she seldom took out. She considered washing her hair and straightening it, but was immediately daunted by the idea. She stuffed her feet into a pair of old sneakers and congratulated herself on having found clean, matching socks.
She headed to Tristán’s apartment at the appropriate time, although she knew he wouldn’t be ready. Tristán complained she was too punctual, that this was un-Mexican. Montserrat simply shrugged. You had to adhere to schedules when you worked in dubbing. Studios were not revolving doors, open all day long. You clocked in and out; you were there when the client needed you. But there was no use explaining this to Tristán. He arrived on the dot for work, but in social situations his internal clock malfunctioned.
Montserrat parked her car a couple of blocks from Tristán’s apartment, at a parking lot that she deemed trustworthy, then walked up to his building. The white fa?ade and glistening numbers at the front made the structure easily identifiable. Across the street, there was a mechanic’s garage and a tlapalería. It was as if the street had been vivisected. One side had a beautiful, new building. Meanwhile, stray cats sunned themselves on the opposite sidewalk, resting next to the cars parked by the mechanic’s shop.
Montserrat pressed the intercom button. Tristán buzzed her in. When she stepped onto his floor, Tristán poked his head out the door, brushing his teeth with a towel around his waist. He motioned her in with one hand, mumbled something, and disappeared into the bathroom. Such a casual, careless greeting was normal between them. A half-naked Tristán did not even register among the list of unusual sights she’d seen in his apartment.
Montserrat sat on his couch with a frown. It was an uncomfortable couch. Gorgeous, but the leather squeaked if you moved a fraction of an inch. His apartment was sparsely furnished, and there were still boxes piled in a corner.
“Can you fasten my cuff links?” Tristán asked, walking out of the bathroom, now wearing a shirt, his hair still damp. He held out his wrists toward her.
“You’re wanting to impress the old man. Now I feel underdressed.”
“I always overdress, and you know it. You didn’t have clean clothes, did you?”
Tristán smiled at her wickedly, knowing very well she had skipped the laundromat. She did not answer, instead simply adjusted the cuff links and brushed his hands away.
“If you’re going to criticize my outfit, then you shouldn’t ask me to come to this stupid dinner.”
“It’s not a stupid dinner. You’re going to like Urueta. It wouldn’t kill you to socialize a little, you know?”
“I socialize enough.”
“Aha. Now don’t give me that mean look or I won’t give you this.”
“This what?”
Tristán reached into his right pocket and handed her a key ring. “My apartment keys.”
Montserrat shook her head vehemently. “No. I’ll have to water your plants and feed your fish when you go on vacation.”
“She kept the plants. As for the fish, it died a little while back.”
“What if you adopt a dog or some shit?”
“I’m not adopting a dog. Come on, you always have a set of keys.”
He meant she had a set of keys when he was between relationships, when he wanted her available to drop everything and come by on the evenings when he became melancholic and lonely. When he needed her to house sit. When his life was a bit of a mess and she was the one restocking his refrigerator. That’s how things worked between them. Montserrat didn’t know if it was simply that age was getting to her, but she didn’t feel like grabbing the key and subjecting herself to the merry-go-round that was Tristán.
Habit, however, was a powerful force. She opened her palm, and he placed the key ring on it. She could always return it.
“I should put on my shoes,” Tristán said brightly.
“You want me to tie your shoelaces?” she asked, her tone mordant. But he laughed her away and disappeared into the bedroom.
“I might have a great gig lined up. The audition? Turns out I was right: they like me a lot,” he yelled from inside the bedroom.
Montserrat stood up at one end of the hallway and looked in the direction of his room. “What gig?”
“For that ad campaign I told you about.”