Amelia if only, p.12
Frida's Cook, page 12
“I save them all, every week. I keep my money in a cloth bag, in the bottom of my basket,” replied Nayeli with pride.
Frida smiled in satisfaction. Through these small acts, Nayeli was unwittingly starting to wreak revenge in the name of all the oppressed women Frida had known in her life, herself included.
The painter returned her attention to the giant painting she had to finish. She took the black cotton ribbon that was always hanging from one side of the wheelchair and tied it around her head. Her clean face, without a trace of makeup, framed by her short black hair, made her look like a young girl.
“Nayeli, what do you think of this painting?” she asked with genuine interest, without lifting her eyes from the painting.
The question caught Nayeli off guard. Her lower lip started to tremble, as it did whenever she got nervous. What could she possibly know about works of art? Why should her opinion matter to a woman as decisive as Frida?
She took a deep breath and released the air slowly. She gazed at the painting as she untied the black ribbon that decorated the waistline of her skirt. Absentmindedly, she did what she had watched Frida do seconds earlier: she tied the ribbon around her head, achieving an identical hairstyle.
Inside and outside the painting there were two Fridas. Some had been fabricated with oils and pigments; the others were of flesh and bone, with pain and black ribbons around their heads.
“Tell me, Tehuanita, what do you see? And don’t lie to me, eh, you have such transparent green eyes I can read your thoughts.”
She was as nervous as Nayeli. The girl’s impressions mattered to her much more than the torrents of words that would undoubtedly pour from the snooty, soulless art critics.
The painting was huge. Frida had made a self-portrait, as usual, but this time it was a double.
“I see two of you. One Frida is wearing a Tehuana skirt and huipil and is holding the hand of the other Frida, who is dressed a bit oddly,” said Nayeli, almost in a whisper.
“Of course, the other Frida is wearing a white dress with lace and trims and ruffles, in the European style,” said Frida. “One is the Mexican who Diego loved; the other is the Frida who seeks refuge in her European ancestry, far removed from this vogue for all things Mexican—”
“Both have their hearts on display, two naked hearts,” interrupted the girl. “They’re strange, I never imagined them looking like that.”
“They’re suffering hearts. And that’s what they look like: red, swollen, about to explode. And see how I’ve joined them with a bright red artery; it’s almost as though the snubbed Frida is bleeding out. I don’t have a name for it yet, and we need to find one. It’s bad luck for something not to have a name. Can you think of anything?”
Nayeli moved forward a few paces and stopped inches from the canvas. She could feel the sting of the solvent prickling her nose, but she didn’t mind. She moved her ear close to the image of Tehuana Frida and waited for the secret to be revealed.
“The Two Fridas,” she said a minute later. “That’s the name the painting wants.”
Frida used her teeth to yank the stopper out of a metal hip flask, warmed her throat with a long swig, and repeated in a very low voice the name the Fridas had dictated to Nayeli.
“Very well, The Two Fridas it is.”
Artistic decision made, Frida and Nayeli left the studio and crossed Casa Azul, on foot, at the painter’s insistence.
The kitchen smelled of fresh fruit, stews, spices, and freshly baked bread. Ever since the Tehuanita had appropriated the short stretch of counter loaded with pans, baskets, and utensils, a new world had reigned in that corner of Casa Azul.
“It makes me sad that Diego can’t enjoy these flavors you magic up with your hands. He’s a gluttonous beast; I’ve rarely seen anyone eat as many beans, not to mention tortillas and enchiladas. Diego is an elephant child,” said Frida as she dropped into a chair and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table. “I think you should go to his house in San Ángel to cook him something or take him some of your Oaxacan tortillas. Although I’m pretty sure he’s involved with Irene, and we all know you eat less when you’re in love…”
“I’m not entirely sure who Irene is,” said Nayeli.
Frida’s face clouded over. There was no sadness, distress, or tears; just a shadow that turned her dark mane even darker, the hollows of her eyes into small black pits, and her lips, always painted red or orange, into thin, tight lines. She stuck an index finger in her mouth and with the saliva wrote IRENE on the yellow table.
“No one important,” she said emphatically. “She’s just a woman whose turn it is to suffer.”
Nayeli sat next to her and took her hand.
“Why is it this Irene’s turn to suffer, Frida?”
“Because it is. All women suffer with Diego. It’s the price they have to pay. Anyway, I want you to go to San Ángel and take him some of your tortillas.”
Nayeli accepted readily. She was eager to see the houses at San Ángel. Frida had told her one was blue and the other red, and that they were linked by a walkway.
“All right, my pretty Tehuana girl,” said Frida. She stood up and tightened the first two leather straps of her corset. She smiled triumphantly; she had managed to straighten her back. “Get everything ready to visit Dieguito. I’ll ask the driver, Benancio, to take you. And remember one thing: my weakness isn’t my spine or my broken neck, nor my peg leg or my shattered health. Weakness doesn’t lie inside us; it’s always in something on the outside. And I have Diego on the outside. That’s another thing you have to learn.”
22 Buenos Aires, December 2018
Boedo is a quiet neighborhood. Except in February, when the streets flood with carnival bands rehearsing their colorful processions.
Along its main avenues, the squat old houses form a geography that sets it apart from the rest of the city. I always liked the fact that my staunchly Mexican grandmother Nayeli lived in one of the most quintessential Buenos Aires neighborhoods, famous for the tango.
“Have another slice of this pascualina I bought in the Clara deli,” insisted Cándida.
I wasn’t hungry but accepted a generous wedge of pie regardless.
My visits to my grandmother’s neighbor were becoming more frequent, but that day I had joined her for lunch with the singular intention of informing her of a decision I had made, even if it was still poorly formulated.
“Cándida, I want to leave my apartment and come live in my grandmother’s house again.”
The woman stared pensively at the savory pie as she wiped her wrinkled hands on a blue dish towel.
“I think that’s a good idea,” she said. “You know, Palomita, my love, it’s an old house—it needs a human presence.”
“Yes, I know. I did think about selling it. My grandmother put the house in my name some years ago,” I said. “But I’d prefer to just come and live here myself. My grandmother would have liked that.”
With a tenderness that was unusual in her, Cándida rested her callused hand on mine and squeezed it tightly.
“I’m delighted, dear. When will you move in?”
“I don’t know yet. I suppose I’ll start bringing some things over this weekend.”
The conversation was brief, and we sealed the deal with a slice of dulce de leche flan.
Before accepting Cándida’s offer of a coffee to round off the meal, I popped out to fetch Nayeli’s painting. The man in the framing store had sent me a message that morning to let me know that it was ready. I walked the few blocks to the store. As I approached, my attention was caught by a group of people congregating on a corner, trying to see what was happening up ahead. A man with a dog on a leash was standing next to me, seemingly oblivious to the animal’s sharp barking; I was about to ask him what was going on when I saw the police cordon across the sidewalk and street. Neither cars nor pedestrians could pass.
I retraced my steps and tried to get to the store the other way around the block. I wasn’t the only one; several other people, looking rather ill-humored, were doing the same to avoid the closed-off street. When I turned the corner, I almost walked into a police officer. Before I could continue on my way, she held out her hand to stop me.
“No access this way,” she said firmly.
I sighed wearily. “I need to get to a place right on this block,” I explained, equally firmly.
I looked over the woman’s shoulder and realized that all the police activity was taking place just outside the door of the frame store. My heart beat faster. My desire to know became a need.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A robbery at one of the premises on this block,” replied the officer, unwilling to share any more details.
“The place with the paintings and mirrors?” I said, praying for a negative answer, which wasn’t what I got.
“Yes. The owner was killed,” she replied.
I took a couple of steps back on hearing this. Sometimes words have the power of a punch or a shove. And that’s what I felt: a punch and a shove. Both at the same time.
“It can’t be…” I babbled. “He messaged me this morning…”
“Who messaged you?” For the first time I was something more than a nuisance, and she didn’t hide the fact.
“The owner of the frame store,” I replied mechanically.
The woman fiddled with her radio, and, before I could work out what she said into it, a man wearing a suit and skewed tie approached us. He was young, although his movements, speech, and dress suggested someone older.
“Good morning, I’m the detective in charge of this investigation,” he said, holding out his hand. I returned his greeting, gripping his cold, thin fingers tightly. “Officer Arana tells me you were in contact with Señor Dalmiro Mayorga.”
As I opened my mouth to reply, he took me gently by the elbow and asked me to go with him to the entrance of the store. I had no time to refuse. My objections on the basis of freedom of citizen movement lasted as long as it took to reach the door a few yards away. What I saw on the other side of the glass made me retch and my blood ran cold.
In the middle of the store, stretched out on the floor, was the man who had served me the week before. He was dressed exactly the same, in workers’ overalls and black shoes, but his fluffy white hair had become a sticky, bloody mess. His mouth and eyes were open, as though he had seen death coming and was unable to prevent it; the shards of glass from a broken mirror were scattered around him; the desk was untidy, and, tossed into a corner, I saw the yellow plastic bag in which I had brought the roll with my grandmother’s painting.
“What time did you receive the message, señorita? I’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.”
The detective’s voice dragged me out of my stupor, and I gazed at him with the bewilderment of someone waking from a bad dream. It took me a few seconds to remember the message.
“Oh yes, sure. I’ll show you,” I said, tapping at my phone screen with cold, trembling fingers.
I hadn’t saved Dalmiro Mayorga’s number, but the text was clear and simple: Señorita Cruz, the painting is ready. Please collect it at your convenience. The detective wasn’t interested in the content, only the time. He glanced at his watch and asked the officer when the crime had been reported. According to the records, the 911 call had been made at eleven forty in the morning.
“Make a note that the victim was alive at ten oh six and sent a work-related message,” the detective instructed the officer. He turned around and took hold of my elbow again. “Señorita, could you describe the painting Señor Mayorga was referring to?”
“Yes, of course. It was a family portrait,” I replied.
I spent some time explaining, and even offered to enter the store to find it. I wasn’t allowed. The detective was under pressure to decide whether they were investigating an inadvertent casualty of the robbery or a targeted murder. As they waited for someone from the morgue to come for the body, I overheard the crime scene investigators discussing certain points that caught my attention: there was still money inside the cash register; they hadn’t taken Dalmiro Mayorga’s gold ring from his pinky; and his high-end smartphone was still sitting on the desk.
After nearly an hour, the detective took my details. He told me the district attorney’s office would contact me to take my statement because I had been the last person to have contact with the victim. Before I left, I asked about the only thing that mattered to me: my grandmother’s painting.
“Detective, I’d like to get the painting back. It’s a family memento, and it’s important to me,” I said, feeling slightly guilty for thinking about my own interests just a few feet away from a still-warm corpse.
The detective fixed his eyes on me and gave one of those noncommittal answers people tend to give to random questions. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep in touch.”
We shook hands. The officer accompanied me to the cordon and saw me off with a timid “Thanks for your help.”
I returned to Cándida’s house. I felt such an overpowering urge to tell her what had happened that I almost ran those few blocks. Since my grandmother’s death, I hadn’t felt the need to share my everyday issues with anyone. But a grandmother is always a place of welcome, and Cándida was starting to fill that role: a place to go back to.
She opened the door with surprise. She had changed into one of her many floral robes with pockets and mother-of-pearl buttons.
“Cándida, I came back because I have to give you some sad news,” I announced.
Perhaps the years had tempered her curiosity or capacity for surprise; she ushered me in with her usual unhurried calm. She told me to sit at the dining table and offered me the coffee I had skipped earlier. When I told her the owner of the frame store had been killed in a robbery, she clamped a hand over her mouth.
“How awful! I’ve taken several mirrors to Dalmiro to be polished over the years, what a great pity. I liked the man—he was rather poor, a man of few words, not the brightest spark… a simple soul,” she said in a rather unconventional attempt at an obituary.
“I only saw him once, and he was kind of curt. What worries me is that I don’t have my grandmother’s painting. The detective told me—”
Cándida’s eyes widened, and she covered her mouth again, with the other hand this time, and interrupted me. “But Palomita, that’s terrible! Strange things seem to happen around that painting. First it turns up in that old cabinet, then people come asking questions about it, and now… it’s disappeared again.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, surprised and confused. “Who came to ask you about the painting?”
“A lady came yesterday. Didn’t I mention it?”
“No, you didn’t mention a thing.”
“Oh, my memory’s all over the place. A lady came yesterday, very courteous she was, and rang the bell at your grandmother’s house. I was just in the patio—that’s how I heard. I opened my door and asked what she wanted,” she said as she poured the coffee. “She asked about you…”
“About me?”
“Yes, yes. She said she was looking for Paloma Cruz. I told her this was your late grandmother’s house and that you didn’t live here. And that was that.” She dropped a spoonful of sugar into the coffee and held it out to me, smiling.
“Cándida, what did she say about the painting? You just said she asked about the painting,” I insisted.
“Oh yes. My memory is so unreliable! When I told her it was your late grandmother’s house, she asked me if your grandmother was the owner of a painting of a nude woman…” She paused, trying to recall the conversation. I waited for a few seconds that seemed to last centuries, then she continued: “And I told her yes, that painting was of your grandmother. I think she asked me whether you had it at home, and I told her you had taken it to be framed by Dalmiro, God rest his soul. And that’s it, nothing else. The truth, that’s what I told her. You told me you were going to get it framed at Dalmiro’s, and I never lie.”
I hid the trembling of my hands so that Cándida wouldn’t worry, and drank the coffee in tiny sips. It was the only way I could loosen the knot tightening halfway down my throat.
Later that day, I left the house with a devastating certainty: someone had been killed because of my grandmother’s painting.
23 Buenos Aires, December 2018
The slap rang out clearly, like an explosion. Lorena’s palm was burning red, her body trembling. For a few seconds, she waited for the counterattack; she knew Cristo was a violent, impetuous man. But the retaliation didn’t come. The man merely straightened his head, which had been forced to one side by the blow, and stared at her, his eyes swimming with tears. Lorena knew he wasn’t about to cry; it wasn’t sadness or anguish. It was the strongest kind of hatred: contained hatred. She considered apologizing for her outburst but decided against it.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and straightened the lapels of her silk jacket. Then she cleared her throat, not wanting her voice to wobble. Every fiber of her being was focused on putting on a performance.
“Why did you have to kill him? A dead body was never part of the plan,” she said, carefully measuring each word.
Cristo opened and closed his fists several times, releasing the fury that had tightened every finger.
“The only plan was to recover the painting,” he replied as he drew the framed picture out of a large bag. “And here it is. All yours.”
Cristo didn’t understand boundaries. He had a tendency to get carried away, to defend himself against the wrong people, against anyone, for that matter, using one single tactic: violence. In one of his recurring dreams, he found himself digging a deep, perfectly formed pit, shovelful by shovelful, his only aim to turn it into a grave for that woman he loved, hated, and desired with equal intensity. She had been his savior; but over the years she had become his jailer, a hard drug that he couldn’t and didn’t want to quit.
He had always known that the moment when he first laid eyes on her had paved the way for what came next. But it was inevitable: he was young, afraid, full of hate, and in prison. At that time, five years had passed since the Christmas-night robbery at the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. A few months after the theft, the Blates painting Muerte Amarilla, skillfully forged by Cristo, appeared as if by magic in a storeroom in the south of Buenos Aires province. An anonymous 911 call had given the tip-off. Police officers, a judge, a district attorney, art experts, and even the media flocked to the scene, never suspecting that they were a necessary part of a setup that, within hours, would have international repercussions.
