Amelia if only, p.5
Frida's Cook, page 5
“But they moved her all the same…”
“Of course they did! She couldn’t climb the stairs. One night she slept on the sofa in the lounge for fear that Eusebio would realize she was too much of an invalid to get to her room.” Gloria paused briefly to cut another slice of pan de muerto, then immediately resumed her tale. “When she saw the new room, she settled down a bit. It’s positioned well away from the everyday commotion of the place. We oldies tend to be a bit deaf; we can be quite noisy and we laugh a lot, loudly. Laughter is all we have left. And besides, the new room is bigger and brighter, and there’s space for some small armchairs and a little table, to makeshift a small private living room. The old woman enjoys receiving visitors as if she were the lady of Casa Solanas, but the only one who ever spent whole afternoons there was Nayeli.”
Hearing my grandmother’s name in someone else’s mouth still felt like a thorn jabbing into me.
“Yes, they were friends for years,” I said, without offering any further explanation.
Gloria rolled her eyes; she wanted to make it very clear that she disapproved of anything related to the “old woman.”
“I know. They were joined at the hip. Your grandmother was very good, and that woman… well, she’s a horrible thing. Nayeli spent hours and hours in the kitchen. She said she was cooking for everyone, but that was a lie; she just wanted to flatter Eva.”
“Well, she was fond of her,” I said, wanting to make excuses for her.
“No one could love Eva. No one.”
* * *
After my conversation with Gloria, I felt a sudden urge to visit Eva Garmendia, this time without feeling guilty for betraying my grandmother’s furtive desire to keep me away from her. Mulling over the few details Gloria had divulged, I walked to the end of the long corridor. She was right: the farther I went, the deeper the silence. It was like entering a bubble. I could barely hear the murmur of a tango playing on a radio somewhere.
The door I found at the end of the corridor was different from all the other doors at Casa Solanas. The sturdy wood had been left bare rather than being painted white. Just like the metal entrance gate and the women of Casa Solanas themselves, the worn parts marked the passage of time. With a tight fist, I knocked twice timidly and leaned my ear against the wood. I could hear the approach of shuffling footsteps. I waited for a few seconds but nothing. I repeated my two knocks with a bit more energy. More dragging of feet. And nothing.
“Eva, it’s Paloma. I’ve come to say hello,” I said in a friendly tone.
“We’ve already said hello. There’s no reason to do it again,” she replied.
Her voice made me jump. She was close, only the door stood between us.
“Yeah, you’re right. I want to talk to you.”
“Lies don’t make for a good introduction. They’re undignified and vulgar,” she said.
I took a deep breath and released the air all at once. I felt exposed and confused.
“Okay, okay. You’re right, I shouldn’t have lied. The truth is that I’d like you to explain what you said to me during Nayeli’s tribute.”
“I don’t remember what I said. At my age, words disappear like dust.”
“You mentioned my grandmother’s sins,” I said, playing my final card.
Eva fell silent. I took her silence to be a good sign. Perhaps I had gotten it right: the only card worth playing is the truth. The door jerked open. The woman in front of me, just inches away, seemed to be someone else. She was enveloped in a long dress that fell to her ankles, dark blue with little white moon shapes, and a brown leather belt fastened with a golden buckle defined her tiny waist. Her white hair was combed to one side, giving her an aristocratic air that combined perfectly with the pearl necklace wrapped twice around her long neck.
“You look lovely, Eva,” I said clumsily. I couldn’t think of any other way to break the ice.
With devastating elegance, she fluttered her hand like someone well used to compliments.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Paloma,” she replied, and moved away from the door. “Come in, if you like. It might not seem like it, but I was expecting you.”
As Gloria had said, the room was spacious, and the light pouring through the window gave it a natural warmth. Eva invited me to the area she reserved for guests: two small leather armchairs next to a round table with a polished glass top. I sat down, unable to keep myself from thinking how much Nayeli must have enjoyed this place, so different from all the others she had inhabited. Before I could change my mind, I shared my thought with Eva.
“It’s true,” she replied as she settled herself in the other chair. “Your grandmother liked coming to chat with me. It was the only good thing about moving to this floor. She didn’t like climbing the stairs.”
“And what did you talk about?”
Eva stared at the floor.
“Life. Her things, my things,” she replied.
“And sins,” I ventured.
“And sins, yes.”
My usual strategy of staying silent so the other person would keep talking wasn’t working here. Eva didn’t feel the need to fill the gaps with words. On the contrary, the blank spaces were her refuge.
“I’d like to know more about my grandmother. Gloria told me—”
“Gloria’s nothing but a windbag,” interrupted Eva. “Don’t waste your time with her.”
“But that’s why I came to see you, Eva,” I said, feeling slightly guilty. I had no option but to pick a side of the gulf between them. “You mentioned sins… What were my grandmother’s sins? There are aspects of her life I never knew about. She never told me very much.”
“She did right. Nayeli was a very intelligent woman.”
“But I want to know,” I insisted.
“Your grandmother always said you were a curious little thing, that you couldn’t keep secrets, and when you got something into your head, you wouldn’t let it go. I can see that was no exaggeration.”
Eva stood up. She walked to the window, gazing out for a while. I stayed quiet, struck dumb; I was afraid that the slightest gesture or comment might interrupt whatever was going through her mind at this moment. Eva was making a decision.
“You’re going to have to help me with a mission that my dear Nayeli entrusted me with,” she said, her back to me, and then added, “Because I do know how to keep secrets.”
“Yes,” I murmured.
“On the top shelf of the closet, behind my hatboxes, you’ll find some answers.”
I leaped up from my chair as though I had been electrocuted. The magnificent closet occupied an entire wall, carved on the sides and on each wooden door, with polished bronze handles. I opened it with the fascination of a child. My grandmother’s Narnia was behind those doors.
“Use this stepladder,” said Eva. “The top shelf is very high.”
I did as she said, the aluminum steps creaking beneath my feet.
“I’ll just slide the hatboxes to one side,” I said, containing a sneeze. The smell of mothballs was overwhelming, but it was the only way Eva had found to keep the pests at bay. “There’s a lot of dust up here. If you like, I’ll ask Lina to come with a duster.”
“Certainly not. Don’t even think about meddling with my things,” she retorted sharply. “Don’t be nosy. That was something else your grandmother used to say: ‘Paloma is a nosy person.’ ”
“Okay, okay, don’t get mad,” I said.
There was nothing behind the hatboxes. All I could see was the back of the closet.
“Eva, there’s nothing of Nayeli’s here.”
“Look harder,” she ordered.
I took my phone out of my dress pocket and used the flashlight to illuminate the back, when a tiny reflection caught my eye. I stretched out my other hand, and my fingertips just managed to reach the find: a golden key. I clambered down the steps and showed Eva.
“The key,” she said.
“Yes, I can see that. What’s it for?” I asked impatiently.
“I haven’t a clue, my dear. One day before she died, your grandmother called for me and gave me this key,” she said, her eyes glued to mine. “She hadn’t been able to get up for a while—she was in bed all day. She told me to keep it, that it was very important to her. She also told me that when she died, it had to be passed on to you, but not before. And that’s what I’ve done: fulfilled my mission.”
I felt like I had reached the end of a tunnel with no way out.
“Did she say anything else, something that might help me find out what this key opens?” I asked hopefully.
“No, not a thing,” she replied rather unconvincingly.
I slipped the key into my purse and thanked Eva for her time: a courtesy that was far from heartfelt. It hadn’t been much of an exchange: I had come to her room with a question and was leaving with a mystery.
When I was halfway down the corridor, retracing my steps to the exit, I heard a voice behind me: “The story is worth more than the painting. The story is the true work of art.”
I spun around and stared at her. She was leaning against the doorframe. Smiling.
“That’s what your grandmother said to me when she entrusted me with the key.”
I didn’t even have time to open my mouth. Eva Garmendia turned on her heels and disappeared into her room. I could hear her singing “La Llorona” on the other side of the door.
10 Buenos Aires, November 2018
I left Casa Solanas and wandered aimlessly. My mind was racing at the thought of the key Eva Garmendia had given me. In a pocket at the bottom of my purse, that tiny piece of bronze hid my grandmother’s secrets.
I dived into the first subway entrance I came across; after having to switch twice, I finally reached my neighborhood.
I didn’t want to shut myself away in my apartment, and, more to the point, I needed a beer; the last bottle in my refrigerator was almost empty. The bar on the corner was my best option. I headed straight for my favorite table, next to the window. Along with the beer, I ordered a plate of salami and cheese to nibble on. Don Plácido, the owner, added some olives, on the house. They looked rather dubious, but I thanked him anyway.
I occupied myself for a while scrolling on Instagram. Glancing around, I looked for something nice or interesting to photograph; I hadn’t posted all day, and I was feeling ludicrously guilty. Nothing caught my eye.
I slipped my hand into my purse and drew out the key that opened something belonging to my grandmother, if only I knew what. I inspected it carefully on both sides. It was shiny and fairly new. I compared it with the keys for my apartment, and the difference was vast: the bronze was opaquer, with some barely visible marks. I laid it down on the table. The red Formica looked pretty good against the gold of the key, so I took a photo and applied a filter to intensify the color contrast.
I spent a few seconds mulling over a caption to go with the post. I never was very good with words; music was my thing. I went for something brief and a bit corny: The key to my heart.
I downed my beer in two gulps. The bubbly freshness in my throat raised a smile. I thought about Ramiro, the guy I’d had three dinner dates with at La Costanera, a night bowling, and an ice cream at Puerto Madero.
I returned to my phone and looked up Rama’s Instagram account. He used it a lot, one photo per day at least. He never uploaded images of himself; it seemed a rather impersonal account, but it wasn’t. His drawings said so much about his personality—anything else would be a waste of information.
Before messaging him, I liked his most recent post: a sketch of small, delicate feminine feet, with a ring on the big toe. They weren’t my feet, and I felt a prickle of jealousy in my guts.
As I waited for him to respond, I browsed the notifications I had received beneath the photo of Nayeli’s key. My bandmates, who seemed to be online at all hours, had sent heart emojis; a former classmate from the conservatory hoped that, no matter who unlocked my heart, I would always be happy; my neighbor from the third floor added flame emojis. But it was a message from Liliana, the receptionist at the school where I taught music, that caught my attention: Lovely key, nice and new. I don’t know if it will open your heart, but I’m sure it will open a brass filing cabinet. I know one just like it, ha-ha.
I automatically slid my fingers down my phone screen and sent Liliana a WhatsApp. I needed to see with my own eyes what kind of filing cabinet she was talking about. In less than two minutes, the answer was in my inbox: a hasty snap that got me thinking. I couldn’t recall having ever seen a piece of furniture like that in my grandmother’s house.
Do you think the key is from something similar? I asked hopefully.
No doubt, she replied triumphantly. Where did you get it?
It turned up under my bed. It’s very strange, I lied.
I was about to ask Liliana to send me a photo of her key when Rama replied. He wanted to see me, too. I smiled and ordered another beer to celebrate.
* * *
Nayeli’s house was halfway between the school and my apartment. As I did every Wednesday, I had dropped by the supermarket to buy some nice things for Cándida, not forgetting the bottle of wine she always requested. I rang the bell, and she came out instantly, as ever. Sometime ago, I realized that she had placed a wicker chair by the door; she would sit for hours waiting for one of her children or grandchildren to call in to see her, an increasingly sporadic occurrence.
“I’ve brought you a few things,” I said as I entered.
Cándida’s house was the mirror image of Nayeli’s: a long hallway, spacious living room, extensive kitchen, two bedrooms with high ceilings, and a patio filled with plants and empty birdcages that at some point had held canaries.
“Thank you, Paloma, dear. I see you brought me some wine… How lovely! I’ll have a little glass tonight while I read a book of poems the baker gave me.”
“Great,” I said. “Poetry and wine, I can’t think of a better plan.”
Once I had put away her food in the refrigerator, I took out my phone and showed her the photo of the filing cabinet from the school library.
“Did you ever see anything like this in my grandmother’s house? I don’t remember it,” I said.
Cándida went to the living room and grabbed a magnifying glass that was sitting on the poetry book.
“I’ll have to use this to see it; my glasses aren’t up to the job.” She laughed, then studied the photo for a while, frowning as she did. “Something rings a bell… It’ll come to me, Paloma,” she murmured, and thought for a few more minutes.
“It doesn’t matter, Cándida. If you can’t remember, it’s no problem. Maybe Nayeli never had a piece of furniture like that.”
“Yes, she did!” she announced suddenly. “I gave her something very similar. She stored some knickknacks in it and left it here. I’ll show you, if you like.”
I accepted her offer, sensing a lie behind the story: my grandmother’s house was just as big as Cándida’s; there was no reason for her to have left it here.
“Come this way,” she said, heading for the patio. “I stowed it away in the shed where I keep my old junk.” Cándida continued, “A few years ago, I asked the boy from the grocery store to push it to the back.”
As I followed her, I realized, with some annoyance, that Nayeli had hidden several things from me.
“There it is,” she said, pointing.
The little room where she kept her old junk was just like the one on my grandmother’s side of the fence. Although Cándida’s was less full and somewhat cleaner.
I took out the key and hesitated. A kind of lethargy sparked by uncertainty overpowered me for a moment. Playing for time, I prowled around the filing cabinet, key in hand. Then I took a deep breath and plunged the key into the lock. It gave a metallic click. I eased it to the right and then to the left to soften the mechanism that had hardened over the years. I didn’t have to do much more. The lock suddenly yielded.
“Oh! See, Paloma! It’s full of junk. It all belongs to your grandmother, dear. Take what you want; it’s yours.”
The first thing I found was a cylindrical box made of bright pink corduroy. Printed in golden letters were the words: Shocking de Schiaparelli. Parfum. Inside, an empty perfume bottle shaped like a nude female torso—the most beautiful perfume bottle. At the top, concealing the lid, a bouquet of white and pink glass flowers lent the tiny sculpture a touching delicacy. I held it to my nose to see if it had retained any kind of scent that would lead me to Nayeli, but nothing. It had no smell at all. I placed the box and bottle on the floor, out of the way. Then, carefully, I took out a light package wrapped in white silk paper.
“Clothes, perhaps, do you think?” murmured Cándida.
She was right: it was clothes. But not any old, everyday clothes. I laid out in front of me a red blouse, made from a cotton so fine it was almost transparent. It had short sleeves and geometric embroidery around the neck. I folded it gingerly, afraid it might disintegrate.
“This one’s a skirt, is it?” asked Cándida.
I nodded silently. The skirt was red, too. Sewn inside it was a white petticoat with a lace flounce that hung below the lower edge of the skirt. Both garments were quite small; they seemed to be made for a girl. Inside the package, between the folds of the skirt, were two pencils: one yellow and the other blue. I noticed their tips: they looked as though they had been freshly sharpened. When I smoothed out the silk paper to wrap up the clothes, I heard a jingling sound. It was a necklace in a gold so dull, it was almost black. From the chain dangled a cascade of tiny coins in different sizes.
The filing cabinet seemed empty, as though it had decided enough was enough and was refusing to give me anything else of my grandmother’s. I took one final look before I closed it, just in case, and plunged my hand right inside, as I had done when I found the key in Eva Garmendia’s closet. My fingers closed around a rough tube. It was wedged in diagonally, between the top and bottom of the cabinet.
