Becoming Marta Page 10

  29

  The Ring

  They nearly always had sex on Mondays, which proved to be a bonus for Pedro: he could put up with the formal couples’ outings with Marti on weekends by looking forward to Marisol. Although his relationship with Marti was real and the one with Marisol was woven with lies, it was the latter that seemed more authentic to Pedro, even if he couldn’t quite articulate it. He would have preferred that not to be the case. He tried to talk as freely with Marti as he did with Marisol; he really tried, but he couldn’t.

  He had to tiptoe around Marti, thinking and rethinking his words before opening his mouth. It was easier to remain quiet than to be corrected. How many times had it happened? He’d say something, only to have Marti contradict him: children in Japan didn’t only attend school until they were seven; there were no bicycles two hundred years ago. Or some other drivel. What did it matter what occurred in Japan? Or two hundred years ago? At the movies Marti knew all the actors’ names, and she could recall the films that the director, and the director of photography, had made. In the meantime Pedro could barely recall the recent blockbusters. After seeing the films, Marti pestered him with questions about art, philosophy, and politics, all things he didn’t know anything about and didn’t want to answer. It’s not that he minded discussing a movie for a little while, but two hours? Did you like it? Yes? No? Done!

  “What else would you like to discuss?” Marti would ask him innocently, wanting to please him.

  “Nothing,” Pedro would answer, irritated. He wanted to scream “Nothing!” but he held back. He wasn’t really sure why her questions bothered him so much. He held her hand to pacify her: “We don’t always have to speak, do we?”

  Pedro and Marti had many things of which to be proud. They often talked about how they were the leaders among their friends and had to set a good example. More than anything they were happy that they’d never broken up, like those couples that ruined their relationships with temporary splits and arguments.

  “We’re not like that,” Marti would say.

  “No, not us,” Pedro would agree while holding her hand.

  “How can you forgive someone who does such things? Just imagine! At Conchita’s party, he told her she looked like a maid. How can you forgive such insults?”

  “But,” said Pedro, thinking of Marisol, “sometimes you need to forgive.”

  “Yes,” added Marti, remembering that one should be charitable. “You need to put yourself in the other person’s place, and when you are married you have to forgive everything. Father Patrick says that you have to forgive everything, right?”

  “Yes,” said Pedro, relaxing a bit, feeling proud and secure in his future wife’s upbringing. “You need to forgive everything.”

  Pedro believed that life as he knew it was coming to an end. In two months he would complete his final exams and graduate with a degree in business administration. He had already purchased a thesis on the construction industry and was preparing his oral defense.

  Marti’s parents asked him to join them on their trip to Paris, which meant entering a more formal level in their engagement. Pedro’s mother insinuated that he needed to buy the ring ahead of time in order to propose to Marti before they returned from France.

  While he watched television seated on the living room couch, his parents attempted to include him in the conversation about which restaurant was best suited for the proposal.

  “Choose whichever you want,” Pedro said, keeping his eyes glued to the screen. “I’ve never been to Paris. Besides, what does it matter? She’ll be the first of her friends with a ring and the only one proposed to in Europe. She’ll be happy. She can brag about it for years.”

  “That’s exactly the reason why the location is important,” said his mother.

  “Precisely,” reiterated his father.

  “La Tour d’Argent!” his mother decided suddenly. “It has an unforgettable view of Notre-Dame.”

  He was supposed to spend two months’ wages on the ring.

  “You have to buy it with your own money,” said his father. “It’s a question of honor. We’ll help out with the rest.”

  Pedro had a free week between graduation and the trip to Paris. After that he’d start his well-paid job at his uncle’s construction firm. He would not be able to see Marisol like before. His uncle was no blockhead. He would have him working from eight in the morning until eight at night. Pedro decided to spend his last week of freedom with Marisol. She was like the gun in that Beatles song, a well-honed pistol that was a pleasure to shoot. “I feel my finger on your trigger,” he comforted himself by repeating.

  Pedro could not see that his whole future lay ahead of him. On the contrary he drifted like a shipwrecked sailor dragged by the current toward the horizon. He feared that behind the straight line was a precipice, adult life, into which he would fall without a harness.

  30

  The Store

  Following her banker’s suggestion, Marta stayed at the Mandarin Oriental in the Time Warner Center. She booked herself in one of the priciest rooms, while Mau reserved the cheapest. He made sure of this by asking three times if they could get him a cheaper room. After settling in, they met in the lobby to go shopping before heading to Adriana’s opening. Marta wanted to go to Bergdorf Goodman, and Mau coveted a pair of shoes from Tod’s. Marta turned into a voracious predator. She scoured the entire store, filling up an immense fitting room and trying on clothes for almost two hours. Mau waited patiently on a settee, venturing the occasional opinion. Marta bought so much stuff that they had the bags delivered directly to the hotel so they wouldn’t have to carry them.

  It’s my life, thought Marta, mine and no one else’s. It’s my life until God or cancer or the fairies take it from me. Until then it’s my life, and I’ll make of it what I want.

  The anxiety resurfaced as soon as she was done shopping. Marta craved something else—no, she was dying for—a snort, a blunt, a drink, a cigarette, anything to calm her, anything to extinguish the anxiety poking at her like a thousand pinpricks all over her body.

  “Mau, you got anything on you?” she asked, feeling pallid.

  “No. You want some coffee?”

  “Fucking coffee? Can’t you come up with something better?”

  “How about a drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “At the Four Seasons?”

  “Let’s go.”

  They walked along Fifty-Eighth Street to the hotel. Its scale made them feel grand and small at the same time. They sat on the bar’s comfortable red leather seats. Marta asked for a martini and then another. She started feeling better. She’d tried on everything that caught her eye and bought half of what she modeled in front of the mirror. Four or five pairs of pants, three or four dresses. How many pairs of shoes? She’d lost count. She had wanted everything. She would’ve sworn that she needed everything. Her mammoth hunger seemed to capsize onto the store. Yet she felt incredibly empty. Shopping had always been a ritual she’d shared with her mother. Well, with her or against her but always alongside her. They’d agree on outfits, admire each other, and share tips while shopping. Marta knew exactly how her mother liked her to dress: black made her look pale; navy blue was elegant; mustard yellow didn’t work on her in bright light; gabardine made her eyes stand out. Of course, white always looked good on her. Red required judicious use—never red on the lips; that was only for whores. Clothes had to look polished without advertising their cost. Brands had to be worn inside because it was in bad taste to serve as a designer’s billboard. Marta also knew what her mother didn’t like. “Don’t look men in the eyes . . . You’re too old for miniskirts and you should learn to close your legs . . . You look like a punk, like a puta, like you’re crazy.” Still, she’d always been there, someone to look at her: her mother, her mirror.

  Her mother’s absence made Marta confront something she had never wanted to admit: she’d been a pendulum displaced between two points—between two mothers, one present a
nd the other absent, one biological, the other imposed. She swung from one end to the other. No one could understand how the daughter of Marti Tordella had turned out so rebellious with such an irreproachable mother. But they didn’t know the truth. Marta rejected her mother’s expectations and pushed the limits as attempts to force Marti to admit that Marta wasn’t her daughter. But who was she now? Mau had told her back in Mexico, without realizing what he was saying, that Marta was truly becoming her mother’s daughter.

  “Mau, a cigarette?”

  “You can’t smoke in here.”

  “Right. Ah, shit, okay. On the way out we’ll buy some.”

  Mau took care of the tab, and they left the bar. Maybe the smoke will help, thought Marta. She’d gone a week without smoking, but the craving had returned en force with the martinis. Cigarettes would solve everything. She could fill up on smoke.

  They went into the lobby and found themselves by a restaurant. At the far end of it there was a spit of chickens turning in a high-tech rotisserie. Blond wood paneling marked off the cozy space, which had ceilings that soared over twenty feet. Sliced carrots and cucumbers floated like sculptures inside immense crystal jars filled with water. The restaurant had strategically placed spotlights illuminating each table, lending everything a rich hue right out of a glossy magazine. There was just one couple seated by the window.

  “Why don’t we eat something?” Marta said suddenly, imagining herself pumped with nutrients instead of smoke. “Are you hungry?”

  “I am. Isn’t this that famous chef’s place?” asked Mau, recognizing Robuchon’s name on the menu. “I think he’s known for his mashed potatoes.”

  “What could be so special about mashed potatoes? Of course, now I want some. Let’s get an order.”

  Since it wasn’t crowded, they were seated immediately.

  “Doesn’t this look yummy?” Mau said, studying the menu. “Foie with eel.”

  “Hmm, what an odd combination. Let’s order it. What else to start? Pick something. What about entrées? Some meat? You can’t go wrong with Kobe beef and mashed potatoes.”

  The sommelier recommended a bottle of 1992 Finca Villacreces.

  “You’re looking better,” said Mau after a few seconds of nibbling on bread and butter. “Maybe you were just hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry now. You know, I never felt hungry before. Well, either I didn’t feel it, or I didn’t let it bother me. It’s odd, but I’ve started enjoying food recently.”

  “Well, you certainly look better.”

  “You’ve noticed? Why didn’t you say something?”

  Mau shrugged. Marta had gained weight. It wasn’t that she’d gotten heavy exactly, but she’d filled in, softening her angles. She remained a gorgeous example of the skinny bitch, but the pallor and the hint of illness had evaporated.

  “Mau, do you remember in Villa del Mar when you said I was starting to seem like my mother’s daughter? What were you referring to?” Marta asked while the waiter set down the smoked eel topped with a strip of foie gras. It was plated like a work of modern art, with flecks of brilliant color.

  “I don’t know,” said Mau. “I thought you were finding your destiny. Like your grandmother did with the vaccines and your mom with her maternity clinics. I thought you were finding your place in society by doing something like that, something admirable.”

  He leaned in to her aqua-green eyes and saw, as he always did, their beauty. He continued to observe Marta while chewing on a piece of foie. He thought he spotted a twinkle in her eyes.

  “I feel a void, Mau, such a huge void since my mom . . .”

  “Marta, you’ve told me this already, but what about before your mom? It’s not like you were superhappy.”

  I know, thought Marta as she tried another piece of the dish. The tender eel was smoky and sweet, and the fatty, delicate foie was velvety smooth. Carefully, she put another piece on her fork and placed it on Mau’s lips. He hadn’t shaved that morning and his mouth, framed with stubble, was seductive.

  “So what would you have me do?” asked Marta.

  “I don’t know, something with cancer or something for anorexics. Or something to do with art. Why did you want to come here?”

  “Shopping?” she answered without thinking. She had a way of deflecting conversations when they turned to serious topics. Marta wasn’t ready to admit that she felt she might learn something from Adriana. Marta admired her independence and how she came from nothing. She was intrigued by Adriana’s utter lack of interest in marriage. She was vastly different from the people Marta knew.

  “Mau, how do you explain that Gaby is a low-class naca while Adriana is not?”

  “In what ways?”

  “I don’t know, from her way of dressing to how she thinks. Does Adriana seem naca to you?”

  “No.”

  “And Gaby?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Okay, but why?”

  “Well, in the first place, Adriana has no interest in pretending to be from a different social class. Quite the opposite—she couldn’t care less and goes out of her way to stress it by letting you know that she rides the subway and has no money, that sort of thing. Gaby, on the other hand, does everything possible to deny where she came from.”

  “Adriana is supercultured. Have you noticed how much she knows?”

  “Yeah, and it’s not like she’s even traveled much.”

  “She’s traveled for her exhibits.”

  “Sure, backpacking and stuff. She told me that she stayed in Europe for three months after the Venice Biennial. But she did it on the cheap, sleeping in train stations and hostels.”

  “C’mon, dude, what does it matter? You’ve slept on the street.”

  “Never.”

  “Not even drunk?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “In Acapulco,” she said, remembering when she’d woken up in the hallway of an apartment where her friends were staying. The bitches had left her outside.

  “I’m not buying it. You wouldn’t be here if you’d spent the night on the streets of Acapulco. You’re bullshitting.”

  “Fine, it was a hallway.”

  “Why waste time thinking about it? Adriana is cool because she’s cool, and Gaby is crass because she’s crass. There have always been cool moms with crass daughters and vice versa.”

  “I’m just trying to work out why I get along with the daughter while the mother pisses me off.”

  “Do you think it’s because the daughter isn’t sleeping with your dad?”

  Mau looked Marta in the eyes, winked, and clucked his tongue. They burst out laughing, the cocktails and wines getting to them. The meat and mashed potatoes arrived, served in individual copper casseroles.

  The pale-yellow mashed potatoes were inexplicably light and creamy. The consistency was different from anything Marta and Mau had tried, as though the potato had fused with the other ingredients. They were entirely smooth, without a single lump. The juicy, nicely marbled meat was so tender that you could cut it with a fork. Biting into it gave them the carnivorous sense of being at the top of the food chain.

  They finished their meal and the bottle of wine. Marta asked for the check, but they brought it to Mau, and he paid it.

  “Shall we get your shoes?” Marta said.

  “No, thanks. It might be better to check out the Ferragamos. We have an entire week. Why get ahead of myself?”

  “But you’ve been telling me how much you want them since we were in Mexico,” Marta insisted. “Let’s go! We have time. It’s only two blocks away.”

  “I said no,” Mau answered, noticeably irked.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I’ve made some heavy investments in the parking garages.” In reality he’d been forced to pay off the union, which had threatened to file a labor suit against him. “I’m kind of short on dough until the fifteenth, when it’ll all go on my card and I’ll have more cash.”

  “Oh, silly, you should ha
ve told me sooner. Let’s go. I’ll buy them for you, okay? Let’s go. You can pay me back later if you want.”

  Mau chose navy-blue moccasins with leather soles. They were the most beautiful objects he’d ever seen.

  31

  The Bed

  Marta awoke. Her dreams had not been good. She couldn’t remember anything specific. A whistling seemed to pierce her brain. Her tongue was as dry as a lizard’s and tasted like cinder.

  She’d wanted to be with Juan, but it was Luis who’d sat by her side, and she hadn’t been able to shake him the whole night. She tried not saying a word and putting on her best bored look, but Luis kept talking her ear off and drinking to the point of slurring his words. Marta got up to dance and Juan followed her—he took her by the hand and led her to a dark corner. There, without a word, he kissed her in a way that sent shock waves along her spine. It unhinged something in her head.

  “I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he told her.

  “So what stopped you?”

  “I’m seeing Begoña,” he said in her ear. “I thought you knew.”

  Marta wanted to slap him. Any other girl would have done it. Instead, she gazed into his eyes and kissed him strongly and tightly, sinking her tongue into his throat.

  You never can relive a past night with the intensity of the moment; it’s like a crime scene with blurry, inconclusive clues that need to be reconstructed.

  Marta headed to the shower. The shower’s steam made her feel faint. She wanted to erase the feeble memories from last night. She shampooed the smell of smoke from her limp hair, washed the traces of makeup off her face, and brushed her teeth. She got some air and water. Clean, weak, hydrated, and wrapped in a bath towel, she sought comfort in her mother’s room.

  The air was fresh and perfumed, the sheets lightly starched, the darkness complete. She slipped quietly between the sheets, just as she’d done a thousand times before, surrendering to the fluffy embrace of the goose-down pillows. She hugged her mom and tried to match her breathing, closed her eyes, trying to sleep a bit longer. Later, when her mother woke, she would open the windows, and they’d chat for a while.