Becoming Marta Read online

  “Señorita Ortega?”

  “Señora.”

  From the age of twenty-two she’d insisted that people address her as señora rather than señorita, even though she was not married. This had started at her first show, when she realized that the honorific bothered her. She had not been a señorita in the virginal sense of the term for many years. Moreover, she wasn’t getting married anytime soon; in fact, she didn’t plan to marry ever. So if she was going to make the jump to señora—rather than mimic the unmarried teachers at her school who fancied themselves señoritas at fifty—it seemed as good a time as any. So from then on she made it a point to correct everyone. Adriana thought she caught the driver scrutinizing her hand for a ring, but she let it go. Most people were much less observant than she assumed.

  Riding in a minivan that could seat twelve people and was upholstered in terry cloth, Adriana watched the bright landscape through her dark glasses. There were rows of coconut palm trees and, growing in their shade, a type of tree with thick leaves.

  “What are those just under the palm trees?” she asked.

  “Those are mangoes.”

  “Ah,” she sighed, “and when are they in season?”

  “The season’s just ending,” said the driver in his coastal accent.

  “And the coconuts?”

  “We have them all year round.”

  She remained quiet the rest of the way. After a while there were no more palm trees along the road, and she could make out the colonias in the distance, their dusty streets crammed with ramshackle houses built of cement blocks, corrugated tin sheets, and cardboard. No running water or drainage, thought Adriana while admiring the hot-pink azaleas, orange African tulips, and the golden trumpets of California poppies all thriving along the boulevard. She recalled her photo series that documented dressing rooms. Some of the images showed immense, seemingly unending closets. Some had automated clothes racks like the ones in a dry cleaner’s. One had a fountain in the middle. They were monuments to excess. Then there were the servants’ rooms. What could you say of them? Those closets held two wire hangers with uniforms. Their beds—discarded cots really—with hardly any linens. Charmless spaces with perhaps a little nail polish as the only decor, luxury, and comfort. Always a crucifix, a sacrificial Christ nailed on the wall to remind the servants of their lot in life. Some had a small shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe, the miserable myth of the mother of all Mexicans—the one who abandons them while they waste their lives searching for her.

  The minivan stopped at a large iron gate guarded by men wearing African safari uniforms—white pants, khaki jackets, hats with leather trim—that looked like they might have been designed by Ralph Lauren. They went along a paved driveway through lush vegetation. The palm leaves shone like traffic lights against the pure-blue sky. They came to a sort of hill, where the jungle opened suddenly onto a gigantic Hindu door, the goddess Tara with her twenty thousand arms framed by images of Shiva and Vishnu.

  How had this door gotten here? It must have weighed tons. Adriana imagined the door’s journey, the work of those who had crafted and designed it. No doubt it had belonged to a temple. She imagined the chain of complicity: an astute merchant who’d purchased it, or stolen it, assuring the monks they didn’t really need a door but that they did need rice, and paying them enough for two years’ worth of meals. She imagined the foreigners who arrived in India at the start of the last century, searching for loot to take with them, stripping the country of its treasures, creating a market for invaluable objects. It would take an army to move that door. Besides the human labor, they’d need a crane to lift it into a shipping container and a crew to make sure the precious cargo made it from India to Mexico. In the blink of a second, Adriana visualized a globe with navigation routes and millions of containers traveling between continents: food, oil, people in constant motion, and among them a sacred door in a transpacific vessel destined for Acapulco. It would be interesting to trace the journey of these supervaluable objects that were insured for incredible sums, the Picassos and Cézannes that went around the world, the luxury cars en route to Abu Dhabi. Why do we take extraordinary care of such objects? Why do we desire them so, and why do we allow thousands of human beings to perish in cross-border traffic? Man creates art, so why do we value art and not man? Santiago Sierra did a performance piece in which he paid some Cubans to stand against a wall and “detain” it. He paid another group to tattoo a horizontal line on their backs. To drive home his point, he paid a man to live for several days at PS1 in New York. He built a wall with only a pass-through for a lunch tray. Someone agreed to do that, to live shut in behind a wall for cash.

  Images of pateras and containers paraded in her mind. A very straight row of containers and another identical row of those open boats favored by immigrants converged at some point and began to intersperse, alternating one after the other until they formed a spiral, as though they were inside a blender that had been switched on, everything—the people and objects—broken and scrambled by the great cosmic blender.

  She walked onto the palapa situated so high up that it looked out upon the whole sea and sky, seemingly the entire horizon. It framed the most impressive view of intense Yves Klein blues that Adriana had ever seen. An old servant dressed in white pointed her to a bedroom.

  “And my mother?”

  “Brunch is served at twelve, señora. You have enough time to freshen up.”

  “Where is the swimming pool?”

  “There’s one on your left and another on your right as you go down the stairs.”

  The room smelled of jasmine and had soft music piped in from hidden speakers. A white bedspread of Portuguese cotton covered the bed. To one side of the room, on a table crafted of dense black wood—the most beautiful table that Adriana had ever seen—a jasmine branch sat in a white vase of Japanese porcelain. She did not resist the urge to take a photo of the solitary and beautiful branch. Someday, she thought, I’d like to own a table like that. At the end of the room, a Francisco Carbadillo mural portrayed a sort of genealogical tree of evolution. There was a corn seed at the base of the trunk, then the roots, like an invitation to an underworld, the first animals, and an axolotl. Along the branches were indigenous animals—opossums, badgers and ocelots, toads and deer—implausibly paired up amid the tropical foliage and desert flora. It was an impressive work—Mexican, pre-Hispanic, and modern. It pleased Adriana not to be let down by an artist whom she considered one of the great maestros of Mexican painting.

  She searched for her iPod before undressing. She’d created a floral playlist: “Dos gardenias para ti,” “En el tronco de un árbol una niña,” and “Painting Flowers on the Wall.” Then there was Tania Libertad singing “Life’s avalanche has swept you along” in “Flor de azalea.” Listening on the shuffle and repeat settings, Adriana put on her black bikini and went to the first pool she could find.

  I can see how someone would grow accustomed to this, she thought, wanting to forgive her mom.

  She removed her earbuds and dove headfirst into the pool. With the well-pitched voice of someone who has long practiced her scales, she belted out, “Tú me acostumbraste-eee . . .”

  “Did you know that song is gay?”

  Adriana turned around. A man with a sculpted body, thick beard, and bright eyes was smiling at her.

  “Hi, I’m Mau,” he said, extending his hand. “I assume you’re Adriana.”

  “Yes. Hi.”

  “If you listen closely to the song, you’ll see it’s a gay lament. He tells his lover, I’ve grown accustomed to all those marvelous things you showed me. The key is when he says, ‘I could not imagine how to love in that strange world. But I learned for you.’ Then comes the loveliest part when he asks, ‘Why didn’t you teach me how to live without you?’”

  “I always thought of it as simply a love song.”

  “Yes, a gay love song.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “For an artist you’re not terrib
ly sensitive. Imagine: the dude is seduced, turned into a cocksucker, and then abandoned. Not only does he end up crushed but a fag to boot.”

  “So what? At least he knows where to look for love again, right?”

  Mau thought about it.

  “Are you staying here too?”

  “No, I’m in the Rivero house. I’m just here for brunch. Shall we?”

  11

  The Brunch

  “Wow,” said Adriana.

  “Wow!” said Mau.

  A magnificent buffet covered a table that was easily ten yards long. A sculpture of tropical fruits dominated the right side of the table, where platters of every fruit imaginable were laid out: papayas, watermelons, passion fruits, mangos, mameys, guavas, and pineapples, along with imported delicacies, such as kiwis, raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries. There was an assortment of cream, yogurt, honey, and three kinds of granola. In the center of the table were trays of chilaquiles with tomatoes and salsa, sopes topped with beans and salsa, enchiladas, green and red salsas, queso fresco, and panela. There was salmon and eggs Benedict, pancakes and waffles, and even sushi.

  The dining table was square and could seat sixteen people, with four on each side. But only five places were set—two at each side of the table and one facing the sea. The centerpiece was a montage of seashells, some real and others ceramic or silver.

  Mau and Adriana sat side by side and remained quiet, like expectant accomplices.

  A waiter dressed in a white Nehru jacket offered them a variety of juices. Mau requested coffee and Adriana mandarin juice.

  Gaby tried to focus on her breath while surveying the buffet. Inhale: one, two, three. Exhale: one, two, three. Hold: one, two, three, four. Inhale: one, two, three. By the time Marta had informed her that she’d rescinded the invitations to her friends, it was too late. Gaby had already ordered food for sixteen guests. She’d freeze what she could; a lot would go to waste. At least she’d arranged for a decadent spread. Comme il faut. She’d taken pains to learn how, and now she gazed upon her creation with pride. It had all the recommended elements from the books she’d read. Scale: two tall decorations surrounded by low ones framed the centerpiece. Colors: coordinated to match the Pacific palette. Variety: something for every taste—vegetarian, dietetic, sweet tooth, spicy, and for sensitive stomachs. There was not a single fly; it had been her flash of genius to spray the table with insecticide.

  Adriana watched Gaby with disbelief. Was that her mom standing in front of the table, the royal palms that formed a wall of straight, white-painted trunks behind her?

  “How are you, mijita?” Gaby said, embracing Adriana and kissing her on the cheek. She’d told herself a thousand times not to address Adriana as mijita. She knew it didn’t sound right, but it was a hard habit to break, and now it was too late to take it back. “The trip was okay?”

  “Yes, Ma, thanks,” said Adriana. “Well, I did have to take a taxi to Santa Fe, which cost almost as much as the plane ticket. I hadn’t been to Santa Fe in a while. How it’s grown! It’s a changed city!”

  “It’s cool, right? My parents moved there a few years back, and they never left,” Mau said to Adriana, before turning to the host. “Gaby, this is some meal you’ve put together. Marta said it would be good, but you’ve outdone yourself.”

  “Thanks, Mau. You’re always such a gentleman.”

  Adriana didn’t recognize her mom’s voice. It had the same shrill tone as always, but there was something new about it, very fake and rehearsed.

  It hurt Adriana to see her mom like this, with her hair dyed blond and her skin tanned. She wore a brown bikini under a matching tunic with Indian-style embroidery that was practically see-through, and sandals with gold heels.

  “Mommy, what’s going on? There’s something different about you,” said Adriana, unable to contain herself. She’s had work done, Adriana thought, immediately conjuring up the image of the artist Orlan and her horns. For a moment she perceived her mother with a demon’s face.

  Gaby felt her daughter’s penetrating stare. “It must be my hair, sweetie. I’ve been going to a new salon.” She lowered her sunglasses to shade her eyes, as though shielding herself against kryptonite. “Have they offered you juice? It’s the healthiest and the least fattening. Oh! I forgot to ask for nopales juice. They say it’s great against cancer.”

  Pedro came to the table wearing dark-blue cotton Bermuda shorts, a white polo shirt, and white moccasins. He looked like a ship’s captain. He sat next to his wife and took her hand, which she removed under the pretext of rearranging a silver shell.

  Marta made her entrance wearing a violet bikini and an open knit shawl tied around her hips. Her nails still were painted black, and she had traces of makeup. She greeted each one of them with a kiss and took her place at the table.

  “We haven’t all been together since the wedding,” said Pedro, trying to break the ice.

  When they came by to offer her juice, Marta asked for Marlboro reds. She lit a cigarette and, exhaling a good bit of smoke, said without a trace of irony, “Oh yes, such a beautiful ceremony. Do you remember?” Looking at Adriana, she inquired in a friendly tone, “What have you been up to since then? I saw your book on dressing rooms. I liked it. Had I known, I would have offered you my mother’s. It’s not as big as some of the ones in your book, but it was done in very good taste. I would have liked to have pictures of it. I know you did the work with a different purpose in mind—as a display of opulence from what I gather. But I swear to you that my mom had—I don’t know—thirty or sixty tailored suits, all beige, all Chanel, Céline, or Gucci, all nearly identical, hung impeccably like a row of soldiers or nuns in a convent. Personally, if I could look at a picture of those suits the way I remember them, I’d want to keep it. I think that’s the reason they let you take them: people see themselves reflected in their dressing rooms, and they like that. They’re a type of portrait.”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly the type of work I’m displaying now. The exhibit is called ‘Self-Portraits.’ Some are oils, others collages. The oils are two yards by a yard and a half in size and might be composed of an individual’s e-mail inbox or their computer’s boot-up screen, while the collages are of receipts or account statements. I painted the Facebook page of a friend and the Gmail page of the gallery owner. I made one collage with a year’s worth of my mom’s receipts.” She expected to get a reaction from Gaby, but there was none. “Because that’s what we are, right? We are who writes to us and whom we write to; we are who is in our address book, how we organize our desktop. It becomes something very intimate.”

  “Yes, and they have a certain transient nature as portraits go because in ten years, it won’t be the same. So you’re also capturing time.”

  “I’d like to see them,” said Mau.

  “I’m going to New York on Monday. The opening is on Friday, so cross your fingers. Do you want to come?”

  She immediately regretted making the offer, because she realized that for these people, going to New York was like going to Polanco.

  “Ah, my little one,” said Gaby. “I’m just glad you’re not doing things with nudes and homosexuals. Do you remember the Biennial you took me to? It was all naked men and perverts. Horrifying.”

  Marta started blowing smoke circles. No sooner did they form than the breeze blew them apart. “Personally, I adore homosexual art,” she said, popping a smoke circle with her finger. “Any day now, with the dough I’ll make from the sale of the house, I’ll buy some of it. A Francisco Toledo or a Julio Galán. In any case my art dealer says that type of work holds its value. And, of course, Zárragas.”

  “Marta, please! Let’s not talk about that now,” said her father.

  Marta started to puff up like a fighting cock but stopped in midair and unruffled her feathers without saying what she’d intended. “You’re right, Daddy. It’s bad form to discuss money at the table. Why don’t we go on the boat? Mau, Adriana, are you coming?”

  Mau immed
iately rose from the table. Adriana considered what to do while finishing up her mandarin juice. She’d never been on a yacht. The temptation was too much.

  “I’ll see you in the afternoon, Ma,” she managed to say while following Marta and Mau.

  12

  The Wedding

  On one of the patios of Hacienda de los Morales, the justice of the peace was reading Melchor Ocampo’s Epístola and declaring the bride and groom man and wife. Sylvia and another of Gaby’s friends attended the ceremony, along with two of Pedro’s friends and his sisters, as well as their husbands. Adriana and Marta stood behind the chairs so as not to stick out.

  “Hi,” said Marta. “We haven’t been introduced. I assume you’re Gaby’s daughter.”

  “Yes, Adriana. Hi.”

  Adriana put out her hand, and they eyed each other in silence. Both were dressed in black. Marta was thrown off because she’d expected a kiss on the cheek. Marta wore a Chanel suit with a skirt that had obviously been shortened, and a black hat with a veil. Adriana sported black pants and a mannish, untucked black cotton shirt.

  There was a table for twelve people in the middle of the patio. Adriana was flanked by Sylvia, whom she detested, and her mother’s other friend, who also worked in real estate. After five minutes she had nothing left to say to them.

  Marta sat between her two aunts. She lit a cigarette and downed a tequila in one shot. She ordered another and, while she waited, put out her cigarette and headed toward the bathroom. Adriana observed all this and followed behind her.

  “What’s your sign?” asked Marta when Adriana entered. She was rolling a joint.

  “Capricorn. You?”

  “Leo.”

  “Did you know that when the Egyptians named the constellations, the sky was different from when we were born?” Adriana said. “Technically, it has been shifting, and we were born under a prior constellation.”

  “Really?” asked Marta surprised. “No, I didn’t know that. I thought the Greeks named them.”