Becoming Marta Page 5

  “I’m not sure; I don’t know anything about the zodiac. That’s what I was told by a sculptor who used constellations in his work and knew a lot about astronomy. In any case the Egyptians and Greeks were contemporaries, right?”

  “But regardless of the sky under which you were born, if from the time you’re a kid they tell you that you’re an Aquarius and that you’re this and that, in the end you end up believing it and behaving that way.”

  “Probably,” said Adriana. “I’ve never given it serious thought.”

  Marta finished rolling the joint.

  “Look,” said Adriana, “there are six billion people on earth. If you divide that by twelve months, that’s five hundred million people with similar personality traits and similar things happening to them every week, according to the zodiac. Can you imagine? Twenty-five times the population of Mexico City is Cancer or Leo.”

  All her life people had told Marta that she embodied the Leo personality. Leos need attention. Leos are loud. Leos roar. Leos let their claws out when they’re angry. Unable to fully imagine it, she pictured five hundred million Leos, all born like her in August and conceived more or less in December. Marta, who had always been made to feel special, now found herself in the company of millions and millions of similar beings and, on top of that, under the wrong sky. What sign was she, then?

  Minutes before, Gaby had proposed a toast. She talked about forming a family and how she hoped her daughters would get along like sisters. Fucking whore. She doesn’t know what’s in store for her, Marta had thought.

  “I never looked at it like that,” Marta said, lighting the joint and taking a few hits before passing it to Adriana.

  They remained silent. Marta remembered how a shaman in Zipolite once told her that her totem was an osprey and that it was a very powerful sign. Her friends had made fun of her because, traditionally speaking, your totem is the first animal that passes close to you after birth, and since all of them had been born in Mexico City, the only totems possible were a crow, a rat, or a dog. Marta didn’t say anything. She didn’t tell them that she was born in Coronado, where ospreys were common.

  Marta told Adriana that her totem was an osprey. They both laughed the desperate, awkward laugh of the stoned.

  13

  Table Talk

  Gaby was furious. Ignoring the sea view, she turned to the untouched buffet and said, “Your spoiled daughter didn’t eat a thing.”

  “Neither did yours,” said Pedro.

  Gaby grabbed her plate and headed for the food. She served herself red and green chilaquiles, an enchilada, two slices of smoked salmon, and half of a toasted bagel. To top it all off, she added an egg Benedict and two strips of bacon. She returned to the table, adjusted one of the shells, and began eating.

  Gaby had spent years thinking positively and imagining good outcomes. How many times had she imagined herself here? Living in this house that she’d come to know barely a year ago, thinking about marrying Pedro, wondering if she could conquer him, as though he were the summit of a mountain. How many more steps were needed to reach the top of Everest? Yet here she was. She had reached unimaginable heights. Still, digging into her dish, she couldn’t help but admit to herself that she was unhappy.

  So that’s why he liked me, she thought. He knew I came cheap.

  She stuffed another mouthful of chilaquiles into her mouth. She knew it disgusted Pedro to watch her eat. It bothered him to see her switch the fork between her hands or leave the flatware on the side after she finished, as though attempting to show manners she clearly didn’t possess. He never let her forget that.

  He’d put up with it once, and Gaby had looked up to him, eager to learn his ways. She knew that Pedro loved her only because he felt worshipped. After all, didn’t she blow him with absolute dedication whenever he wanted? As though it was the only thing in the world she desired. Marti had never blown him. Pedro told her that Marti would not even touch his dick. Naturally, having it all, Marti had not needed to worry about satisfying him. He, on the other hand, had gone through life trying to please his wife, with no success.

  Was this what marrying Pedro had made her? To think she’d been the one who’d insisted—who’d demanded—the marriage! Nothing had turned out the way she’d hoped.

  Her plate was empty.

  “Waiter,” Gaby yelled sharply, snapping her fingers. “Waiter!”

  “Don’t snap your fingers,” said Pedro, who had been watching her the entire time.

  “I’ll do what I want in this house, which truth be told is neither mine nor yours. Besides, this is the last day these servants will see me.”

  “But not I,” said Pedro.

  “No, not you.”

  14

  The Boat

  Marta, Mau, and Adriana drank Lesbians and tequila on the deck of the yacht.

  “I love these cups. They’re like the ones for toddlers,” said Mau.

  “Yeah, my mom was great with this sort of stuff. She would have gone ballistic if anyone stained her boat, but she also didn’t want to be the typical party pooper, so she bought these cups with lids designed for kids. They used them to serve anything that might leave a stain.”

  “It’s pristine. You got it recently?” Adriana said, admiring the wood finishes, the meticulously designed doors, the whiteness of the lacquer, the shine of the chrome.

  “The boat?” asked Marta absently. “Some ten years.”

  “I thought it was new!” Adriana said.

  “God, no. They stopped making this model three years ago. Look, now they make the windows longer, see?” Mau said, pointing to other yachts in the marina.

  “Yeah, damned Italians. They’re always updating details so we feel screwed,” said Marta.

  “You feel screwed?” said Adriana. She was completely captivated by Marta. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen her, but it was the first time she’d observed her up close in bright daylight and nearly nude. She was long and bony like a Giacometti. There was a certain harmony about her that stood out. A gracefulness. She seemed filled with light.

  “Yes and no. In some ways, yes. But in other ways, no. I don’t know. You?”

  “Me? Totally screwed. There’s nothing to be done about it, so I’ve grown used to it.”

  “Well, you’ve got a great attitude for someone who’s screwed,” said Mau. “How did you learn to sing so well?”

  Adriana was relieved that he’d changed the subject. She had a well-rehearsed script about her childhood that she could recite with aplomb. But she was starting to feel the tequila. She realized that she was drunk, and yet the last thing she wanted was to stop drinking. Mau and the first mate made sure that both women were topped off.

  “I learned to sing in church. I was in the choir.” It was one of Adriana’s most pleasant childhood memories: the cool church air, the warm sound of guitars, the upbeat songs about Jesus fishing and the sun-kissed grains of golden wheat.

  The first mate announced to Marta that the snacks were ready, and the captain asked her if she wanted to go closer to the shore. Marta said yes, and the boat anchored right off a small, busy beach. The incessant comings and goings of fishing boats transporting tourists caused Adriana to feel vertigo. On the beach all the restaurant stands advertised the same menu: clams, ceviche, tiritas of red snapper, lobsters, prawn quesadillas, and grilled shrimp. Brown-skinned people and fat bodies bathed near the edge of the sand. A group of kids who looked like refried beans dove headfirst from a cement jetty. Adriana could hear their laughter. One of the food shacks was called Lili Cipriani. She recalled the Venice Biennial, where a few years back she’d exhibited a photo that went completely unappreciated. There were two other yachts anchored near the shore. Mau and Adriana waved to their passengers.

  Inside, luxury; outside, poverty. Inside, white; outside, a thousand shades of sand and earth. Inside, exclusivity; outside, the masses. Always surrounded by contrasts. Mexico was nothing if not loud, dissonant, and high contrast. So much co
lor wasn’t necessarily happy or bright, but it caught your eye. You never got used to such red reds, such bright yellows, such spicy salsa, and the emptiness, thought Adriana. Perhaps I move between shades of gray, but for these people, from the impeccable white deck of the ship, a drop of color must be an incredible contrast. She thought about how water got muddied when you dipped a paintbrush in it. In that first instant the paint doesn’t want to mix. It remains intact, forming spirals, but then you shake the brush and it becomes uniform. What this country needed was someone to shake the paintbrush and finish mixing it up. For the time being, from where she was sitting there was only black or white, rich or poor. There were no grays. She started to feel uncomfortable and regretted having confided in them as though they were her friends when she barely knew them. She closed her eyes. The tequila, the sun, and the ship’s movement made her nauseous.

  They moved to a table at the back of the yacht, where there was shade. Adriana nibbled on some salted crackers and felt better. Then she devoured the ceviche with eagerness. The freshly caught fish was delicious precisely because it did not taste fishy. At least it didn’t taste like the fish she loathed as a child, which her mother bought on sale and fried up with garlic. The bright combination of chopped tomato, onion, cilantro, olives, and lemon juice delighted her palate. She also tried the strips of red snapper marinated in lemon. The oily avocado helped stabilize her nausea. She drank some more frozen tequila, thick as honey.

  “Aren’t you mad at me?” Marta asked her out of nowhere.

  “Me?” Adriana said, having no idea what Marta was talking about.

  “I’ve decided to sell the house, and your mother will no longer be able to stay there. Maybe you hadn’t realized. Gaby only found out last night.”

  “No, I didn’t know. You don’t have to sell it, do you? Couldn’t you just tell her she’s no longer welcome? But why would I be angry?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe your mom thought my dad was loaded, so now she’d be rich.”

  Adriana reflected on that. She thought about her mom without money, without breast implants, without the ridiculous things she’d done since meeting Pedro. But no, the transformation had begun with Sylvia.

  “I don’t know. Do you think she married your old man just for the dough?”

  It gave Adriana a certain pleasure to think of her mother failing; in her imagination, Gaby without money would reestablish a certain order.

  “No, silly. She married him for his pretty face,” replied Marta.

  “Well, he is handsome,” said Adriana.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure, sure, I know,” said Adriana, “but I’m not sure that it was just about money.”

  That comment bothered Marta. To her it was obvious that Gaby was nothing more than a low-class cow. She refused to entertain the idea that the marriage between her father and Gaby was a case of true love, like in some soap opera. Not wanting to make more waves, Marta raised her glass, and the three of them toasted. They went back on deck to laze in the sun. The captain raised anchor and steered the ship toward the horizon. Marta asked Mau to put some sunscreen on her. Adriana watched them. With their perfect, tanned bodies, they looked like an ad in a fashion magazine. He had Greek proportions, like a sculpture. She was long and lithe with seemingly endless limbs. Only her feet were perhaps a tad too bony. However, the boniness lent a glorious effect to her hands. While she watched, Adriana spread 60 SPF sunscreen on her dull skin. Mau finished applying sunscreen on his friend and offered to do the same for Adriana.

  “No, thanks. Why don’t I put some on you? I give good massages.”

  Mau lay down and Adriana knelt by his side. Marta watched them from the corner of her eyes. Adriana had strong arms; she obviously used them in her work. She had squat hands with short nails and square fingers. Her grayish skin had unseemly black hairs. She should get electrolysis, Marta thought. She couldn’t imagine Adriana wearing any jewelry—maybe the occasional leather bracelet like they wore in Coyoacán. No doubt she’d worn those when she was younger. She was half hippie.

  Marta would not have knelt next to Mau. She would have straddled his back and finished the massage in two minutes. But not Adriana; she kept at it in a rhythmic fashion, as though Mau were one of her artworks and she were completely engrossed in the moment, focused not on herself but on him and on the work at hand. Marta knew that she could never submit and focus like that. She would be on to the next thing, to bed if she wanted to seduce him, or tickling him if it was a friendly back rub, like in Mau’s case. But Adriana had said, “Do you want me to give you a massage?” and she was doing it in earnest.

  Marta felt jealous of Mau. She’d like someone to touch her that way. She’d like to feel useful hands on her back. She wanted to ask Adriana but didn’t dare. Fuck, she thought. I’m starting to respect her.

  Adriana finished the massage. The three of them napped until the yacht stopped in front of a cliff.

  “Ready?” said Marta, stretching.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Adriana. She did not trust the ocean. The others were getting ready to dive in right from the deck.

  “There’s the house,” said Mau. “We’re going to swim to it. It’s time to get some exercise.”

  “No,” Adriana responded quickly. “You go ahead. I’ll return to the marina.”

  “Are you sure?” they asked at the same time.

  “Absolutely.”

  15

  The Siesta

  Adriana arrived at the house after dusk, tired from her day in the sun.

  “Have you seen my mom?” she asked a servant.

  “She went out for a walk.”

  “Would you let her know that I’m going to lie down for a while and ask her to wake me for dinner?”

  The servant nodded.

  She entered her bedroom. A fresh jasmine blossom spread its aroma in the coolness of the air-conditioned room. Feeling the effects of the sun and alcohol, Adriana took off her bikini, lay naked between the clean sheets, and fell asleep.

  Gaby returned from her walk full of energy. Exercise always did her good. The blood irrigated her brain and helped her think. She walked into her room’s grand marble shower. It was the prettiest bathroom she’d ever been in. The first time she’d come to the house, she and Pedro had made love like uninhibited youngsters in this shower. She hadn’t had the work done on her breasts yet—she looked much better now—but even then she had not been unsatisfied with her body. They had been in love. Marti was on her deathbed in Houston. Pedro had returned to Mexico for business, and Gaby began picturing herself as the future Señora de León.

  In the shower Gaby noted with satisfaction her shapely thighs and perfectly round breasts standing at attention. Her belly was practically nonexistent. She shouldn’t have stuffed herself at breakfast, but it had been years since she’d eaten until she was full. One day was not going to ruin her. She resolved to dine on celery with lemon juice and return to her breakfast routine of black coffee and a poached egg.

  She needed to speak with Pedro and lay out the rules for the “new situation.” That’s how she decided to refer to getting kicked out on their asses by his spoiled-brat daughter. Pedro and she could—should—overcome the situation. What choice did they have? Her friend Sylvia had warned her, “Watch out for Marti. She may be a society lady who dotes on her maternity clinics, but she’s got her hand in everything. Nothing gets past her. When I worked there, she better than anyone knew everything that was going on. Not a day went by that she didn’t have a word with us.”

  Marta was in the south pool watching the last rays of sun. Mau had gone home to take a siesta, leaving her to think about her dad and his betrayal. She considered marriage a farce and never felt a twinge of guilt for her affairs with married men. But she did not think of herself as a home wrecker—her little sexual adventures were harmless.

  What had her father done besides sleep with another woman? Didn’t Marta realize that men had their need
s and the right to satisfy these? What exactly was her dad’s great sin? Was it taking a lover? Or was it marrying Gaby six months after her mother’s death, letting the whole world know that he did not love Marti and that she was replaceable?

  “I can’t be alone,” her father had told her, trying to justify his imminent marriage.

  “I’m not asking you to be alone, Dad. I’m asking you not to marry her. Not to bring her home. Not to imagine that everything will be the same or that Gaby can replace Mom. Understand? If you marry her, you’ll have to leave this house.”

  He’d married Gaby. Now she was alone.

  16

  The Mountain

  Marta woke up early. She’d asked Santa Claus for a little brother, even though they had made it clear to her on several occasions that Santa did not give little brothers, that his elves in the North Pole only made toys.

  Marta replied with the confused logic of a seven-year-old. “Well, didn’t you say that Santa is the Baby Jesus? If he’s the Baby Jesus, isn’t he God? That’s what you told me. And if he’s God, he can do anything. That’s what you always tell me.”

  Her mother sighed. Marti didn’t want to disappoint her, but she knew that God behaved in mysterious ways when it came to bringing children into the world.

  Marta had wished with all her might for a sibling, someone she could play with. She was the only one in her class who didn’t have siblings. “The only unique one,” her father had once said in a teasing tone, but also hoping to make her feel special.

  Even at that age Marta realized that Christmas at her house always was and always would be a sad occasion. Her paternal grandparents had long ago ceded the holiday to their in-laws, who had more pull. Every year they took a cruise to avoid feeling lonely, but Marti refused to go along. After Marti’s parents had died, they spent Christmas by themselves.

  On the twenty-fourth the three of them had dinner alone: turkey, romeritos, and cod. The servants ended up eating most of it. The kitchen table, around which sat more than a dozen employees, was where the real feast occurred. They, on the other hand, sat in silence and barely ate. Pedro would take progressively bigger gulps of wine, looking forward to his cognac and cigar by the fireplace.