Becoming Marta Read online

  Marta could not read her father’s mind, but she knew what her mother was thinking. As soon as the nightly pilgrimages of the Virgin started, Marta watched her mom’s spirits decline in inverse proportion to the increase in her activity. The pilgrimages occurred during the entire year but really picked up in mid-November, when every night for what seemed like the entire night you could hear the pilgrims’ steps, the matachín dancers’ jingle bells, the women’s prayers, the loudspeakers blaring instructions, and from time to time the sirens of patrol cars directing the procession. That’s when Marta’s mother would shift into overdrive, organizing posadas, blanket-collection drives, gift exchanges, pastorela nativity dramatizations at her maternity clinics, and two pilgrimages to La Villa—one for the maternity clinics and the other for the office—each with its own private Mass in the chapel.

  The following day, Christmas Day, they’d fly to Vail. Her mom would inevitably fall ill upon arrival and spend the time until New Year’s recuperating. Marta had a great time skiing with her dad and his friends. There was nothing she enjoyed more than gliding down the slopes with him. Both were excellent skiers and amused themselves on the lifts by watching the others and comparing their outfits.

  Descending the slopes with her dad, Marta felt herself to be in good company. They made a pretty pair: she with her snug pants and loose hair; he looking like an Alpine ski instructor with his tousled hair and overalls cinched at the waist.

  Nothing pleased them more than to be mistaken for Americans or Europeans.

  “You’re Mexican? Really?” their lift companions would ask, surprised. “You don’t look Mexican.”

  They’d flash their Colgate smiles and let themselves be admired, believing that they represented their home country well and enhanced its reputation.

  They’d meet up with her father’s friends for lunch at the mountainside restaurant. They tended to ski the last runs as a group. Marta loved being part of a pack of expert skiers who attacked the slopes at full speed.

  Once, when her mom was already sick, a stranger mistook Marta and her dad for a couple. Marta noticed how her dad’s face lit up, first with pride for being considered young enough to be with a woman of twenty, and then with shame for seeing his daughter in a sexual light. Marta was pleased to catch the desire in her father’s eyes, but it lasted less than an instant. The next minute her father took off and stayed farther ahead than usual.

  17

  The First Marriage (of the New Wife)

  How many mistakes can one person make? Gaby could not decide if it was her destiny or her responsibility. Everything good and bad that happened in her life—was it her fault or her fate?

  She had come to believe—after all those classes, all that effort—that she was mistress of her destiny and that her attitude and actions could make things go her way. Consequently, she had managed to overcome her first failed marriage. She’d become accustomed to the loneliness, the blame, the deep sense of failure, as though these were lice she could not get rid of, or an incessant itch. She’d married an engineer, becoming the first in her family to make a match with a college graduate. She finished high school. She knew she was pretty.

  Small sorrows are easily concealed. From her window on Calle Pilares, she could see the unceasing traffic passing by day and night. The two buildings in front blocked the sun. Their apartment had a bedroom and a small office they would convert into a nursery when the time came. Its open design combined dining and living spaces in one room. Upstairs on the roof terrace there was a laundry area and clotheslines.

  Pablo left early for work. She didn’t get up. He had told her repeatedly that she didn’t need to prepare him lunch. His company had a cafeteria, and when they got tired of the food there they ordered good quesadillas from a lady out front.

  Gaby tried to wake up as late as possible. She had loads of spare time. Her parents’ dream that she not need to work had become her nightmare. She’d do all the household chores in a half hour. At the market she’d purposely forget items so that she’d have to go back. She’d walk around the block, hoping to make friends with someone. In the afternoons she entertained herself watching soap operas. Not having a life of her own, she fervently followed the lives of their characters.

  She missed her hometown of Morelia. She’d always had plenty to do there and knew everyone in the neighborhood, her school friends and her cousins. But it was so expensive to chat by phone that she rarely talked to them anymore. She limited herself to speaking with her mom every two weeks.

  She believed everything would pass because they kept telling her it would—not that she complained, for she never complained. It would pass, like the cars moving down her street, like the jacarandas and the rainy seasons, over the course of time without her needing to do anything about it.

  The kisses and caresses she’d shared with Pablo when they were courting after their weekly movie or dinner out turned into the nightmare of sex that started after five days at an ocean-view hotel in Acapulco. Behind pulled curtains and under white sheets, Pablo spread her legs and shoved it in with determination, as though he were preparing to score a goal. His face reminded her of a tense rabbit. When Gaby was certain that she was pregnant, that it wasn’t just the smog that made her nauseous, Pablo continued taking her in the same way.

  One of the things she’d most enjoyed about Pablo was that he had so many friends. He always invited one or two over for dinner during the week and six or seven on the weekends. These dinners gave meaning to her life. Gaby took pains preparing dips, one chipotle and one oyster, which they always praised, and serving the coldest beer and the best Cubas Campechana with exactly the right amount of lemon, mineral water, and Coke. She would stay in the kitchen while the men talked or played dominoes. She felt lost during the day but knew what to do as soon as Pablo and his friends arrived.

  When Adriana was born, Gaby’s only request was that they baptize her in Morelia. And that’s what they did. Pablo invited ten friends, who did nothing but drink over two days. Gaby, on the other hand, felt distant from her friends. Between the marriage, moving to the capital, and having a child, they no longer had anything in common.

  The child changed her life. Having pacifiers, bottles, and diapers on hand became her avocation. People smiled at her when she strolled down the street. They gave her oranges in the market. One day the neighbor with a two-year-old invited Gaby to her house, and from then on they watched soap operas together every day while their children played. Gaby was no longer alone.

  True, she was too tired to welcome Pablo’s friends with the same energy as before, but she did it anyway. True, it bothered her that they hung around, getting drunker and louder, until four in the morning when her daughter got up three times during the night, and Gaby barely slept a wink. True, she sought excuses for not having sex with her husband.

  “What if I get pregnant again?”

  “Take precautions.”

  “You take precautions!”

  “How dare you! You want me to use a condom? Are you a whore? You know I don’t like them. Why are you so dense? Bring me a Cuba.”

  This is how he concluded all arguments: “Why are you so dense? Bring me a Cuba.” And she always did.

  But then Pablo stopped inviting over his friends. He started getting home late. He’d leave a trail of clothes from the door to the bed. Always in the same order: first his shoes, then his suit, then his belt, which sometimes lay coiled like a viper and other times remained in his pants, and lastly his shirt. Had Gaby seen him come to bed, she would have witnessed a man in his undershirt, underwear, and socks. But she never saw him. In the morning when she got up, Pablo had already gone. She’d put out a clean suit, a pressed shirt, and everything else he needed the night before. When she got up, she would pick up his trail of clothes.

  Christmas was nearing, and Gaby wanted to know if they’d be going to Morelia. Her parents had not seen little Adriana since the baptism, and even though her mother offered to visit them, Gaby
felt like returning home. Sunday was the only day they spent together, if there were no soccer matches or bullfights. Pablo never missed a corrida and had been a Máquina del Cruz Azul season ticket holder for years.

  They were saving up to buy a car. The day after Adriana was born, Pablo had said, “We’re going to need a car so we can take her to visit your parents.” Since then Gaby had been waiting for the day he brought home a car. She had done her part. She spent the bare minimum, and since Pablo’s friends stopped coming over, she’d reduced their expenses by 60 percent, including what she spent on Adriana. That Sunday she raised the subject of money, hoping to guide the conversation from there to discussing their Christmas plans.

  “I’ve been saving,” she said. “Maybe we can put a deposit on the car.”

  “Don’t bother me now.”

  She decided to resume the discussion on Monday because that was the day Pablo got home earliest, unless there was a game of American football, in which case he got home after midnight. When he didn’t arrive, Gaby supposed there was a game on, but she decided to wait up on the sofa anyway.

  “Have you thought about the car?” she asked, half-asleep.

  “Don’t be a nag,” Pablo responded, noticeably drunk.

  “You said—” she muttered in a barely audible voice.

  “You said, you said,” Pablo mimicked her, and then burped. “Yes, I said. So what? The only thing you know how to do is ask for things. Where do you think I get the money to pay my expenses, huh? You no longer spend money, right? You don’t eat out, you don’t drink. But what about me? You think I don’t get hungry—and not just food, my dear, huh? Because man does not live on bread alone, you know? You want to wait up for me? Well, here I am right in front of you. You want to go to your parents? Go. But don’t come back here, do you understand? Pablo Ortega is telling you not to come back!”

  Then, as if she weren’t even there, Pablo took off his shoes, pants, suit, and shirt, went into their bedroom, and slammed the door.

  Gaby remained motionless on the sofa. Was that Pablo? Was that her husband? She stayed a long while without knowing what to do and finally fell asleep. When she woke, it was because Adriana needed feeding. The following day she spoke with her mom. Gaby told her they weren’t coming for Christmas, and there was no reason for them to make the trip to the capital. Then she made up a story about wanting to spend the holidays at home and start their own traditions.

  She spent Christmas alone with Adriana. When the child fell asleep, Gaby put the gifts she’d bought for her—a doll and some coloring pencils—under the tree. That night Pablo did not come home. Or the next night. Or the one after that. He came back after New Year’s to pick up his things and leave the apartment. Gaby watched him, stunned. The only thing that occurred to her was to say, “And our daughter?”

  “What do you want from me? You want me to say good-bye? Don’t worry about the girl; I’ll keep seeing her. She’ll understand when she’s old enough. Listen, and don’t push it. I’m no asshole. I’ll pay your rent and give you some money for expenses. But don’t ask for more.”

  He slammed the door and left.

  For another three weeks Gaby pretended that she still had a husband. Her life hadn’t changed that much without him. When she finally informed her parents that Pablo had left, they came to visit.

  “Come back to Morelia, mijita,” said her mother. “You never lacked for anything in our house.”

  If Gaby went back to her parents, Pablo would stop paying the rent and child support. She would need to find work and help out with expenses. Her parents had aged seemingly overnight. It was as though seeing their dream vanish—learning that their daughter did not have the life they’d imagined—had stretched their skin to the point where it was now too big on them.

  “It’s better that I stay here,” she told them. “I’ve made a life here; I need to move on.” She didn’t know the shape of this life she claimed to have made. But she was clear on one point: she could not return to her parents’ house. They’d already done all they could for her. They had a right to their retirement and their Sundays.

  18

  The Dandy

  The first time she saw him was in an art gallery.

  Adriana always knew of three or four exhibits that they could attend. Frankly, the more Gaby saw of these shrill music videos, doodles, boxes, neon tires, and inner tubes, the less she understood it all. She went because she had nothing better to do. Besides, they didn’t charge admission, and they served wine. It was better than watching soap operas. They didn’t mingle with anyone, choosing to remain aloof among people who thought that a steam cloud made from water used to bathe corpses was something cool.

  Sylvia had already spoken to Gaby about Don Pedro de León, her first boss, husband of Marti Tordella de la Vega. She said he had so many properties that it took an office of ten people just to manage them. Sylvia had started off as a receptionist, and in a few years became rent manager for three buildings in Polanco. Don Pedro managed the properties to ensure they were well maintained and always rented. Sylvia quit working there after Don Pedro refused to give her a raise, and she realized that she should be earning three times what he paid her. Gaby had seen pictures of him in the gossip magazines. The very handsome gentleman was always attending exclusive weddings, horse races, and regattas. Not art exhibits where any good-for-nothing could get in. That’s why she was surprised to see him.

  “Isn’t that Don Pedro de León?” she whispered into Sylvia’s ear. The pleats of his gray wool pants were so pressed it was as though he had just put them on, and he had on brown chamois shoes and yellow socks, which, although you wouldn’t think they’d match, gave him a cheerfully elegant air.

  In a series of small, discreet steps, they moved too close for him to possibly ignore them.

  “Don Pedro!” exclaimed Sylvia, feigning complete surprise. “How have you been?”

  “Sylvia, how are you? I see things are going well for you.”

  “Don Pedro, you are always so kind. How is Doña Marti? Please send her my regards,” said Sylvia, turning to Gaby to introduce them.

  “Gaby, I’ve spoken to you about Don Pedro. He was always generous with compliments to the girls in the office. If he’d been as generous with salaries, I’d still be working for him.”

  “A pleasure,” Gaby said, extending her hand to him.

  “That’s business, Sylvia. You understand, business is business. Tell me, what are you doing now?”

  “I’m handling one of the penthouses in the Olmos building in Santa Fe.”

  “We are developing the Alamos, but the Olmos is sales, right?”

  “That’s right, Don Pedro,” replied Sylvia with pride.

  “Good, Sylvia, very good. I always knew that you would go far,” he said, smiling pleasantly and bowing his head a few inches. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to someone.”

  “He acted like we were tying him down,” said Sylvia after he’d walked away. “Did you notice how he spoke to me? Any time he sees me, he has to put me in my place.”

  “You did make a point of saying that he didn’t pay you enough.”

  “He didn’t pay me well! Had I stayed with him, I’d still be living with my mother and not about to close my first deal.”

  Two weeks later Sylvia sold the penthouse. The manicurist at her salon had gossiped to her about the wife of a guy who’d made a fortune manufacturing pipes or water tanks. They were on the brink of divorce. Sylvia called the husband, who immediately bought the apartment and then not only asked her to sell his house but to find a place for his ex-wife to live as well.

  “I did it!” Sylvia boasted on the phone.

  “What? I can’t hear you,” Gaby said. “I’ve got a bad connection. I’ll call you from the lobby.”

  Sylvia invited her to celebrate at Champs-Élysées. Gaby didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t come up with a reason to turn it down, apart from the traffic, not wanting to spend money, and
not having anything herself to celebrate.

  An older woman with a surly expression greeted her at the door, behaving more like a guard than a hostess. Gaby could not understand why her friend subjected herself to such humiliation. Why eat in such a place and not at one of the many restaurants that welcomed them? She went up the spiral staircase. Framed by silk curtains, the spacious restaurant’s tall windows looked out on Avenida Reforma. The view, without the street-level noise or people, transformed Reforma. Only the treetops were visible, and they were green rather than dusty like down on the street. The Angel of Independence beamed benevolently over the city as though everything in it were luxurious.

  “This is how Europe must look,” Gaby said to her friend, who was waiting at the table.

  “Why don’t we go and see for ourselves?”

  “See what?”

  “Europe.”

  “How do you imagine we’d make that happen?”

  “Why not, Gaby, why not? Think about it. It’s not a matter of money. If you set out to do it, you’ll do it. No one relies on you anymore, right? You have to set goals for yourself. If you don’t know where you want to go, how will you ever get there? Don’t you have an apartment in Palmas, and didn’t you get your daughter through one of the best schools in Mexico? You helped her get ahead. But since then you haven’t accomplished anything else. She who does not move forward stagnates, my friend; she stagnates.”

  Gaby was not in the mood to be lectured. The apartment in Palmas had been Sylvia’s idea. She’d convinced Gaby that in order to give Adriana a dignified life, she also had to give her class. The plan had failed. Her daughter was a hippie, and Gaby felt like she was getting nowhere fast. Still, she liked the idea of seeing Europe.