Becoming Marta Read online

  Gaby did not know what to order, because the menu, on top of being expensive, seemed foreign to her. She decided on fettuccine with morels. She liked the dish so much that she vowed to duplicate the recipe at home no matter the cost of the mushrooms or how much butter was involved. During the meal the two friends planned their European adventure. Gaby was taking her last sip of coffee when she saw the perfectly draped, dark-blue pants with gray pinstripes. A pair of new-looking black shoes approached the table. It was Don Pedro de León.

  “May I buy you ladies a drink?” he asked.

  When the waiter brought him a chair, Don Pedro requested a particular bottle of wine. The restaurant was nearly empty, with only a few guests engaged in after-lunch conversation.

  “It’s a Chilean wine that is quite good,” he said, sitting down. “How are you . . . ?”

  “Gaby.”

  “Yes, Gaby, of course. We met at the exhibit, right?” At first he seemed unsure, but then he recovered. “You two were together. She told you that we used to work together. Isn’t that right, Sylvia?”

  “Yes, Don Pedro.”

  “Don’t call me Don Pedro. I’m not a bottle of brandy. Besides, we’re the same age.”

  Sylvia later told Gaby that was the moment she realized that Don Pedro was flirting. In the three years Sylvia had worked for him more than ten years ago, it had never bothered him to be referred to as Don Pedro.

  “Really?” asked Gaby, feeling clueless for not having realized it herself. After her first husband left, her friends had said, “Thank God you’re finally rid of that drunk.” (Her first husband; she’d always referred to him simply as her husband, certain that he would be the only one.) But she’d neither gotten rid of him nor realized that he was a drunk. Sure, Pablo drank the way all men drink. At least that’s what she had believed.

  It turned out that the bottle of wine Don Pedro de León had treated them to was not very good. Months later, after making love, Pedro told Gaby this was the reason he’d started to like her. She’d been content with wine that wasn’t all that good, while his wife was never satisfied.

  19

  The Whore

  He had never been a breast man. Pedro much preferred a nice ass and a pair of pretty eyes. Undoubtedly, his main sexual fantasy, the one he’d harbored from the time he was a young boy, was a blow job. That’s what he requested from the whore at Rouge, a brothel in the Zona Rosa frequented by his cousins. He wanted to remain a virgin for Marti, who was already his fiancée. Even though he was only sixteen and two years older than her. Of course, she was not his official fiancée, and she would not be until he graduated from college with a degree in business, but for all intents and purposes he was already engaged.

  Marti and he had long discussions about sex. Their conversations basically came down to this:

  They would not have sex until they were married.

  Once married they would have lots of sex.

  Truth be told, the whore frightened him. He had no desire to stick it inside her, so suggesting a blow job seemed like a perfect alternative. The act itself was delicious, and Pedro grew reckless when he felt he was about to come, demanding, “Swallow, you whore, swallow!”

  She gazed up at him, on her knees, with a look of ecstasy or perhaps pleading. Pedro could not figure out her expression. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her closer. He was not himself. He was beside himself. He wanted to keep it going, to smack her perky ass, nicely framed by a thong and garters. He wanted to rip off her thong and ram it down farther. But he didn’t. His heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm, and the whore stopped what she’d been doing. She washed out her mouth and said, “Your little stunt is going to cost you dearly.”

  “I’ve got money to spare.”

  For six months Pedro couldn’t stop thinking about that blow job. He’d masturbate thinking about it. He’d stroll near Rouge thinking about it. He started running long distances so as not to think about it. He wanted it, he desired it so much, but he did not return. His impulses scared him.

  Finally, he confessed to Father Miguel. Among the guys at school, Father Miguel, who was also their soccer coach, was the most respected confidant for questions related to sex. He’d set up more than one guy with an escort because he was of the savvy opinion that if you could not contain sin, you could at least choose the lesser evil. If his students, the future leaders of Mexico, had to fornicate, they should at least do so with discreet young women of quality—not with brothel whores and, above all, not with their girlfriends, decent señoritas from their sister school and the future mothers of Mexico’s leaders.

  One day the priest took them to a soccer game, and he introduced Pedro to Marisol. He instructed Pedro to request Marisol’s phone number and ask her out to dinner.

  “She’s not a whore,” Father Miguel had warned him, “but she’s no señorita. Take her to dinner, flirt with her, and after a few dates, a stroll, or some little trinket you buy her, she’ll be happy.”

  He asked Marisol out to dinner. Pedro was taken aback by how quickly the city divided into two worlds: that of the well-heeled, decent folks—the world Marti knew—and the other city. They did not always have simple boundaries. A restaurant where he’d take Marisol might be next door to one where he’d go with Marti or his parents. But the city was set up in such a way that the two worlds did not collide. Once upon a time he’d had no need for such maps and codes. But now that he was setting out to live a double life, the map presented itself with crystal clarity. It was as though he’d discovered the Rosetta Stone for deciphering codes that he’d learned as a little boy and had kept hidden inside all this time.

  20

  The Hostess

  He agreed to meet Marisol at La Fonda del Refugio. He’d gone there a few times with his grandparents when chiles en nogada were in season, but he knew that now, in January, it was a safe place to take her. Who was going to be in the Zona Rosa on a Wednesday afternoon? Besides, the restaurant had small private rooms that made an awkward encounter even more unlikely.

  Marisol was already waiting when Pedro arrived two minutes late.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” she said.

  “I’m not even late. It just took me a while to park the car.”

  “You have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  His parents had bought it for him when he turned sixteen. His mother had hidden the keys in a quesadilla at breakfast. He’d almost lost a tooth when he bit into them. “This way you can take Marti for a ride,” his father had said.

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays he visited Marti in his new car, but he didn’t take her for a ride. Marti was not allowed to be in the car with him. They could only be together at her house, always within a chaperone’s field of vision. On weekends they could go out together with friends “as couples” to parties or the movies.

  But he wasn’t with Marti now; he was with Marisol, and she could go for a ride.

  “We can go for a ride after lunch if you’d like.”

  “I’d love to.”

  They ate pork chicharrón en salsa verde and two chicken breasts in mole poblano. Pedro had never seen anyone eat with such relish. Marisol’s pleasure in every mouthful was evident in her big eyes. They stood out on her face, which otherwise had no distinguishing features save some baby fat that made her look girlish. Her lips were fleshy and smashed like a flat tire. She looked like a good girl when she smiled, like someone with a good heart. Her face reminded Pedro of an apple, but it also had a fishlike quality, as though her eyes were set too wide.

  Marisol’s appearance was clean and fresh. Pedro could imagine her in uniform, ironing her shirts for school. Today she was wearing a brown skirt and a pink cotton blouse. She’d evidently made an effort to shine her shoes, but they still looked worn. She worked as a hostess on weekends because the pay was good and the schedule allowed her to stay in school. She was majoring in biology at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Her dream was to open her own laborato
ry. She thought it a good business decision, since people always needed blood work done.

  “I have a little brother. Sometimes I babysit him. If we keep seeing each other,” she said, “we can bring him along for a car ride one of these days. He’d love that.”

  While paying the bill with the gasoline money his father had given him, Pedro wondered if it was too soon to kiss Marisol.

  “How many boyfriends have you had?” he asked her.

  “One. We went out for two years, but it ended when he moved to Puebla for work.”

  “For work? How old was he?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “And you are?”

  “Twenty.”

  “And you?”

  “I just turned eighteen,” Pedro lied, adding two years to his age. “You don’t mind that I’m younger, do you?”

  Pedro took her hand as they left the restaurant. He led her through a crafts market out front, where they sold silver bracelets and earrings. Without saying a word, Pedro picked out a small bracelet and put it on her wrist.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot?”

  “Yes. I love that it has the same design as the friezes in Mitla.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an archaeological site in Oaxaca called Mitla. That’s where this pattern comes from. See? It’s like a staircase.”

  “Would you prefer this one?” he asked, pointing to one twice the width.

  “No, no thanks.”

  He paid the merchant and, feeling very gallant, walked her to his car. It was a white Mustang with gray leather seats. He opened the door for her.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “It doesn’t matter—just drive.”

  They drove the length of Avenida de los Insurgentes holding hands. Pedro had never driven so deep into the city, and it made him anxious. Marisol explained that she lived near the Universidad Nacional by Avenida Cuauhtémoc, but that he didn’t need to take her that far. She could get a minibus on any corner.

  Pedro decided not to take Marisol to her house. He already had home visits with Marti to deal with. What he wanted was a girlfriend to kiss. He turned onto a small, quiet street. He stopped the car and right there went for her lips. The kisses were wet and eager. Pedro felt his breath quickening to match hers. Desire. Saliva. Tongues. He jumped out of his seat and got on top of her. He was already hard—rock hard—but all he wanted was to go on kissing her and feel her body beneath him. He paused for a moment to unbutton her blouse, but Marisol stopped him.

  “No, Pedro. Not here, and not in broad daylight.”

  “I thought you liked it.”

  “I do.”

  “So?”

  “Let’s go someplace else,” she said, “where there won’t be any people.”

  “But there’s no one here,” Pedro said, motioning to the empty street. The sky was the color of cement, with big black clouds threatening rain. “Besides, it’s going to rain.”

  “Okay, but if it rains you have to take me home.”

  “Fine, but today will be the exception to the rule. You live way out in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t want you thinking that I’ll go there every day to pick you up and drop you off.”

  “No.”

  “Promise?” asked Pedro.

  “Yes, I promise.”

  There was something about Marisol that delighted him. Not just the promise of lots of kisses and fondling. Not just her big eyes. He felt free with her, like he could do whatever he wanted.

  Pedro was still between her legs. He grabbed Marisol by the waist so their hips met as they continued kissing. It was a mole kiss. It was a café kiss. A long kiss. Marisol wrapped her arms around him and caressed his hair until he felt electric shocks along his spine, as though the thunder were crashing over him.

  It started raining and hailing. Raindrops the size of cherries pelted the windshield. Pedro felt sheltered inside the car, but he was also a bit nervous about the paint job. He felt Marisol’s hands on his dick.

  “You’re hard.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes.”

  She started fondling it softly with both hands. She held it firmly and delicately at the same time. She knew what she was doing. He came in under a minute.

  “Sorry.”

  “No, no, it doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s just that I didn’t want you to get dirty.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll see. Little by little you’ll learn to hold back.”

  “It’s just that I like you a lot.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  He kissed her again. He didn’t feel shame, only that he wanted to see her more.

  He took her home: three buildings housing hundreds of apartments. He didn’t ask which one was hers.

  “When will I see you?” he asked.

  “Call me whenever you like.”

  “No, better that we make it a date. On Mondays and Wednesdays, you’re mine, okay? From midday until night.”

  “Unless I’m in the middle of exam week. If I have exams, I’ll need to study.”

  “Okay, except during exam week, but don’t get too studious on me, eh?”

  21

  The Scribes

  For two years they met almost every Monday and Wednesday. They’d start the afternoon at a restaurant and then go for a paseo. Pedro bought her new shoes when he went to the United States.

  One afternoon Pedro, Marisol, and her brother were in front of the church of Santo Domingo, sitting by a fountain and enjoying the fresh breeze. A few vendors were offering the seemingly obsolete trade of being a scribe. They used old typewriters to transcribe what their illiterate clients dictated. Sticking to ready-made phrases and archaic flourishes, the scribes informed someone’s sister that they were well, announced the birth of a child, and told of a mother’s death.

  Pedro left the two sitting at the edge of the fountain. It was a clear day. Marisol had bought Miguel ice cream, and they were sharing it. Pedro enjoyed going on paseos with them. They always seemed happy. If it rained, they’d say, “What a downpour!” as though it were the first time they’d felt water. They’d even stick out their tongues to taste the drops. They seemed to go through life carefree, always grateful when he picked them up in the car or treated them to a meal. Pedro did it with pleasure. Marisol was his secret and his hope. It was as though he could still believe in Santa Claus, in something magical whose sole purpose was to make him happy.

  The rest of the time Pedro lived in anguish. He was tired. Tired of not knowing what he wanted. Tired of not knowing how to ask for it. Back then, since he understood little about himself or about others, he did—or believed he did—what others expected him to do. Pedro moved along obediently, as though carried by a current that he could barely name. It was a feminine current—that much he knew.

  His mother lay in wait every day. “Where’s my kiss?” she’d ask as soon as she saw him in the morning. “Have you eaten breakfast? Would you like them to make you something?” When she said, “Look at how long your hair’s gotten,” Pedro knew that he needed to visit a barber, not in the next couple of days but on that very one. “Where did you find that shirt?” meant “Don’t ever wear that again.”

  She completely controlled him with a careful concoction of kisses, caresses, and insinuations. His mother accounted for every moment and every movement. She and Marti divided Pedro’s time between them—except for his Mondays and Wednesdays with Marisol. On those days he ran around the city in his not-so-new Mustang. His mother insinuated that they’d buy him another car once he graduated and that they had arranged a job for him with a friend of his father.

  Pedro claimed to be studying on Mondays and Wednesdays. It made him laugh that both Marti and his mother were stupid enough to believe him. He’d never cracked open a notebook in his life, and he didn’t plan to. He’d learned to work the syst
em from the priests at school. By hook or by crook, they got their hands on every exam. Everything had a price; it was just a matter of arriving at it. If a teacher proved to have integrity, they’d invite him out for a night of drinking and whoring until they gained his confidence. If a teacher was nasty, they’d steal it from him—the university janitors were experts at prying open office doors and desk drawers. The rest of them—the majority of them—they simply paid off. Pedro had no qualms about this. Weren’t they supposed to learn how things were run? This was how things were run in Mexico. From the head of state to the bleakest migrant laborer, everyone worked the system. He who did not work the system did not get ahead. That’s how it was. And everyone knew it, except a few idealistic dreamers, like his mother and Marti, who still believed in studying and hard work. Although it was possible they did know it. They were not stupid, so perhaps they preferred to ignore the obvious. He had no doubt that his father knew. Each Monday morning Pedro noted his father’s wide grin of complicity that implied, Today you’re getting laid.

  Sure enough, today he had gotten laid at Marisol’s before heading out for their paseo. Marisol’s bedroom was still decorated like a little girl’s room. Pedro found it delicious to do it between her pink sheets that smelled of fabric softener. He felt wonderful lying naked beside her smooth skin, nearly hairless legs, and dark, round breasts. Sometimes after making love he’d fall asleep. She’d watch him quietly while tenderly caressing his hair for a few moments that seemed eternal. When he’d open his eyes, a poster of his namesake, Pedro Infante, stared at him knowingly. There was never anyone in Marisol’s house except Miguel, and he kept busy devouring books while they “chatted” about grown-up things.

  Marisol was an easy, grateful lover and—though it hurt Pedro to admit this—an expert one as well. She taught him many things. She explained that it was better not to do it the same way each time but to change things up in order to keep it feeling new. He learned to hold back, to enjoy the moment without getting ahead of himself, knowing that the climax was there waiting. Since Marisol was a biology student, she also understood the technical aspects of sex. Four years after 1968, Marisol was the only woman Pedro knew who’d taken charge of her sexuality.