Becoming Marta Page 8

  “By taking the Pill,” she’d said, “there’s no need for you to pull out or other silliness. Do you want me to get pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. I don’t want to either. With the Pill we won’t have any problems.”

  Now, there in the shadow of the church, Pedro went toward the scribe.

  “I want a letter,” he said.

  “What would you like it to say?”

  “That I love her.”

  “Do you want to propose marriage?”

  “No. No, only to say that I love her.”

  “Don’t worry, young man. I’ll write you a real beauty,” the scribe replied.

  March 8, 1972

  My eternally sweet and faithful beloved,

  Words pale beside the raging love I feel for you. Void of your caresses, my heart knows not how to beat. I die, because I do not die. You are my sole happiness. I want to be within you, to feel your heart beating within my hands.

  Eternally yours,

  “Your name?”

  “Pedro.”

  Quickly, the man completed the letter on thin, pale-blue paper.

  “I made you a copy so you won’t forget the lovely words you wrote. Would you like to have it?”

  Pedro paid him and folded both letters. He walked back to the fountain. He’d never told Marisol that he loved her. But oh how he loved her, and on this perfect day he wanted her to know it.

  “Will you lend her to me for a while?” he asked Miguel.

  “Okay, but don’t take too long. Remember the movie begins at five,” he said, smiling much like his sister.

  Pedro held Marisol’s hand and took her to one of those centuries-old columns. He kissed her (resolving never to forget it) and handed her the letter.

  Marisol cracked up while reading it. Pedro, who hadn’t been sure what to expect, felt relieved. He hadn’t betrayed anyone. It hadn’t been a real declaration of love. It was a joke—that was all—a romantic prank.

  22

  The Traffic

  How do you cope with loss? How do you learn to live with what you no longer have? Marta was trying to figure that out. She’d called for a meeting with the trusteeship. Israel, her mother’s driver, was trying to get her to the lawyer’s office, but they were stuck in traffic. He’d worked for her for fifteen years. Marta had always had her own drivers, but none, other than Baltasar, lasted even a year. They would tire of waiting outside a disco until five in the morning only to discover that she’d left without telling them. When Marti died, it seemed only logical that Israel remain on staff. But Marta could not look at him without thinking of her mother. She would have fired him immediately if she hadn’t realized that everything reminded her of her mother.

  If there was traffic—and when wasn’t there?—Marta would hear her mother’s voice calming her, telling her as she always had, “Don’t concern yourself over things you can’t control.” It was like a piece of advice from a self-help book: don’t concern yourself over what you can’t control. It implied that you should focus on what you could change. Her mother habitually took advantage of the traffic to talk on the phone, do her accounting, plan her week, update her agenda, or even take a siesta.

  Marta understood the absurdity of her anger. There was traffic, and nothing she did would change that fact. But the traffic was making them late. She lit one cigarette after another. She felt thirsty, then hot or cold. There was traffic, and she could do absolutely nothing to mitigate her anger. The thought that she might actually be able to put an end to her rage made her even angrier, as though she were trapped in a labyrinth and could not find the exit. Marta boiled over to the point where she stepped out of the car, intending to walk to her destination in high heels, only to realize the futility of her action. She heard her mother’s voice and managed to calm herself. She’d started to learn that if she changed what she could, rather than fighting against invincible forces, she felt more in control and consequently somewhat at peace.

  I can’t change my mother’s death, she thought. But perhaps she could influence how it affected her. She couldn’t change the fact that she missed her mother so badly, but perhaps if she accepted this as well, if she resigned herself to seeing her everywhere, perhaps she’d feel less bad. She could not undo her father’s betrayal. He was already married to Gaby. But she could get back at him. Thanks to her mother’s savvy, Marta could take away his money and watch that mollusk of his find a different rock to cling to. She could bring the same misery on him that he’d brought on her. Marta envisioned a bomb, the type that sends shrapnel into every hidden nook, ensuring the explosion is complete and absolute.

  If only she’d listened to her mother, or at least the teachers at Ibero. Instead, she’d spent four years cheating, cutting classes, showing up hungover, getting her hands on tests, and bribing and seducing instructors. How was she supposed to manage the business? Her mother had dismissed Manuel and put in a new administrator, but was he trustworthy? Who would be in charge now? Her? Could she let the trusteeship handle everything, or did she need to show her face from time to time?

  Her summer internships at the company had proved disastrous. She couldn’t find anything she enjoyed doing: neither collecting rent, nor overseeing construction, nor scoping out lots. Finally, they’d sent her along with the real estate agents to show apartments, but Marta drank coffee and talked on the phone while the agents showed clients around the properties. She considered it very much beneath her to parade about discussing the number of bedrooms and bathrooms.

  The car finally arrived at the offices of Órnelas de Montesinos, inside the building known as El Pantalón because of its pants-like shape.

  “Does my father contribute anything to the business?” Marta asked the council after apologizing for being late.

  “No,” came the unanimous reply.

  “Is his salary market rate, or could someone else do the same work for less?”

  “The same for less,” they replied.

  “Therefore it’s in the best interest of the company to replace him with someone else. Are we all in agreement?” she said in a confident tone.

  “Are you certain?” asked Juan Órnelas de Montesinos. The lawyer hadn’t fully sized up his new client. She was very different from her mother.

  “Who will advise Pedro of the decision?” asked Father Patrick.

  “I will,” said Marta with certainty.

  The next day Marta went to see her father at his office. She greeted all the secretaries, whom she’d known since childhood and who had so loved her mother.

  “Dad, I don’t want you to work for us any longer.”

  “Why?” Pedro was genuinely surprised.

  (“I saw that coming,” Gaby said to him when he gave her the news. “It’s obvious that she wants to leave us penniless.”)

  “I honestly don’t think Mom would have approved of your relationship with that servant,” Marta said.

  She’d wanted to ask him about the other lowlife he’d had—the one they said was her mother, the one with the laboratories—but she didn’t dare. Marta wanted to remind him that neither she nor her mother had minded paying for his whores, that they’d always been willing to support his habit. But there was a limit to how much she could humiliate someone on a given occasion. She turned around and walked out of the office.

  Marta had intended to hurt her father. From her point of view, she was only doing what was fair: an eye for an eye. She had no desire to abuse her position. He had chosen to abandon her, and she had no choice but to do the same and abandon him.

  Before leaving, she’d said, “I’ll start coming by the office on Monday. Please take your things.”

  Pedro wished he had known better. Did he know this might happen when he married Gaby? Why? He couldn’t stop asking himself. He never suspected Marta capable of such behavior. He’d thought she’d get angry and that would be the end of it. His daughter had never acted against him. He didn’t know what to do. He�
��d always thought that everything he had was his. Not for a second had he imagined that someone could take it away from him.

  Pedro recalled the second time he ran the New York City Marathon. He crossed the finish line five minutes faster than his best time. He was feeling ecstatic. Suddenly, the terrible stomach discomfort he’d been battling for almost three hours got much worse. Doubled over in pain, he entered the first porta-potty he could find. He vomited so badly that it wasn’t until afterward that he noticed the filth and stink. He got out, only to vomit again on his shoes. Disgusted and supremely self-conscious, he sat under a tree, trying to go unseen, all the while wishing someone would notice him and help. He thought that he might die. Now he remembered that moment with horror.

  He never told anyone. He was unable to articulate it. His friends admired him for having greatly improved his running time, a not insignificant achievement. But he was unable to enjoy his triumph. Whenever he ran a marathon after that, he’d experience a similar panic (although he never again vomited), which grew worse until he stopped running. His body never failed him again. Until now that is; now he was trembling with fury.

  Marti had allowed him to believe that he held the reins, but she’d been mocking him the whole time. Pedro grabbed the Tums from his desk drawer. He’d been suffering from unbearable heartburn ever since Marta announced that she was selling Villa del Mar.

  23

  The Diet

  Marta awoke feeling pensive, still wrapped in her dreams. She was hungry, thinking about childhood morning meals with her mother. They would eat in the breakfast nook, which was filled with sunlight from the garden. It was a cozy spot with a round table in the middle, and a collection of porcelain on the wall. The centerpiece was always a silver planter with ivy, flowers from their garden, or remnants from one of the many bouquets her mother received.

  Breakfast was inevitably splendid. Since her mother only had coffee and toast and her father ate at the country club, the cook channeled all her efforts into pleasing Marta. She made waffles, hot cakes, tamales, muffins, enchiladas, chilaquiles, pozole, scrambled eggs, quesadillas, nopales, mushrooms, juice and fruit, beans, eggs sunny-side up or ranchero, sopes, torpedo-shaped tlacoyos made of masa, potato tacos, machaca of crushed dried meat with eggs, and scrambled eggs with chorizo.

  Marta mouthed the name of each dish as though reciting a poem by heart, a litany or a prayer for something from long ago. It had been years since she’d eaten such things.

  Those breakfasts were happy moments. Later, the only thing Marta could recall was how her mother watched her eat, attempting to hide the anxiety that gnawed away at her, assessing every bite with horror, counting every calorie. Marta understood; she’d seen the hips that provoked her mother’s anguish. Her mother feared—and eventually she passed on this dread to Marta—that if her daughter kept eating with such gusto, she would start to fill out with the same common curves of her biological mother.

  For that reason Marta accepted the disappearance of Gansito cakes and other snacks from her daily diet. She accepted the prohibition against eating between meals. First she gave up tortillas and then cheese. Then the cook became expert at preparing light dishes made with yogurt instead of cream. Next, baked nopales took the place of bread, eggs were poached, and fruit was served without honey or granola.

  No one likes a fat girl. Marti never regretted what she’d done. Not even when she realized that Marta barely ate. Better a little less than a little more, Marti thought. When Marta’s growth spurt hit and Marti had to look up at the girl, she felt proud. She was so beautiful, thin, delicate, and well proportioned.

  For her part, Marta resigned herself to the situation the way one accepts walking into a shower with no hot water. She’d allowed her mother to love her as an object. That was it. To Marti she was just another object, like a house, a car, or a painting. However, Marta was her most precious object. Marti had never been able to perceive her as a person. It had taken Marta a long time to grasp this. It was comforting to realize that Marti was incapable of seeing anyone as a person; she only identified with objects.

  Marta, now more awake, asked for coffee over the intercom and turned on her computer. Nine o’clock. Too early to find Adriana. Marta didn’t know why she felt that it was important to tell Adriana about ousting her father from the job he thought he’d have forever. It was stupid; it only affected Adriana indirectly.

  Adriana was very free. She traipsed about the world working on her projects. Marta would like to do something similar, but what? Now she would have an office. What was she going to do with all that?

  She picked up the intercom receiver and spoke with the kitchen again.

  “Bring me up some chilaquiles, please, with everything on them.”

  24

  The Laugh

  It was a day like any other. At least Marti couldn’t remember anything that made it stand out until the moment she decided to laugh. She’d felt so sad, so weary of herself and her tears, of the desperation. She was exhausted.

  She greeted someone and made it a point to smile. Perhaps she smiled too much—it was a fake gesture to mask her feelings. She painfully remembered her mother digging her nails into her arm while whispering, “Smile, smile.”

  That’s how she’d been brought up. The gesture became automatic:

  Pinch = smile.

  Pain = smile.

  This day, after all of these years, she decided to broaden her upbringing:

  Sadness = smile.

  And she burst out laughing.

  She practiced laughing in a way that flowed well, observing precisely when it was used to best effect. She did not want to come off as demented. She wanted more than anything to pass for a normal, happy person.

  She started doing it after people would ask, “How are you?” She’d look the person in the eye, let out a small burst of laughter, barely more than a smile, and then answer, “Great. And you?”

  When possible she’d hold the person’s hand so that even a trivial conversation would seem more personal and warm. Slowly, she learned to kid around, with little jokes preceding her laugh. So as not to offend anyone, she directed the jokes at herself. She frequently ended her statements with “I’m so silly!” (laugh); “I’m such an idiot!” (laugh); “I’m so absentminded!” (laugh); “There I go again!” (laugh). People seemed to like it. It made them feel at ease and allowed them to open up to her.

  “She has a wonderful sense of humor,” they’d say. “She’s always so cheerful, so simpática.”

  Before long she was doing it without thinking. It evolved into something authentic. It became second nature. But in truth she never forgot her upbringing: pain = smile; sadness or anguish = smile. So it was understandable that she would enter the surgeon’s office laughing, determined to keep doing so until her death.

  25

  Morelianas

  When would this absurd inner dialogue with her mother finally end? The only upside to the mess in Marta’s head was that it had pushed out the incessant anguish over her weight that she had carried around since she was a little girl. Years of counting calories, self-control, and punishments no longer had a place in her head. She could not remember what she had eaten for breakfast. Nowadays she ate only when she was hungry, never giving a second thought to food. Once, she could have spent an entire day thinking about a piece of cake she’d eaten three days ago, then drink water nonstop to flush it from her system while counting the minutes until evening, when she’d snort some cocaine to feel good again.

  Right now, riding in the car, she felt hungry. “Call over that vendor,” she told the driver as they stopped for a traffic light. “What is he selling, Israel?”

  “Morelianas.”

  “Do you have change? Buy a few from him, please.”

  With a piercing whistle, he called over the man carrying a cardboard box with packages of caramel cookies wrapped in clear plastic. Marta watched the man from the window of her armored van. Someone was selling something
at every traffic light in the city. You could buy water, cords for your cell phone, toys, sweets, cigarettes, calling cards; even handcrafted goods competed with the latest black-market items from China. Every house in Mexico had some item from this trade: the fifteen-piece Tupperware set bought for forty pesos that would cost two hundred in the supermarket; the plastic penguin-shaped garbage bin; the miniature guitar with four strings that you could never tune; and countless peanuts, wafers, popsicle sticks, gum, and newspapers.

  Israel handed Marta the morelianas and hit the gas, leaving the vendor in the dust. She could not remember the last time she’d eaten these, but her memory anticipated their sweetness. She undid the simple fold of the plastic wrapper. Eight brown rounds of caramel scattered their sugary scent throughout the car. She bit into one. It was crunchy, but as it warmed in her mouth, it melted into a sweet and delicious cream. She ate the rest of the cookie in a single bite. She wolfed them down one after another. She didn’t feel a cloying sensation or the need for water. Quite the contrary: she felt almost happy. She felt full, a sensation she had not experienced in a long, long time. The last remnants of flavor were encrusted between her molars.

  “Why don’t we ever buy morelianas, Israel, when they’re so good?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  At that moment her cell phone rang. It was Mau.

  Marta searched for her pack of Marlboro reds, wanting to light a cigarette the way she always did when she talked on the phone. Instead, she opened the window and threw out the pack. She had an urge to start giving in to her impulses. She breathed in deeply before speaking, as though she had inhaled smoke.

  “She called you? . . . Why not me? . . . What? . . . Should we go? . . . No, no one comes to mind . . . You? . . . If you want, I’ll call him . . . I’ll let you know ASAP . . . Great . . . I’ll dial it now . . . Right . . . Bye.”