Casa Azul (10 page)

The day had been truly amazing and fun, despite Oswaldo’s strange and disturbing behavior. She didn’t approve of much of what he did, but it had been thrilling to roam around the city. To have him just abandon them and steal her brooch was devastating. The brooch was the last object she had that had belonged to her grandmother, and now it was gone. All the good that had happened during the day had evaporated by nightfall. She fingered the piece of paper with her mother’s address in her pocket. “At least we know where to find Mama.” She sighed. “We can get directions in the morning.”

“I miss Mama,” whispered Victor.

“Get some rest. In the morning we’ll find her.”

“Do you think we’ll find Oswaldo?” asked Victor as he curled up even closer against his sister.

“We’d better not, or I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” flared Maria. “We need to find Mama, not Oswaldo.” She pulled the skirt of her costume down over her legs and wrapped her arms around her brother. “We should have been looking for her all along instead of fooling around with that hoodlum.”

“Could you tell me about El Corazón?” said Victor, yawning.

“Sure.” Maria thought back to where she had left off. “Remember that El Corazón had just received the worst humiliation any wrestler had ever experienced. His mask was torn off his face, and his real identity was revealed.”

“He is Quetzalcoatl, the ancient Aztec god of life, and he had returned to Mexico to save it from such evil as El Diablo; but now his secret has been exposed. It is just like what happened to Samson when his hair was cut,” Victor repeated faithfully.

“That’s right. Quetzalcoatl seemed suddenly to lose strength, and he began to shrink to the size of one of those sacred Indian statues.” She stroked her brother’s hair. “Fortunately, El Diablo was celebrating as if he had already won the match. He was taunting the crowded arena while they—”

Bbbthskpt!
Victor’s snore interrupted the story. He was fast asleep. She would finish the story another time. Now she tried to get some rest. Maria drifted in and out of sleep fitfully, waking at every sound echoing down the alley, jerking awake to strange shadows and wearily dropping off again. The night slowly passed.

At dawn the light crept into the alley like a pale gray veil. She gently shook her brother awake. Together they brushed the dirt of the alley off their clothes as best they could.

“I’m hungry,” sighed Victor. They had not eaten dinner.

“Me too,” said Maria. “Let’s find a café.”

“I can steal us breakfast!” Victor said proudly. “Oswaldo showed me how.”

“No. We do not steal. Didn’t you learn your lesson yesterday?”

Because it was so early, the streets were still empty.

A few blocks away, they rounded a corner and saw an open café with tables out front along the sidewalk. It was busy with early morning customers.

“Look! There’s Viejo Ojoton!” cried Victor. At one of the tables sat the old man eating eggs and drinking
café con leche
. Victor ran up to Ojoton. “Are you going to be in the plaza today?”

“Who is that?” asked the old blind man.

“Victor,” said the boy, patting his chest. “My sister and I met you two days ago.”

“Oh, yes! The newcomers. Did you find a place to stay? Won’t you join me for a little breakfast? I don’t often have company.” He moved his cane out of the way so that they could sit.

As Maria and Victor sat, Ojoton ordered tortillas and eggs for them from the waiter. “Now, why have you come to the city?”

“We’ve come to find our mother,” explained Maria. “She works for a family in Coyoacán.” Their eggs arrived, and they ate hungrily.

“Oh, that’s not far at all. Just a short trolley ride.” The old man sipped his coffee.

“Is the trolley near?” asked Maria.

“A trolley leaves from the plaza.” Ojoton reached into his pocket and pulled out his money. “Let me treat.”

“Oh no, sir, we couldn’t,” said Maria weakly.

“Yes, you can,” said the blind man.

“Thank you,” said Victor, putting his hand on Maria.

Each bill in the wallet was folded differently so Ojoton would know its amount. He laid the money carefully on the table and then re-counted it. When he was done, he said, “Ready?”

“Yes,” answered the two.

“I have to get my instruments.” Ojoton pointed down the street to his right. “Go two blocks down this street and you’ll see the plaza on your left. A trolley should be coming by right away.”

“
Gracias
,” said Maria. “And thank you for breakfast. I hope we can return the favor soon.”

“Good luck finding your mother.” The old blind man made his way in the opposite direction, tapping his cane on the sidewalk as he went.

“Can’t we go with Ojoton?” Victor said.

“No, we need to find Mama.”

“We’ll never find Mama,” cried Victor. “Mama is gone like grandma and Papa. I want to go with Ojoton. I don’t want to be lost again.”

Maria grabbed Victor’s wrist and pulled him along down the street.

“Mama’s dead, just like Grandma,” shouted Victor. “I don’t want to go!” He broke free and ran after Ojoton.

“Victooor!” screamed Maria. She ran after her brother, but by the time she reached the corner, he was gone. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air. She ran down to the end of the block. That street was empty too. “Victor!” she called. “Victor! Come back!”

As she searched the surrounding blocks, cars began to crowd the streets and pedestrians the sidewalk. It wasn’t long before she was hopelessly lost. Only then did she realize that she should go to the plaza.
That’s where Ojoton is
, she told herself,
and that’s where Victor will be
.

She glanced around to get her bearings but didn’t have a clue where she was. “Excuse me,” she asked a woman carrying several bags filled with fruits and vegetables. “Can you tell me where the plaza is?”

The woman didn’t stop, but she pointed with her chin in the direction from which she had just come.

Maria ran. As she arrived at the other end of the block, she could hear Ojoton singing.

She turned and ran down the next block, which opened on to the plaza. A crowd stood in a circle, laughing and singing along with the old blind man’s song.

A wave of relief overcame her when she spotted Victor in the audience. She ducked behind an old woman with a cart and circled around the crowd.

As the crowd clapped, Viejo Ojoton strummed his guitar and sang another song.

“Victor!”

A moment later she heard her brother shout. She rushed over, but not fast enough—Victor was gone.

“Help!” shouted Victor.

Maria bounced on her toes to see through the crowd. She turned to her left. Then her right. Finally she saw him, forty feet away, but he wasn’t alone.

Oswaldo was with him, with his hand clamped over the boy’s mouth as he whispered in his ear. Victor struggled, but Oswaldo’s grip was too strong. He forced Victor across the plaza, and they disappeared down the alleyway they followed the night before.

They passed the toy maker’s shack and the other huts and businesses. No one seemed to notice a small boy being marched down the street by a boy twice his size.

Maria dashed after them. “Hey! Let go of him!” she cried as she caught up to them.

Oswaldo spun around and froze. “Maria!”

“Let him go!” she said again.

“I want to help. I promise.” Then he let go of Victor and ran.

Maria started after him; but when she heard Victor crying, she turned back.

“It’s okay, Victor,” she said. “You’re safe now. You’re with me. And now we can find Mama.”

“But he’s going to come after me again,” sobbed Victor.

“What? Why?” asked Maria.

“That man Oscar sent Oswaldo after me,” said Victor. “He said Oscar is waiting for me.”

Painting the World

T
he morning after the wrestling match, Frida sat painting in her studio. She held her paintbrush as if it were made of finely blown glass.

“She should be happier,” said Fulang, sitting on the windowsill. “She looks depressed.”

“How can you tell?” asked the skull.

“She’s wearing Diego’s clothes again,” answered Fulang.

Delicately, Frida articulated the fabric covering her shoulders in her portrait, which sloped toward the edge of the canvas. The folds and creases indicated where the shirt’s sleeve and front panel met. With a dab of grayish paint, she brushed in the shadows.

“But she’s painting a new painting, not the one with her as Diego,” countered Chica, cleaning her face with a paw in a patch of sunlight.

“Why don’t you ask me instead of talking as if I’m not here?” cut in Frida.

“Okay. Are you upset?” asked the skull stupidly.

Frida put down her paintbrush and glared at her friends. “For
your information, you nosy parkers, Diego is gone. He only took me out last night because he felt sorry for me. He’s already sleeping with that pig whose name I won’t speak.” She picked up her brush again. “I am truly alone.”

“More time for painting,” volunteered the skull.

“Oh, shut up.”

She pointed her brush at her painting. “This is my world. My only world. I won’t ever again allow myself to be deluded and taken in by the world outside of this.”

Fulang perched on the back of Frida’s chair, alternately glancing at the painting and the image of Frida in the mirror that she was copying into her portrait. “This is no good,” Fulang finally said.

“What? She always paints herself,” replied Chica. “And she always adds stuff that’s not really there. How is this different?”

“I don’t like you putting this other monkey into it. You don’t even know Caimito de Guayabal. He’s a good guy.” She paused, but Frida didn’t respond. “He would never do that. Just the opposite, in fact.” She remembered how he had helped her the previous evening. But in the new painting, Caimito was being portrayed as menacing, intent on hurting Frida. A necklace of thorns, like the crown of thorns worn by Christ at his crucifixion, was wrapped around Frida’s neck in the painting. Caimito was baring his teeth menacingly and pulling the necklace so that the thorns were digging deeply into Frida’s flesh. Fuang turned away.
The painting is a lie. Caimito is gentle, not violent
, she argued in her head.
He is so nice
. She was surprised by her warm feelings toward him.

Ignoring Fulang’s distress, Frida set down the brush with gray
paint and chose a fresh clean one. She dipped the fine horsehair bristles into bright bloodred oil paint. She went over the bright tears of blood that rolled down the neck of her portrait. She repeatedly glanced into the mirror and compared the way she looked to her portrait. It was important that the likeness be as accurate as possible. Frida was determined to paint everything as if it were real, especially those things that were not.

Lying in a patch of sunlight below the window, Chica raised her head and inspected Frida’s effort. “I would have swallowed the hummingbird already. They’re no more than a morsel, not worth spending the time chewing.” She was referring to the fact that Frida had painted Chica on her left shoulder, holding a dead hummingbird halfway in her mouth. The hummingbird was tied to the thorn necklace like a pendant.

Fulang winced at Chica’s comment. She felt so strongly that the world Frida was portraying was wrong, but at the same time she was helpless to change anything about it. “Oh, Frida,” she said sadly.

“
Quitate de aquî, creatura!
Beat it, kid!” Frida snapped.

It was only then that Fulang realized the implication of the hummingbird. In Aztec mythology the hummingbird is a sign of luck in love. For Frida to paint a dead hummingbird tied to a necklace of thorns was her way of saying that there was no luck in love. Frida was saying that she was a martyr for love the way Christ was a martyr for humanity. On top of this, to include Caimito in the painting was worse than cruel—it implicated him as being responsible for her suffering. “You can’t do this,” Fulang finally said.

“It’s just a painting,” said Chica. “It means nothing.” She began to clean her paw with her tongue.

“No, a painting is more than a picture,” insisted Fulang. “It might tell the future.” Fulang was worried that if Frida painted it, the image of Caimito’s cruelty might come true. She didn’t want such thoughts to become conscious. Fulang tried not to look at the painted Caimito, who seemed less innocent and more frightening than the real one, more like a wild animal. This was even more accentuated by his contrast to Frida’s regal calm in the painting. Frida seemed more like a queen who had come to accept the inevitability of her slow, painful death.

“What, are you a critic now?” replied Chica sarcastically.

“Don’t worry, this is my last painting,” replied Frida as she added some blood splatters on the blouse. “Should I paint my eyebrows into birds? Crows, maybe?”