Casa Azul (2 page)

The driver closed the door and gunned the engine before putting the bus in gear.

“Wait!” called Father Michelangelo as he emerged from the shack. He was carrying a paper bag that was already soaked with grease. He handed up the bag to Maria. “Here are some tamales for your ride.”

“Thank you, Father, for all that you have done,” said Maria.

She and her brother were perched like birds atop the tied-down luggage. Next to them and the man in the black suit were two others,
a young couple not much older than Maria, who had wedged themselves between two wooden crates. They both bowed their heads and smiled.

“Why don’t you tell Victor one of your stories?” Father Michelangelo called up. He smiled and bounced nervously on the balls of his feet, as if he were trying to rise to the height of the bus’s roof so he could confirm that Maria and Victor were safe. “Perhaps one about his wrestlers. Victor loves them so.”

Maria nodded. “I will, Father.” She banged her fist on the roof to signal the driver to leave.

“This trip will give you lots of adventures for your stories,” the priest added. “I’ll see you when you return.”

“Good-bye, Father,” called Maria.

“Come back soon,” called the priest. He raised his arm and waved.

The driver shifted into gear and the bus rolled down the rutted track toward the next village, as it would all the way to the capital, Mexico City. Below, inside the bus, somebody began to play a guitar and sing.

Everyone on the bus laughed. The man next to the woman on
the roof whispered in her ear, “I would always love you even if you were bald.”

The woman laughed and hit his shoulder. “If you were bald, I would drop you like a hot tamale.”

Maria and Victor watched as the priest and his waving arm got smaller and smaller until both disappeared below the horizon.

“I thought we’d never go,” muttered Maria. All she wanted to do was think about the adventures that lay ahead, and try to forget the painful memories that were left behind.

Maria stared out at the dry, spare landscape. On the thin spikes of a magueys plant by the rutted dirt road, a torn red bandanna fluttered in the breeze. It reminded her of the red cape the matador used to taunt the bull at the Day of the Dead festival.

The Saddest Day in the World

W
ith bright red ribbons tumbling from her tightly braided hair, a crying woman stood unwillingly in a courtroom three hundred miles north, far from the green fields and adobe village of Maria and Victor’s home. Her marriage to the man she still loved was about to be torn asunder.

Like all divorces, this was a formal affair, set in a courtroom before a judge. There were lawyers for both sides and spectators in the gallery. Reporters for all of Mexico City’s newspapers were waiting as well, because this wasn’t the end of just any marriage. This was the divorce of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, two of Mexico’s greatest living artists. They were so famous that they were always referred to by their first names.

For Mexico this was a sad day. But for Frida this was the saddest day in the world. She never imagined that her marriage to Diego would end. The newspapers called their marriage a “union of lions.” Their love, their battles, their separations, and their sufferings were beyond the petty concerns of normal couples. Even at this moment
when their marriage would be cast aside like a pair of old shoes, Frida believed deep in her heart that Diego belonged to her and she belonged to him.

“All rise! The Honorable Miguel Figuenza is presiding,” called out the court reporter as he banged the gavel.

Everyone rose as the judge entered the courtroom from a door hidden behind the raised desk.

Nervously, Frida watched him, wiping her tears away.

She turned and thrust out her chin at Diego. “Look at him,” Frida seemed to say to no one but the pet monkey on her shoulder. “He looks like he’s enjoying himself. I could strangle him.”

Diego stood on the opposite side of the courtroom with his hat in his hand and his head bowed. He looked anything but happy.

“He probably has that woman waiting for him outside the courthouse,” she continued. “Now he can go cheat on some other woman.”

The monkey seemed to be trying to comfort Frida by speaking to her, but it was only chatter. Perched on her shoulder, Fulang was dressed like Frida in traditional Tehuana costume. As a show of solidarity to the
campesinos
, Frida dressed herself, and sometimes her pets, in peasant clothes worn in the countryside: a starched white blouse decorated with ruffles, a full red velvet skirt embroidered with ribbons, a woven shawl called a
rebozo
draped across the shoulders, and a beaded jade necklace. Fulang delicately picked dried mango from Frida’s hand and ate the sweet pieces. Her small fingers reminded Frida of a child’s, the child she knew she would never have.

Just as quickly as her anger flared, Frida was overwhelmed with
sadness and memories. “Diego courted me in a room very much like this one,” Frida whispered hoarsely. Fulang nodded as if she understood. Frida glanced up at the huge mural covering the wall behind the judge. “Twelve years ago I brought three paintings for him to see while he was painting a mural in the Ministry of Public Education.”

Fulang cooed, again as if she understood.

Frida lost herself in the memory of seeing Diego standing like a giant on the tall scaffolding, painting the image of
campesinos
, Mexico’s peasants, rising up against the brutal land owners. “His paintings were the most beautiful I had ever seen. They showed the people with all their hopes and aspirations marching toward a more perfect world. His browns were the color of the people, and his strokes with his paintbrush made the crops come alive.”

She smiled as she remembered Diego in his green overalls and wide-brimmed hat, announcing, “Art is like ham. It nourishes people.” She had written the words in her diary, along with everything else from that time. And she had returned to these pages time and again over the years and memorized the passages. Now she recalled them as the proceedings around her receded from her consciousness and happy memories took over.

“Meeting Diego was the first good thing that happened to me after the accident,” Frida said.

Fulang dipped her head just like someone who was listening.

“I’ve told you about the accident before. How I was almost killed when a trolley struck the bus I was riding in. But that’s not what I want to talk about now.” Frida paused and lost herself in the
memory. “Diego was like a giant knight in shining armor bringing light to the people.”

The court proceedings began, but Frida was oblivious to them now.

“The first moment I was allowed to walk, I went immediately to see Diego. I had been painting since the accident and knew that only he could tell me if my paintings were worth anything. When I got to the ministry, I called to him. ‘Diego, come down here now.’ He laughed at my boldness, but he came down. And I told him I was here not to flirt but for art. He looked at my paintings and told me to paint some more. Then he said: ‘You have talent.”’

Though her actions seemed naive to her now, Frida knew that they were true. She had been only eighteen, and had just recovered from a bus accident in which the handrail of the trolley had driven through her body. This tragedy had given her an understanding of the world beyond her years. She then put that pain and suffering in her painting, and through this she had discovered a gift. She had been made sensitive to the world. Her life, like her art, could communicate in ways unknown to others.

“Is the petition before me agreed upon by both parties?” asked Judge Figuenza.

Frida was startled out of her reverie by the judge’s words. She nodded and whispered, “Yes, Your Honor.” She gazed at Diego as she repeated these words louder so that the entire court could hear. She still loved this giant frog of a man, but he had abandoned her for reasons Frida could not fathom.

As the judge finalized the divorce, Diego broke with decorum
and crossed the courtroom. He held out his hands as if he was asking her to forgive him. Frida stood still as she watched him come, while Fulang hissed and bared her teeth.

“Frida,” said Diego. “I love you, but you cannot waste yourself on me. Mexico deserves more. Your art deserves more.” His massive shoulders slumped.

“Go back to your
cochinada
, your piggery,” spat Frida. She took a painful step backward for she would never recover from the accident. Then suddenly a mean and tight smile spread across her face. She reached down and grabbed Diego’s crotch. “You will be back soon enough … when you tire of your whores.”

“Listen to me,” pressed Diego. “This divorce must happen if you are going to step out of my shadow. I have watched it kill you, but more importantly, kill your painting. I will not be responsible any longer.”

Just as quickly, Frida’s emotions swung again and tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt confused by Diego’s words. “But I cannot live without you!” she pleaded.

“You must,” Diego said with finality. As he turned to leave, Frida gripped his sleeve and fell stiffly to her knees. Fulang tried to wipe the tears from Frida’s cheeks.

Diego pulled himself free and disappeared into the corridor.

The Great Heart of Mexico

“I
’m scared.”

Maria snaked her arm around her little brother’s small shoulders and pulled him close. Squeezed between chicken cages and crates on the roof of an ancient bus, she felt strong being able to comfort Victor. Together they rocked on top of the bus as it made its way down the uneven burro track that now served as the highway between their village and Mexico City.

“Everything will be fine,” Maria cooed. She could feel that her brother’s muscles were knotted and tense but so were hers. Still, she tried to keep her voice calm and comforting. “We’re going to have so much fun in Mexico City. It’ll be better than even the
biggest
fiesta in Xtogon.”

“But what about Mama?” asked Victor. “I want to find her.”

“Oh, we will. Once we get to Mexico City we’ll find Mama and she’ll take care of you.” For Maria, the trip was just as much about being free of the small village and on her own, away from adults who treated her like a child, as it was about finding their mother.

“Do you know where your mother is?” asked the young woman across from Maria.

“
Sí
, I have the address where she works,” explained Maria. “Last year she went to the city to work for a rich family.”

“Bueno,”
said the young woman. “Mexico City is not a place to be lost in.” Maria did not mention that she had not heard from her mother in weeks and that her father had left years before and disappeared too. In reality, she didn’t want to admit to herself that her mother might be gone forever. Now that her grandmother had passed away, she was determined not to lose her mother the same way as her father.

Maria watched Victor pick at the small hole at the cuff of his shirt. “Stop that,” she said with the same tone her mother used to use. “You’ll ruin your only good shirt.”

“Tell me about El Corazón,” Victor whispered. He buried his head in his sister’s shoulder. “I wish Grandma was here. She could find Mama.”

As their grandmother had grown sicker, Father Michelangelo had written to their mother at the address she had left them. The letter was never answered. Maria tried not to think about this. She knew it must be a mistake.

“A story, please, Maricita,” pleaded Victor. He squeezed her hand tightly.

Maria looked out across the dry, rocky landscape to gather her thoughts. She had been telling Victor wrestling stories for years. She began her latest tale. “As you know, El Corazón, the great heart of Mexico, beat El Perro, the dog, for the wrestling championship of the world.”

“
Sí, sí
, and he hurt his shoulder early in the match and had to beat that dirty dog with only one arm,” Victor added. Back in their village the entire town would gather each week in the plaza to hear Father Michelangelo read the newspaper’s account of the Saturday night matches at the arena in Mexico City. Maria and Victor would beg their grandmother to buy the newest edition of
Wrestling Comics
when it arrived each month. They would pour over the pictures and imagine what it would be like to see these great warriors in real life. Maria would then make up stories about the wrestlers and the matches they fought to entertain her little brother.