Dancing with the Tiger Page 30

  And Lola thought: Surrealism is the magical surprise of finding your father in your bedroom when you were planning to masturbate.

  Her anger felt fresh and vivid. So did her sadness. She wanted to tell her mother about her father’s visits. She wanted to tell her mother she had a lover. An older man, like the cabrona Frida Kahlo. But she kept her mouth shut, knowing her mother would blame her. One way or another, she’d lose even more.

  Frida Kahlo’s biography was printed on the wall. Polio as a child. When she was eighteen, the bus she was riding was hit by a tram. Her spine and pelvis were crushed. She wore a cast, endured endless rounds of surgery. She had planned to be a doctor, but became an artist instead. Diego Rivera was twice her age. They married. He slept around. They divorced. They remarried. “There have been two grave accidents in my life. One was the trolley, and the other was Diego. Diego was by far the worst.”

  Frida Kahlo spent her life painting Frida Kahlo. Frida with monkeys. Frida with Diego like a bullet in her brain. Frida Kahlo could not have children. She slept with women. She slammed tequila. She arrived at her first solo exhibit in an ambulance, sirens blaring. She had a leg amputated. She died at forty-seven. She may have killed herself. She had to share her husband with every woman who turned up in Coyoacán. Her husband’s prick was part of the Grand Tour. Who wanted to have sex with a three-hundred-pound, frog-faced cabrón? The last words in her journal were: “I hope the exit is joyful—and I hope never to return.”

  Rebellion rose in Lola’s throat. Frida Kahlo was not scared to show the places that hurt. This is my aborted child. This is my pregnancy of death. This is the man I love, who does not want me. This is my divorce. This is my friend’s suicide. Her final directive: Cremation. “I don’t want to be buried. I have spent too much time lying down.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Lola jumped. She had forgotten her mother. “We just got here.”

  Irritation cut a wedge between her mother’s eyes. “Who wants to see such ugliness? We’re leaving. Esmeralda is in the gift shop buying chocolate.”

  “But Frida Kahlo is the most important female artist in the world.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. Frida Kahlo was a communist, a slut, and a lesbian. We should not have come.”

  “I’ve changed my mind, too.” The girl set her chin. “I like her.”

  Her mother pointed her index finger like a dart. “Watch out or you’ll end up like her.”

  “Famous?”

  “Miserable.”

  “I already am.”

  A lion in the closet. There was always a fucking lion in the closet. A lion, or a tiger.

  fourteen ANNA

  At six p.m. sharp, Anna dressed for dinner at the Malones’. She slipped on a little black dress, zipped up the back, dabbed perfume, brushed her wrists, making heat. She plucked her eyebrows, scrubbed grit from under her nails. She painted her toes, blew her hair dry. I will go to the party. Christopher Maddox will break through the chapel floor and steal the death mask of Montezuma. We will meet back at the hotel. No one will be shot or killed. Like that. It will all happen just like that.

  She sat down at the typewriter, punching keys. Dear Dad, I am writing this letter in case anything happens to me . . .

  This was the other extreme, should the night go terribly wrong. She would type the complete story and give the letter to Rafi, with her father’s name on the envelope, should he call, or even arrive at some later date, should he ever emerge from the coddled cocoon of vodka. Just in case, she would leave a record. At the front desk, she explained to Rafi what she wanted, but most of it was lost in translation. “If” clauses were a bear in Spanish. Hypothetical circumstances demanded high-tech verb constructions. Hubiera. The introduction to regrets.

  “Para su padre,” Rafi confirmed. “Cuando venga.”

  “No, my padre doesn’t venga.” Anna shook her head. “But if I don’t come back, read him the letter over the phone.” She mimicked this, holding her hand to her ear.

  “The letter is in Spanish?”

  “English.”

  Rafi shrugged helplessly.

  Anna sighed. “Just keep the envelope for a few weeks and then throw it away.”

  Rafi slid the letter into his soap opera magazine. “I understand,” he said, though this was impossible. Mexicans told you what you wanted to hear. Americans heard what they wanted to hear. A perfect marriage.

  fifteen THE LOOTER

  That evening, the looter lay on his bunk and tried not to think about Feo. The scene felt pleasantly animal with the chicken coop out back and the white cat curled at his feet and the faraway dogs barking their heads off about nothing. He regretted killing his phone. He was supposed to text Anna, but the plan was set: He’d leave in an hour, take a cab across town, break through the chapel floor, steal the mask before eight. He liked having a purpose, like back in the cave, only now that he wasn’t cranked, things moved slowly, sort of boring but not really, because he was jacked about screwing over this joker Malone.

  Mari was right: His life was worth more than a stick of incense. He was going to honor the Virgin. He was going to honor himself. Hey, Reyes. My life is as valuable as that blue mask. Shit, every life was. Life was a treasure, every stone of it. He liked the way that sounded. Profound, churchy. He could have been a preacher. The Sermon of Montezuma’s Death Mask. He pictured himself in the pulpit, explaining life in the cave, how you had to go for it—whatever “it” was. They might have heard that before, but it bore repeating, twice, a million times, because people forgot, they watched too much TV—

  Chelo appeared in the doorway with a soft “Hola.”

  She was bigger than yesterday. Belly big as Saturn now. Her amazing solar system. The best churches let you have pussy and God.

  “Ven aquí, nena. Quédate conmigo.”

  The girl dropped the blinds. He liked watching her move. She cozied up, pulled needlepoint from her basket. He leaned in. The Virgin of Guadalupe. Of course. This girl was seriously religious. He was a little put off by this particular threesome. She’d finished Mary and was working on her halo. Two shades of yellow. Or maybe gold.

  “How do you do that?”

  “It’s easy,” she said. “You should try.”

  He meant, How do you have the patience to do that, but he let this misunderstanding pass. “It’s what? A pillow?”

  The girl laughed. “No, you frame it. Hang it on the wall.”

  Virgin art. No home could have too much. Each time the needle went into the hole, the strand got shorter. Each stitch, more color, less yarn. He could turn that into a sermon, too. He laughed. The girl laughed to keep him company.

  “Tómalo.” She pushed the canvas at him. “A man should know how to sew. If you become a pirate, you’ll have to mend your socks.”

  The only needle he’d navigated was the other kind, but he wasn’t going to bring up that bliss. “Where do I go?”

  “That little square. Go up.”

  He stabbed the Virgin in the eye, pushed the canvas back to Chelo. “Forget it. I’ll mess it up.”

  “We’ll do it together.” She guided his needle into the correct hole. “Now pick up the needle on the other side. Slowly. Don’t pull too hard. Now go down over there.”

  This direction was easier. From the top, you could see where you were headed. He reached underneath to tug the golden yarn.

  “There.” She beamed. “Your first stitch.”

  The second was easier. The third, easier still. His aim improved, her hand on his, her belly warming his side. Needlepoint. Well, all right. Anything could be interesting, if you let it. They sewed until his hard-on got the best of him. He pulled her horizontal.

  “You feel good.”

  She curled into him.

  “You know, this baby is going to need a daddy,” the looter murmured in her ear. “What if i
t’s a boy?”

  Their heads lay on the same pillow and he felt sleep coming on. Here in the fat aunt’s backyard, surrounded by dumb chickens, lying on a lumpy cot with a pregnant girl in braces, the looter was content. So this is happiness. So little. So much. He touched her full breasts. She pressed his hands to her stomach. It was tight. Something freaky was happening. Little eruptions bubbled under her taut skin. Then he knew. He and this baby had something in common. They’d both been buried alive.

  sixteen ANNA

  To Anna’s relief, Marge and Harold were ensconced on the patio when she and Salvador arrived at the Malones’ at seven. Harold sat stiff in a rocker. Marge, surrounded by clusters of honeysuckle, resembled a grotesque version of a Botero painting. Mother-in-Law on Swing. If the collector had a massacre planned, surely he wouldn’t invite spectators from Shaker Heights. Even now, Anna was wowed by the flowerbeds, the looming palms, the hysterical cactus. The only discordant note was the swimming pool, thick with pond scum.

  The foursome traded air kisses before sitting down. The Malones had gotten a phone call, Marge explained, they would be down in a minute. Anna took a seat facing the chapel. At any moment, the looter would tap through the chapel floor. Salvador, the adorable fraud, set about making loud small talk: the sculpture exhibit downtown, the police chief murdered in Acapulco, the dryness of the croissants at La Parisienne. He compensated for nervousness by appearing extravagantly casual, leaning back in his chair, laughing too loud. Harold complained about his Internet service, then moved on to another annoyance: The teachers were striking again. Protesters had set fire to a bus on the periférico, blocking traffic for blocks.

  “We got in before the worst of it,” he said. “But really, sometimes you might as well walk.”

  Anna fired off a text to the looter. Leave early. Traffic.

  “Sorry we’re late.” Constance breezed across the terrace in flowing cotton pants and an embroidered tunic. Scarf at the throat. She smoothed cream into her chapped knuckles. Thomas followed her out. Freshly shaven, he wore black pants, a purple shirt, each sleeve fixed with a silver button. He resembled a stick of black licorice.

  “Hello, wonderful guests.”

  Anna hadn’t seen Thomas since the VIP Hotel, and had expected a tacit apology, a flicker of embarrassment or shame, but he circled the group, doling out pleasantries, as if nothing had happened. Anna touched her sore cheek. The funk of mescal rose in her throat. She reminded herself why she’d come. The chapel. The chapel.

  “Thomas bought a new mask,” Constance gushed. “He’s floating around the house like Tinker Bell.”

  No, that’s not why. He’s happy to have the death mask. He’s happy to have gotten away with murder.

  Thomas rubbed his hands together. “Now who would like an Expatriate? It’s my newest cocktail.”

  Marge frowned. “What’s in it?”

  “House secret. My most lethal concoction. Guaranteed to ensure an early and peaceful retirement.”

  “Sign me up,” Marge said. Salvador and Harold nodded.

  “Anna?” Thomas considered her for the first time. His lips tensed. He had to wonder if she’d keep their secret. He had to be nervous, if he was human at all. Anna considered his hateful chin, his deep-set eyes. She wanted a drink. A kamikaze. A B-52. Mescal from the basement.

  “I probably shouldn’t,” she said. “A nasty virus attacked me Sunday night.”

  “Something is going around,” Thomas agreed. “It knocks you flat, but most people recover.”

  “Stronger than before,” Anna agreed, touching her cheek.

  He turned, went inside. Anna felt her strength drained. She wanted to go home. She wanted her mother. Conversation simmered around her. Salvador found her eyes, offered a supportive nod. Thomas reappeared. The Expatriate was the color of poppies. Anna savored its sweet release. She checked her watch. 7:23.

  “Thomas,” said Marge, her mouth flattening into a hyphen. “The show opens in two weeks. Enough suspense. It’s time to share a few masks.”

  Thomas shook his head playfully. “You’ll just have to wait.”

  Marge yanked her skirt, searching for a little give. She turned to Constance. “He’s getting obsessive, if you ask me.”

  “Thomas has been obsessed for years, but you can’t do anything of quality without being obsessed. Otherwise, you are a dabbler.”

  Harold perked up, hands fluttering. “My Spanish dabbling has been so rewarding.”

  Anna looked at Salvador with an I can’t believe this eyebrow. Salvador patted the air, Paciencia, mi amor, con tiempo todo se arregla. In time, everything will work out.

  Soledad announced dinner was served, and they walked inside to find a Hoosier picnic. Potato salad. Steak. Salad. Watermelon. Rolls. Anna had no appetite. She finished her drink. Soledad stood at the sink, washing her hands. Did she know Thomas had shot Hugo? If so, why was she still here? Where was Hugo?

  “Wait!” Constance cried as Harold reached for his fork. “A toast to Thomas.” The collector peered over his shoulder, pretending her praise had been directed to a better man standing behind him. “Who, after more than a decade of collecting, will soon display the finest collection of Mexican masks in the world.”

  Thomas tapped his fork against his glass and stood. Anna cringed. He was going to make a speech. She steadied herself, tipsy already. She pressed out the creases in her black dress, trying to clear her head. They had a job to do. The mask. The chapel.

  “Friends, I’m honored. When I began collecting ten years ago, I had no idea how fascinating the enterprise would be. Masks convey a part of the human spirit that cannot easily be put into words. The mask peels back our daily façade and reveals the tragedy of the human condition.”

  Anna slipped the phone out of her purse. 7:55. No text. She ticked through all the ways things could have gone wrong. The tunnel had collapsed. The mask wasn’t in the chapel. The looter had stolen the mask and bolted for Colorado. The looter was shooting heroin and didn’t remember his own name. Salvador was leaning back on two chair legs. Soledad was making a racket with the pots.

  “A man in a mask is above the law. He makes his own rules, his own moral code. He is free to transgress, anonymous, unknown. Be someone else. Be yourself. Be God. This, my friends, is freedom. Jesus died for our sins. Masks live for our fears. Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. Oscar Wilde died for his beliefs, savaged by Victorian society that could not stomach a man who—”

  Salvador dropped his chair with a smack. Thomas surveyed his guests’ bewildered faces, cleared his throat. “You don’t want to hear all this. We have this fine potato salad—”

  “Show us something,” Marge hollered, sounding a bit drunk.

  “Well”—Thomas shook his head, relenting—“I will show you one mask, my newest. The Wild Woman. She’s out in the chapel. Eat, everyone. It’ll just take a minute.”

  Anna jumped up. “Let me go with you.”

  “Stay put. No need for help.”

  Salvador tried. “I would like to see your place out there.”

  Thomas held up a hand. “I’ve got it.”

  8:05. No text. The screen door slammed.

  “Finally, we’re going to see something,” Marge said. “I was beginning to wonder if his collection was pure fantasy.”

  “Thomas never makes anything up,” Constance said. “It’s one of his best qualities.”

  Anna sent a frantic text. Hes coming.

  Salvador raked his hair, started humming. Soledad put milk on the stove.

  Marge’s face puckered. “But what’s all this business about Jesus? If you ask me, he’s gone over the deep end.”

  Constance did a yogi impression, turning her wrists skyward. “It’s his new spiritual practice.”

  “Spiritual practice,” Marge said m
ockingly, “like yoga practice. You don’t need to practice what you believe, you only need to practice what you don’t believe until you do believe it, and then you don’t have to practice anymore.”

  Constance shook her head. “I’ve had too many Expatriates to follow that. Here’s my problem with religion: If God exists, why doesn’t He take responsibility? Give us a miracle now and then. A little good PR. Something to hang on to. If you’re God, be God.”

  “Sounds like a bumper sticker,” Harold said dryly.

  Anna clutched her phone in both hands. She listened past the voices to the wind, trying to feel the ground move, the reverberation of broken tile.

  “What I’m saying is,” Constance said, “God needs to man up.”

  Thomas strolled into the kitchen. He did not look like a man who had just shot a meth addict in his chapel. He handed Marge a mask, a bearded woman.

  Marge howled. “She’s hiiiiiideous. Is that pigskin? I would never keep such a thing in my house. It probably has fleas.”

  “It’s not in our house,” Constance corrected. “It’s in our chapel.”

  Marge whooped. “What kind of religion are you practicing out there? Voodoo?”

  “Excuse me,” Anna said. “I need to use the ladies’ room.” She circled the table. Salvador grabbed her hand. She mouthed, Stay here, then went down the hallway into the vestibule, snatched her backpack, slipped out a side door, and sprinted across the lawn. The grass was wet. The moon was full. The trees buzzed in the dark. Her friend was lost underground. She’d check the tunnel opening and—she stopped short. Fortune had smiled down on her.

  The chapel door was ajar.

  It was so unlike Thomas. A rare misstep. Now that she’d had a bit of luck, Anna didn’t trust it. She moved cautiously toward the chapel. Hand on the door, she hesitated, fear overwhelming her. Murmurs from the party filtered down the long lawn. She breathed in hard, mustering her courage. Of course she would go inside. She was a girl who climbed trees.