Hard Luck

by Pascal Scott

  Gabriella studied her for a long moment. “Are you asking me if I believe you can change?” Gabriella didn’t wait for an answer. “Because if that is your question, the answer is yes, I believe you can change. Sometimes, life gives us nothing but difficult choices. Sometimes, we are victims of hard luck. And sometimes, it is a matter of kill or be killed. For me, I do not see that I have a choice. I must accept the life I have been given. But you, Elizabeth, you have a choice.”

  “You have a choice,” Elizabeth countered. “You could leave this life if you wanted to. Couldn’t you?”

  “Where would I go? What would I do?” Gabriella inhaled and exhaled and then snubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. “No, I think I have no choice but to accept my life as it was given to me. But for you, I think these conditions do not apply. You are free to find your way in the world. Yes, you can change, Elizabeth, if you want to change.”

  Chapter Forty

  Elizabeth felt the softness of the comforter pulled up to her chin. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Smog-filtered sunlight poured in through the bedroom window, motes of dust dancing in the falling rays. For a moment, she felt confused, and then it came back to her, where she was and who she was. She was Elizabeth Taylor Bundy, no longer Kelly Anne Campbell. She was herself again and a pampered and protected guest of the Barreras.

  She had been dreaming, and in the dream, she had done this exact same thing. She had awakened in the queen bed in the guestroom of la casita. But in the dream, it was night, and the room was dark. She got up, went to the bedroom door, and opened it. Walking down the hallway, she called out, “Olivia? Rosa Maria? Ernesto?” There was no answer. The house was empty and curiously silent. She walked down the circular stairs, through the tiled entryway, and out the front door.

  Outside, a heavy rain was falling. A black car sat waiting in the driveway. She rushed toward it through the downpour, letting herself into the back. A shadowy figure sat in the driver’s seat. “Ernesto?” she asked. The car started up and pulled away, gliding down the long, tile-and-mosaic stone road, past the unguarded security station, and out through the opened gate.

  “¿A dónde vamos?” she asked.

  The driver didn’t answer. He wore a black coat and cap and white gloves. His hair was cut so short that she could see the pale skin above the white collar of his shirt. His head was turned so that she could not see his face, but in the rearview mirror, she could see his eyes. Strange eyes, almost reptilian. She tested the passenger door, but it was locked.

  “¡Pare el coche!” she demanded. Stop the car!

  The lizard eyes glanced back at her in the mirror. He continued driving.

  “¡Déjame salir!” Let me out!

  He ignored her, turning the car once onto a main road and then a short while later turning again, this time onto a boulevard. At an intersection, he stopped. A parade was passing by. Elizabeth heard the click of the locks being released inside the car. Pushing open the door, she took a quick step out, slipped, and fell onto cobblestones still wet, although it had stopped raining. Someone picked her up—she could not see who—as she was swept along by the crowd of skull-faced walkers carrying white candles and orange marigolds. Everyone except Elizabeth was dressed in white. Around their necks, the men had tied red bandannas; around theirs, the women had hung long clear beaded necklaces.

  She recognized by these signs that this was the Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. Elizabeth was the only one dressed inappropriately, all in black. She felt self-conscious about her appearance and painfully aware that she did not fit in, that she was different. She was not like everyone else. She looked to her left and saw that Billy Brandt was there, his face painted white and black. Billy looked straight ahead, not acknowledging her. On her right, she saw Emily Bryson, and her eyes, too, were focused on the path ahead. To Emily’s right was Mickie Forrest, and she also was wearing the mask of death.

  A bony hand touched Elizabeth’s shoulder, and when she turned her head, she saw La Catrina, a laughing skeleton dressed only in a wide-brimmed hat.

  “La muerte nos viene a todos,” La Catrina said. Death comes to us all.

  Beside La Catrina marched a dark-eyed, skull-faced poet. He said to Elizabeth in English, “Each of us dies the death he is looking for, the death he has made for himself.”

  “Esto es verdad,” La Catrina said. This is true.

  Thunder clapped as the rain began falling again. Elizabeth awakened with a start.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “Don Emilio requests your presence,” Olivia told Elizabeth.

  The morning’s lesson with Gabriella had concluded, and Elizabeth was just about to go upstairs to her bedroom.

  “Me?” Elizabeth asked. “My presence?”

  “Yes,” Olivia replied. “Ernesto will take you.”

  Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth was sitting in the presidential suite of La Regencia. A big man dressed in black was standing guard at the door while they waited for Don Emilio. The chrome clock on the executive desk informed Elizabeth that it was 12:45 p.m. when Don Emilio walked in, dressed in an expensive suit and polished shoes.

  “Elizabeth,” he said stiffly.

  “Yes, Don Emilio,” she answered.

  He looked over the papers on his desk until he found what he was searching for. He handed a manila envelope to her.

  “Open it.”

  Inside, she found a U.S. passport, a California driver’s license, a student ID for UNAM, and a resident visa valid for four years in Mexico. The name on all the documents was Lisa Elizabeth Smith. The photo was a current headshot of Elizabeth.

  “Oh, thank you, Don Emilio. But how did you—?”

  “You ask too many questions,” he interrupted. “You must learn to accept what is given to you in silence.”

  She returned the materials to the envelope and placed it in her lap.

  “There is something I wish to discuss,” he continued. “We have found your Señorita Forrest.” He sat in the leather chair behind the desk.

  “You have?”

  He held up his hand, indicating that she should listen and say no more. “Señorita Forrest was easily persuaded to cooperate with us. She led us to the Fail Safe Storage in San Ysidro where she said she and Señorita Holland had stored the money.”

  Elizabeth took a breath to say something but was stopped by Don Emilio’s frosty stare.

  “There was a difficulty,” he continued. “There was no money. It was not there as Señorita Forrest had promised.”

  “Oh, my God,” Elizabeth said. “Denise must have moved it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Have you found Denise? Do you know where she is?”

  “Señorita Holland is in San Francisco. We have eyes on her.”

  “Okay. But what about Mickie? What happened to Mickie?”

  “Yes, Señorita Forrest. That is regrettable.”

  Elizabeth took a moment before she asked cautiously, “What do you mean?”

  “I believe you know what I mean. Señorita Forrest is gone.”

  “Gone,” Elizabeth repeated. “But you said you wouldn’t hurt her. You said you were only going to talk to her.”

  “Unfortunately, Señorita Forrest did not live up to her end of the bargain.”

  Elizabeth’s thoughts were racing. This was not the father confessor she had trusted that night in his study in San Miguel.

  “You lied to me.” The accusation fell from her lips. She could not call it back.

  Don Emilio’s forehead creased with displeasure. He inhaled deeply before he spoke again.

  “You are my daughter’s friend. Were you not, I would not be willing to overlook the rashness with which you speak to me. As it is, I will forgive you, this time.”

  Elizabeth paused to consider her words more carefully. “What about Denise? What’s going to happen to Denise?”

  “Señorita Holland is another matter. We are not the only eyes on her. In time, the other eyes will stop watching her. A
nd then the hour will be right to speak to Señorita Holland, and she will lead us to the money.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. But she needed to know. “And what about me?”

  “About you?”

  “Am I in danger? From you?”

  Now Don Emilio smiled. Elizabeth realized that it was the first time he had smiled since he had entered his office.

  “You? No. You are in no danger from me. You are my friend. Are you not my friend, Señorita Bundy?”

  “Yes, Don Emilio. I am your friend.”

  “Good. Then we have finished our business together today.”

  He stood to indicate that it was time for her to leave. She stood. He walked her to the door.

  “We will find your money,” he promised.

  And then you will keep it, Elizabeth thought. And then she had another, very different thought. But not if I find it first.

  Part Three

  Chapter Forty-two

  Teresa was late for her lunch date with Elizabeth, but then so was Elizabeth. Elizabeth was learning to be on ahorita time. Even still, Elizabeth got to Besos first and was halfway through a glass of chardonnay when Teresa arrived. Although she was gracious with the waiter as she ordered a paloma, Teresa was in a sour mood. Some bruja from a feminist collective had written a nasty letter to her producer, complaining that meteorologists were being hired who “looked like dolls dressed in provocative clothing.”

  “I am not a meteorologist,” Teresa said. “I was not educated to be a meteorologist. In college, I was a Spanish major and a women studies minor. I am a weather girl. A television presenter. I am a beautiful woman who likes to dress well and look good. What is wrong with that? It is part of Latin culture for a woman to be sexy. I don’t understand why feminists get offended by this. Men love it.”

  “I’m sure,” Elizabeth said.

  “Do you not agree?” Teresa asked accusingly.

  “With you?”

  “Yes, with me.”

  “Well, yes. And no,” Elizabeth said.

  “No? Why no?”

  “Because I see what they’re saying. I used to feel more the way you do. I felt powerful when I saw men admire my body. But now I wonder. I’m thirty-one, and already I notice the way men look at me is not the way they did when I was twenty-one.”

  “You look good.”

  “No, that’s not my point. My point is that the woman is always the object of the male gaze. Do you remember our class, ‘Feminism and Film’?”

  “Yes,” Teresa said.

  “Remember Laura Mulvey’s essay? Mulvey wrote that women in film are presented as sexual objects for the voyeuristic pleasure of the male viewer.”

  “You remember so much. I do not remember that, no. But to your point, so what? What if I choose to be presented as a sexual object to be admired by men? Men will never have me, so what is the problem if I choose to exploit their desires?”

  “Well, Mulvey would argue that the problem is you don’t really have that choice. You are a sexual object whether you choose to be one or not. At least if you want to work in film.”

  “Or in television,” Teresa added.

  “Yes. And then you must be the right age, the right body type, the right hair color—”

  Teresa frowned, and Elizabeth felt sorry she had mentioned this last thing since Teresa’s hair was no longer black but was streaked now with blond highlights.

  “You were always el cerebro,” Teresa said in exasperation. “Thinking like this makes my head hurt. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Teresa took a sip of the paloma the waiter had delivered. Elizabeth opened her menu.

  “We should order,” Elizabeth said.

  “We should drink,” Teresa countered, ignoring the menu in front of her.

  “Yeah, well…Listen, Teresa, I have a big favor to ask.”

  “Yes?”

  “I need to borrow a thousand dollars.”

  Teresa reached into her lap and pulled up a gold Hermes clutch, which matched the gold of her blouse, necklace, earrings, and finger rings. She pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off ten American Benjamins. There were still that many left as she returned the roll to her purse and slid the money across the tablecloth to Elizabeth.

  “Do I want to know why you need to borrow a thousand dollars?”

  “No. But let me ask you something about Gabriella.”

  “Oh! So, this is about Gavi. Good. What do you wish to know?”

  “Does she work for La Familia?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No. Her father is a doctor. He works for La Familia. But Gavi does not.”

  “So, she can leave any time she wants, right?”

  “Leave Mexico City, do you mean? Yes. She can leave any time she wants. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “You are planning a surprise for Gavi?”

  “I can’t say,” Elizabeth said.

  “You are muy misterioso today. While I am thinking of it, there is a fashion show on Saturday night. My friend Diego Cordova invited me. It is a benefit for charity. Diego is a designer. He is delicious. You will be my guest.”

  “Saturday night? That’s tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, tomorrow night.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Teresa. I’ve never been to a fashion show. What should I wear?”

  “You are not the subject of the show. But it is a good question. Designer jeans and a statement blouse would be good.”

  “What’s a statement blouse?”

  “It is a blouse that makes a fashion statement, obviously.”

  “I’ve never—”

  “I know. I will tell Olivia to help you pick out a blouse. If you don’t find one in your closet, tell Ernesto to take you to Couture and you can buy something there. Talk to Luna, she’s my personal shopper. And put it on my account.”

  “Teresa, you know I’m never going to be able to pay you back.”

  Teresa waved away the notion.

  “You are my friend. This is what friends do for each other.”

  The waiter returned.

  “We should order,” Teresa said now.

  On the street, Teresa cheek-kissed Elizabeth goodbye and disappeared into a white van identified by blue letters as belonging to XHDOS-TV. Ernesto opened the back passenger door to the Fleetwood for Elizabeth. As she slid into the leather seat, she noticed a woman walking by. It was the briefest of moments, but Elizabeth had a few seconds of puzzlement followed by recognition. Oh, yeah, that’s how I know you: you’re the hipster from the Envidia. The girl in black with the plum highlights and plum lipstick.

  And how coincidental was that? Twice in one week?

  Ernesto closed the door and glanced around before taking his place at the wheel. The hipster didn’t miss a beat. She kept walking.

  Chapter Forty-three

  The fashion show was held at the Casino Histórica, the palatial downtown gambling den built in 1885 of granite, marble, bronze, and stained glass on the orders of President Porfirio Diaz. During the thirty-one years of his dictatorial rule, the former Army general enforced a heavy-handed policy of modernization in an effort to make Mexico competitive with European nations and to resist American intervention. Diaz is remembered as having said, “Poor Mexico. So far from God, so close to the United States.”

  The Diaz economic plan succeeded in modernizing Mexico by stealing from the poor and rewarding the president’s wealthy allies and foreign investors. It impoverished the vast majority of Mexicans, the campesinos, whose lands he annexed. Those who opposed him were silenced or killed. In 1910, the rural masses rebelled, and the Mexican Revolution began. Diaz fled to France in 1911. The Casino Histórica was turned into a museum and a venue for cultural events.

  Elizabeth and Teresa entered a grand hall on the first floor, where folding chairs had been placed on the sides of a wooden catwalk that ran the length of the room. Uniformed waiters in black bowties moved through the crowd, offering shots of tequila in plastic cups
. Paparazzi with flashing cameras recorded images of the fashionistas and poseurs. Ernesto waited outside by the car.

  “¡Teresa!”

  Elizabeth saw a smartly dressed young man gliding toward them in skinny jeans and a tight, mostly unbuttoned shirt revealing a chest so smooth it seemed to have been greased with baby oil.

  “¡Enrique!” Teresa replied, quickly pecking his stubbly cheek.

  After a few minutes of gushing Spanish that Elizabeth couldn’t understand at all, Teresa introduced him to Elizabeth.

  “Enrique is an actor,” Teresa said.

  “Oh, there you are,” called an American voice.

  The voice belonged to an older Anglo gentleman in a black turtleneck and gray trousers, wearing a stylishly thin leather belt and black slip-ons with no socks.

  “Elizabeth, this is Joel Reed.” Teresa nodded toward Elizabeth and raised her eyebrows to indicate that Joel Reed was someone special. “The movie producer,” she added when Elizabeth didn’t recognize him.

  “Oh?”

  “Las Criadas,” Teresa prompted. “The documentary about domestic workers in Mexico. It was nominated for an Academy Award.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said again. She hadn’t seen the film or even heard of it, for that matter. “Nice to meet you both.”

  Joel stopped a passing waiter and took a shot of tequila for himself.

  “You’re not drinking?” he asked Teresa.

  “Yes, I am. Please.”

  The waiter handed her a cup and asked Elizabeth and Enrique if they cared for a drink. Enrique did; Elizabeth didn’t. Elizabeth was once more trying to moderate the habits she had developed in Mexico by partying with Teresa and her parranderas.

  “What are you working on now, Joel?” Teresa asked.

  “Fashion. I’m intrigued by what’s happening in Mexico City. It’s fabulous. I find so many interesting young designers here who have spent time in London, Paris, New York and come back with a global aesthetic. I predict that Mexico City will one day be a fashion capital of the world.”