Casa Azul

by Laban Carrick Hill

  “A secret cave!” exclaimed Victor, very excited.

  “It’s so beautiful,” said Maria, gasping. She had only read of such opulent places in books. The homes in her village contained very simple belongings compared to this cave. “It’s like a palace, but it’s underground.” Then she caught herself. She was here for her money. Nothing more.

  “Yes! This is our home,” replied Oscar. “I discovered this cave many years ago when I was a boy not much older than you.” He stared at Victor, and his gaze lasted longer than was comfortable.

  “So what do you think, Oscar?” asked Oswaldo.

  The old man smiled. He was missing all of his teeth, so his mouth had the hollow look of a jack-o’-lantern.

  Victor looked at his sister. He didn’t understand what was going on. But neither did Maria.

  The old man turned Victor around. “He’s about the right size.”

  “Size for what?” asked Maria suspiciously. “Where’s my money?” Victor ran over to his sister.

  “In time, in time,” replied Oscar with a wave of the hand. “You must be hungry. I have a hot meal ready.” He led them farther into the cavern. At a small stove the old man lifted a lid to a large pot and a fragrant steam rose.

  As her stomach responded, Maria felt her uneasiness disappear.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dinner and a Story

  When Oswaldo rolled out a cart stacked with wooden blocks, Victor broke into a huge smile. The two of them began to build a city of blocks.

  “Let’s build Mexico City!” Victor said as he dumped the blocks on the floor.

  “I have cars too,” said Oswaldo.

  “Really?”

  “And a fire engine.” Oswaldo carried a crate from the corner of the cave and emptied a dozen cars and a beautiful red fire engine.

  “Wow!” Victor grabbed the engine. It had a real bell. He rang it and pushed the truck all around the room.

  Maria shivered. She couldn’t help liking Oswaldo, especially the way he played with Victor, but she still didn’t like that he hadn’t returned the money. She held back and remained by the stairs.

  Oscar stirred the large pot of beans. It smelled of spices and roasted peppers. He ignored his two visitors as he warmed tortillas and chopped onions.

  Maria began to feel silly standing at the edge of the room while everyone else seemed so relaxed. Quietly, she edged her way into the room. “This place is beautiful,” she cautiously admitted. “But I still need my money.” She felt she was being strong by not wavering on this issue.

  Oscar dipped in a slight bow. “Of course.” He took a box from a cabinet next to the stove. He counted out Maria’s money from a stack of pesos. “I try my best to make a nice home for Oswaldo,” said Oscar, ignoring Maria’s embarrassment as she hurriedly shoved the money into her pocket. Oscar took a spoonful of grated cheese that was already on the table and rolled it inside a tortilla. “Here, my dear.” He handed Maria the tortilla. “You must be ravenous.”

  “Gracias.” Maria, grateful to move past the money issue, took the warm tortilla and broke it in two, handing one half to her brother. Victor shoved the entire half into his mouth. Maria gave him a cross look to warn him to watch his manners.

  Oscar returned with the steaming pot of beans and set it in the center of the table. “Let’s eat!”

  Victor dropped the toys and dashed to the table. Oswaldo, grinning, followed him. It was clear that he was pleased to have kids around. Seeing that reassured Maria.

  “I’m starving!” announced Victor as he grabbed a tortilla.

  Maria quickly slapped his hand. “Watch your manners.”

  Victor glared at his sister and then looked to Oswaldo.

  “It’s okay,” reassured Oswaldo, and Victor picked up the tortilla again.

  Maria didn’t like how comfortable Victor was already getting here. He and Oswaldo had barely met, and Victor was acting as if they had been friends for years. She made a mental note to speak with her brother when they were alone about trusting strangers.

  Oscar ladled a heaping portion of beans on Maria’s plate. “Have you been in Mexico City before?”

  “Muchas gracias,” said Maria. “No, this is our first time.”

  “Well, then Oswaldo must show you the city!” Oscar passed the tortillas and cheese.

  “Sí, we will go everywhere tomorrow,” added Oswaldo. He took a large bite of a tortilla laden with beans. “We’ll go to the great plazas. We’ll see the murals of Diego Rivera. His great paintings tell the story of the people. And we’ll go to the zoo and see the wild animals!” He roared like a lion, and everyone laughed. “Then there’s always a puppet show at the plaza. You’ll have to see that!”

  “Yes!” shouted Victor excitedly. He then took bite of beans. “This is as good as Mama’s.”

  “You are eating like one of those wild animals at the zoo,” cut in Maria. Victor’s comparison of their mother’s cooking to this meal angered Maria and reinforced her resolve to find their mother the very next day. Despite her feelings, Maria did not forget her manners. She turned to Oscar. “This meal is very delicious.”

  “You honor me with undeserved compliments.” Oscar bowed his head. “And where is your mother?”

  “We are here to find her,” explained Victor. “Our grandmother died, and we’ve come to be with Mama.”

  “Do you know where she is?” asked Oscar. He leaned back in his chair, paying more careful attention to the boy.

  “Sí, Maria knows. Don’t you, Maria?”

  “We’re going to our mother first thing in the morning,” said Maria. “So we won’t be able to see the city with you, Oswaldo.” She looked down at her plate and pushed the food around so she would not have to make eye contact with anyone. Even though her instincts told her to be careful with these people, she was embarrassed for acting rudely.

  “I will help you find your mother too,” said Oswaldo. “Eat up! There’s lots.” He shoveled a forkful of beans into his mouth and smiled goofily.

  Maria laughed. She did so want to see Mexico City with Oswaldo. “Well, perhaps we could see some of the city first.”

  “Yeah!” shouted Victor.

  Maria and Victor filled their plates a second time.

  “That is a beautiful brooch,” Oscar said as he leaned across the table to look at it closer. “It’s at least a hundred years old.”

  “It was my grandma’s,” Maria said proudly. She unconsciously put her hand over it, realizing how this looked to Oscar, who smirked. She scolded herself for not putting the brooch out of sight.

  “The silver is exquisite,” he said, and then finished his dinner in silence.

  After dinner Oswaldo and Oscar cleared the table.

  “Let me help,” said Maria, picking up her plate.

  Oswaldo began washing the dishes, and Maria picked up a dish towel and started drying.

  After a couple of minutes, she asked, “Have you always lived here?”

  “As long as I can remember,” he replied. “Oscar …” His voice drifted off as if he was thinking of the exact words to use. “Oscar has been good to me. He has taught me everything.”

  “Haven’t you been to school?”

  “No. Oscar taught me to read.” Oswaldo’s eyes darted across the room toward him.

  Maria glanced over at the old man. He held the newspaper as if he were reading, but he actually seemed to be listening to their conversation.

  “I can’t wait to take you to see the murals of Diego Rivera,” the boy said, changing the topic. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”

  “Well, we have to go,” Maria said when the dishes were done. “We’ll see you at the plaza in the morning.”

  Oscar stood. “Oh, I wouldn’t think of it!” He came over and took Maria’s hand, and led her to the couch. “Please, I would be offended if you left now and did not stay the night.”

  “No, this is not possible,” Maria replied, backing away. “Come on, Victor.”


  Victor looked up from the blocks. “Awwww, Maria, pleeeeaasse.”

  “There is plenty of room. You and your brother can sleep on the couch,” explained Oscar. “Then in the morning, once you’re rested, you can find your mother.”

  “We’ll help you,” promised Oswaldo. “You don’t want to sleep in the street.”

  Maria didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to spend the night in the street, but she wasn’t sure if she could trust Oswaldo and Oscar. Finally she decided Oswaldo would be a real help in finding her mother. Reluctantly she agreed. “Just for one night. You are very generous.”

  “De nada. It is nothing,” replied Oscar as he brought a blanket over to the couch.

  “I’m sleepy.” Victor yawned as he plopped down in the middle of the couch.

  “Then it’s time for bed,” said Maria with finality.

  She pulled the blanket over Victor and climbed under next to him. Victor curled up beside his sister and asked for a story.

  After Maria gathered her thoughts for a moment, she began again the story of the epic battle between the great wrestling warriors El Corazón and El Diablo. “If you remember, El Corazón was lucky enough to roll out of the ring just when that devil thought he had the match won. Well, El Corazón recovered quickly and climbed back onto the ring apron; but before he could climb through the ropes, El Diablo smashed his forearm into our hero’s face. Then he began to choke El Corazón on the top rope. The referee tried to stop this terrible breach of the rules, but that evil one simply flicked the referee away like a flea. The referee was not large at all. In fact, you might remember him from when he used to be a midget wrestler. This referee was tossed backward and landed on his head. He was out cold.”

  “Oh no!” cried Victor.

  Maria glanced up and saw that Oswaldo had come over and was sitting on the floor beside the couch. She made room for him and he sat beside them. Inspired by her audience, she continued excitedly. “Oh yes! It was horrible. But it was about to get even worse. While El Diablo choked our hero on the ropes with his arm, he used his free hand to unlace El Corazón’s mask. As you can imagine, the arena went crazy. People started throwing things into the ring to stop El Diablo. No one wanted El Corazón to experience the cruelest and most damaging humiliation in all of wrestling…. to be unmasked.”

  “He must be stopped!” said Victor as he balled his hands into fists.

  “Oh, he must, but he won’t,” Maria continued. “El Diablo quickly grabbed the back of the mask and tore it away. El Corazón cried in pain. It was as if the bright lights of the arena were actually hurting him. El Diablo was so enthralled by his triumph that he let El Corazón go and danced around the ring holding the mask high in the air for all to see. And El Corazón stood on the ring apron, humiliated. He tried to hide his face, but he was coughing so much from the choking that he could not. And when he finally looked up, everyone in the arena gasped. El Corazón was no ordinary man. He was Quetzalcoatl, the ancient Aztec god of life. He had returned to Mexico to save it from such evil as El Diablo, but now his secret had been exposed. It was the same thing that happened to Samson when his hair was cut.”

  “I know that story,” interrupted Victor. “Samson had his long golden locks cut off and he lost all of his great strength.”

  “And this is what happened to El Corazón. He seemed to shrink before everyone’s eyes,” said Maria sadly. “Fortunately, El Diablo was so drunk on his triumph, he forgot all about our hero. Instead, he was shouting at the fans in the arena and taunting them.”

  “Have you ever been to the wrestling matches?” Oswaldo suddenly said.

  “No,” answered Victor. “We read about them in the paper every week.”

  “Why don’t I take you then,” said Oswaldo.

  “Really?” Victor turned to his sister. “Oh, please, Maria, can we?”

  “We’re going to find Mama tomorrow,” insisted Maria. She folded her arms.

  “Oh, please, please, pleeeeeeaaaaaasssse,” begged Victor.

  “I can help you find your mother the next day,” suggested Oswaldo. “You really should see Mexico City and go to the wrestling matches. There is nothing like it.” Oswaldo almost seemed too eager to keep them near.

  CHAPTER TEN

  No Hope at All

  “You must stop this,” insisted Fulang, as she hung upside down by her tail from the canopy of Frida’s bed. Frida lay propped up by pillows with a small canvas on her knees. Despite being bedridden with pain, she was continuing to paint her self-portrait as Diego. “You need to cheer up and forget about this nonsense.”

  “You’re a lot of help,” grumbled Chica from her perch on the credenza across the room. She chewed a claw on her back paw. “Maybe you should talk to the painting again. A lot of help he was.”

  “Go away,” said Frida without looking up from her painting.

  Fulang lowered herself onto the bed next to Frida. “Not until you get out of bed.”

  Frida, who was intent on the brushstrokes that made up the shadows in the crease of the voluminous pants, lifted her brush and painted Fulang’s nose red.

  “Hey!” Fulang fell back onto the floor, quickly wiping her nose on the bedspread.

  Frida picked up a thin horsehair brush and dipped it into a gob of black oil paint she had squeezed from a tube onto her palette. She wiped the brush gently on her sleeve and began to paint in long black strands of hair like the ones she had shorn earlier in the day. With each brushstroke she arranged the strands around her in the portrait. Some were draped on the chair leg while others were strewn about the clay-colored floor. With a flick of her wrist the brush wound hair around the chair’s back. The perspective in the painting was so offkilter that in some places the hair seemed not to lie flat but to dance off the floor.

  “I can’t stand this,” protested Fulang. She pointed at the painting. “You’re erasing yourself. There is no inkling of yourself in this portrait. It’s as if you want to commit suicide.”

  Frida smiled and was suddenly more animated than she had been all day. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “No!” Fulang waved her arms as if she could obliterate the thought.

  Frida put down her brush. “I cannot paint with all of you staring at me.”

  Defeated, Fulang picked up the Day of the Dead skull sitting on the bedside table and left. Chica followed.

  “And shut the door!” Frida shouted after them.

  Chica pressed her paws against the open door and slammed it shut. “Let her stew. She’ll feel better tomorrow. She always does. Besides, she’s painting and that can’t be anything but good.” A light breeze riffled through Chica’s fur.

  Fulang wasn’t convinced. “But look at what she’s painting. She has never mutilated herself by cutting off all her hair and putting on men’s clothes. This is much more serious than just physical pain.” In frustration, she did a flip in the air. Sometimes it was so hard for monkeys to remain still. “This painting is different from her other portraits. In those she still keeps her basic self. She expresses the pain she’s feeling, but through it all she’s still Frida and still a woman. In this portrait she’s someone else.”

  “She’s Diego,” added the skull helpfully.

  “Right.” Fulang glared at the skull. “You are truly stupid, aren’t you?”

  “Sí,” clacked the skull.

  “Okay, back to my point. It’s as if her self is gone. Diego has overwhelmed her. It’s as if with Diego gone from her life, Frida no longer exists.”

  “You’d think it would mean the opposite,” suggested Chica.

  “There’s no logic to it,” concluded Fulang.

  “El Corazón and El Diablo,” murmured the portrait of Dr. Eloesser.

  “Oh, shut up,” snapped Fulang. The stress of Frida’s depression was getting to her.

  Suddenly, a loud bang from the backfire of an automobile interrupted the discussion. Chica looked out the window and saw a brand-new white Packard. “Diego’s here.�
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  “I hope he doesn’t make it worse.” Fulang went to the door and opened it.

  “It can’t get any worse,” replied Chica.

  “What’s wrong?” Diego stood before them with his arms full of flowers—beautifully scented bright red gardenias. With his immense size he looked somewhat comical, like a flower seller’s cart set up for business in one of the plazas around town.

  “Stop buying that cheap gas at the store,” spat Chica. “It’ll ruin your car.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” replied Diego as he stopped on the doorstep. “Why do you look so worried?” He saw that Fulang’s tiny face was squinched up even more than usual.

  “They water it down. That’s why your wonderful new car coughs.” Chica turned and shot her tail straight up, showing Diego her behind.

  “What’s her problem?” asked Diego. He squeezed through the door and into the living room.

  “Oh, she’s worried about Frida but won’t admit it,” explained Fulang.

  Chica stuck out her tongue at Fulang.

  “Frida? Something’s wrong with Frida?” Diego dashed through the house to her bedroom but stopped at the closed door.

  “Wait!” shouted Fulang, following behind him and almost getting stepped on in the process.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Pause.

  “Frida? Are you in there?” called Diego. A trail of stunning red gardenias spilled through the house. Diego held only two stems.

  “She won’t answer,” replied Chica, who wound her way through his legs, rubbing her flanks against his pants legs.

  “You’ve got to help her,” clacked the Day of the Dead skull. “I think she is preparing to kill herself.”

  “What?” gasped Fulang.

  “Sí, she has destroyed everything that she cherishes. She has cut her hair and torn her Tehuana costumes. She has wrapped up all of her paintings. What does she have left?” The skull tried to hop to the edge of the table. He went too far and tumbled off.

  Diego picked him up and looked him squarely in the eyeholes. “You really think so?”