Casa Azul

by Laban Carrick Hill

  Fulang sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”

  The conversation quieted for a few minutes. Frida was barely paying attention to Fulang. The monkey fumed.

  Finally Fulang tried another approach. “I like that you are painting your world, but your world is not my world, and I don’t appreciate you putting Caimito in there.”

  “He will only disappoint you like Diego,” replied Frida sadly, setting down her brush and turning to her friend. “Trust me on this. Men are worse than pigs. They are only alive to hurt you.”

  “That’s not true for everyone,” insisted Fulang. “Perhaps it is just you who needs to avoid men. Besides, you have your painting, and it can be your muse and your companion.”

  “I will die without Diego,” Frida suddenly said. Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped her paintbrush on the floor.

  “You have just had bad luck,” counseled Fulang. “Focus on your painting. Even Diego says that.”

  Suddenly, across the room on a desk piled with paints and brushes, Frida’s diary flipped open to a sketch of Frida. As if it had not been listening to their conversation at all, the sketch spoke, reciting a list of colors and their meanings, which Frida had written that morning.

  Reddish purple: Aztec. Tlapali, which is the Aztec word for “color” used for painting and drawing.

  Old blood of prickly pear. The most alive and oldest.

  Green yellow: more madness and mystery. All the phantoms wear suits of this color … or at least underclothes.

  Magenta: Blood? Well, who knows! Just remember that blood must be spilt. Otherwise Quetzalcoatl, the ancient Aztec god of life, will want revenge.

  Fulang leaped across the room to the desk and slammed the diary shut. This wasn’t about painting anymore. It was about Frida trying to ruin Fulang’s budding friendship with Caimito.

  Frida stood. Out of nowhere she blurted, “Let’s have a Cinco de Mayo party!”

  “A party, sí!.” Fulang was relieved that Frida was perhaps changing her mood. “You love Cinco de Mayo.”

  “The Mexican Revolution happened the year I was born,” replied Frida.

  “Liar,” spat Chica.

  “Well, I should have been,” answered Frida stubbornly. “My life is a revolution!” Chica held her tongue. Even though Frida had actually been born in 1907—not 1910—she insisted to everyone that the year of the revolution was also the year of her birth and claimed that she was born of revolution. This was the reason why she did not have to follow other people’s rules. She was born to break them!

  Fulang began to list all the things they would need. “Invitations, drinks, food, a mariachi band …”

  “And a giant papier-mâché Judas,” added Frida.

  “Judas? He’s the apostle who betrayed Jesus.” Fulang shook her head, dismissing such an idea as ludicrous. “No. He doesn’t belong at this party. A Day of the Dead party, yes. A Cinco party, no.”

  “But he will be there,” said Frida. “Right by the front gate to greet everyone.”

  “That’ll make this a celebration of betrayal and mar—” Fulang stopped herself. She didn’t like where this idea was going.

  “That’s nothing to sing about,” said the skull.

  Fulang pointed at the painting. “That’s why you’re putting in the thorn necklace. You’re the martyr. You actually believe that your life is equal to the suffering of Christ.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What arrogance!”

  “I am what I am,” whispered Frida. She retreated to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. She limped because the pain in her back had been getting worse lately.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lourdes 27

  “Eat quickly,” said Maria. “I want to get going.” By the time she had found her brother and returned to the plaza, it was almost lunch-time. Maria thought they had better eat before they caught the trolley.

  Victor took a huge bite of his deep-fried empanada filled with cheese and spicy hot habañero peppers. The cheese and pepper juices dripped down into his lap where a fire-roasted ear of corn rested.

  “Mmmmgpha mmgg mffa,” said Victor.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Maria, handing him a bottle of guava soda pop. Victor drank deeply. She ate her empanada quickly but was more careful about the dripping cheese and juices. She held hers away from her body as she bit.

  “It’s just amazing,” said Maria.

  “What?”

  “This!” She waved her hand around. “This!”

  “Huh?”

  “Hundreds … thousands … hundreds of thousands of people all in one place.”

  Victor glanced around, unimpressed. “I think I’m ready to go home.”

  “What? I never want to leave,” Maria said. “This is the center of the world. Everything is here, and I don’t want to miss any of it.” Maria took another bite. “I wish I was one of the beautiful women.” She pointed to a couple of women crossing the street dressed in pencil skirts, bright blouses, and high heels. “I wonder what it would be like to work in an office and speak to someone far away on a telephone.”

  “Yuck! I want to tend goats and grow corn. Then I’ll never be hungry.”

  “Hurry, we have to catch the trolley,” Maria said to her brother. She stuffed the last bit of empanada into her mouth. “We can catch it right over here.” She looked toward the main avenue to see if any trolleys were coming. “I hope it hasn’t come already.” She was getting anxious that they might have missed the trolley. What if it only came once a day, like the village bus? “I don’t want to sleep in an alley again.”

  Maria stood and motioned for her brother to get up.

  “I’m not done,” he said. He bit into the ear of corn.

  “Finish it while we walk,” said Maria. “We don’t want to miss the trolley.”

  “No,” he said. “I want to hear about El Corazón.”

  Maria crossed her arms and shook her head from side to side. “Don’t you want to find Mama?”

  “We’re never going to find her,” mumbled Victor. “Let’s go home.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” Maria suddenly lost her temper. “We are going to find Mama. We have to find her. I will not lose her like we did Grandma and Papa.” Now Maria stomped her foot. Glaring at each other, the siblings had reached a standoff.

  A woman walking down the sidewalk smiled at them, catching Maria’s eye.

  Maria took that as an invitation to speak. “Excuse me, but do you know where I might catch the trolley to Coyoacán?”

  “You’re in luck,” said the woman. “The stop is right at the corner.” She looked over her shoulder. “You’d better hurry. It’s coming right now.”

  “Muchas gracias,” replied Maria as she grabbed her brother’s hand and dashed to the corner.

  Clang. Clang. The trolley conductor rang the bell as the car slowed to a stop.

  Maria and Victor boarded and paid the conductor with the last of their money. The trolley was so crowded, Maria held Victor tightly against her as she held onto a strap hanging from the ceiling.

  Picking up speed, the trolley lurched down the avenue on its tracks, throwing passengers from side to side. Thinking she might be thrown from the car, Maria held on to the strap tightly. “We could get killed in this thing if we had an accident,” Maria said as she watched automobiles and trucks constantly crossing the tracks without warning. People on the street dashed out into the traffic to cross the street when they saw an opening.

  Maria prayed quietly that this metal box on wheels would not crash.

  “Ouch!” Victor cried as the edge of a briefcase poked him in the face.

  Maria turned his face toward her. “It won’t take long.” But the ride out to Coyoacán was much longer than they hoped and most of it was spent being jostled between other riders, being thrown off balance, and grabbing onto each other and the rail. Finally, as the trolley reached the edge of the city, it became less crowded. Maria and Victor found a
seat in the back where the air was foul with a mixture of perfume, aftershave, car exhaust, and sweat.

  Once seated Maria turned to Victor and grilled him about Oswaldo and Oscar. “What did Oswaldo say about Oscar?”

  “Nothing.” Victor paused. “Just that Oscar wants me.”

  “Did you see Oscar?”

  “No,” replied Victor.

  Maria grimaced. “Oscar said almost the same thing that night we spent in the cave. I wonder what he wants?” Maria patted her brother’s knee. “Don’t worry. He can’t get us now.”

  The two lapsed into silence.

  “Now I can return to El Corazón,” said Maria gently.

  “Good,” said Victor.

  “What is surprising about a god is that he can summon strength from places that no human can imagine,” began Maria. “And Quetzalcoatl had powers that he was hiding behind the mask of El Corazón. This is the only way to explain how the huge wrestler El Corazón could change into a six-inch stone statue once his mask was removed and still be able to leap up, grab El Diablo by the ears, and throw him from the ring.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Maria noticed a man boarding the trolley. He was toothless and dressed in a wrinkled suit. He sat directly across from the two children and gave Maria a menacing glare. This look so unsettled Maria that she forgot her place in the story.

  As the trolley moved down the road, the old man laughed to himself and licked his lips while continuing to stare at Maria and Victor. After a few minutes of this, both children were extremely uncomfortable, so they moved to the front of the trolley.

  When the trolley slowed at the next corner, she grabbed her brother’s hand and pulled him off. They spilled out onto the street, not knowing where they were.

  The cobblestone street was deserted. Beautiful plane trees lined the street and cast dappled shadows on the uneven paving. In contrast to the heart of Mexico City, the only sounds were birds singing in the trees and the distant strains of someone playing the piano.

  The serene atmosphere of the neighborhood had a calming effect on the two children. “He’s not following us,” Maria said, glancing back.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. This way. There’s a street sign up here. We can’t be that far away.”

  “I hope so,” said Victor.

  “It seemed as if we’d been riding that old trolley forever.” As they walked Maria glanced around. “These houses are beautiful!”

  The houses that lined the street were all similar one-story stucco homes with flat roofs. They were laid out in the colonial style, U-shaped buildings with many doors, each one leading to a single room. All of these houses were whitewashed with painted shutters, except one. This unique house was painted a beautiful bright blue, enlivened by tall, many-paned windows with green shutters.

  Maria noticed the house right away. “It would be nice if Mama lived there.” She sighed wistfully. The house was on a corner. When the children approached, they could read the address set in the outer wall on blue tiles. It read Lourdes 20.

  “Lourdes!” shrieked Maria. She dug the envelope with the return address out of her pocket. “Lourdes twenty-seven!” Maria read. Quickly she spun around and ran to the house next door. “Twenty-two!”

  She dashed across the street. “Twenty-five!” She went to the next house, which was number twenty-seven. “Come, Victor!” Jumping up and down, she couldn’t contain her excitement. “It’s here!”

  Grinning, Victor ran across the street. “We’re going to find Mama!”

  “Here.”

  Together, the two children reached for the gate on the outer wall enclosing the property. When Maria pulled on the handle, the gate didn’t budge.

  “It’s locked,” Maria groaned. “And padlocked. But someone must be there.”

  Victor banged on the gate and called, “Anybody there?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” added Maria.

  Silence. No one answered.

  Maria shook the padlock. “Why would they put a padlock on the gate?” She noticed that the handle on the gate also had a keyhole, so it must have a lock as well. “They already have a lock. Why the extra protection?”

  “Maybe they want to be extra safe,” suggested Victor, not realizing what this padlock might mean.

  “No, that’s not it, because then they wouldn’t be able to get in and out easily.” Maria hesitated. She didn’t want to say what she was thinking. “There must be another way in. Let’s look around. Maybe we’ll find out that Mama is here and we just have to wait for her.” She helped her brother over the wall and then climbed over herself.

  On the other side of the wall, Maria froze in stunned silence.

  The enclosed courtyard was not just deserted. It had been empty for a while. The grass was overgrown. Ivy crawled like thick, long fingers across the tiles of the patio. Leaves were scattered everywhere. It looked as if no one had been in this courtyard for ages.

  “This isn’t good,” muttered Maria. She knew this meant that her mother was gone, but she wasn’t ready to tell her brother.

  “Where is Mama?” asked Victor in a trembling voice. His eyes teared up.

  “We’ll find her,” insisted Maria. She scanned the courtyard for any signs of recent activity. There were none. “Let’s check the house.” She grabbed her brother’s hand and stepped away from the wall. “Come.”

  Dead leaves crunched underfoot. They made their way to the closest door. “Locked,” said Maria when she tried the handle. They put their faces up against the window in the door to look inside. The room was empty except for a broken chair and trash.

  “Over here,” said Victor. He had noticed that one of the tall windows had a broken pane. He reached through the opening and unlocked the window. “Should we go in?”

  “You wait here,” said Maria. She climbed through and went over to the door. Unlocking it, she said to Victor, “Stay close.”

  Victor grabbed her hand tightly.

  Carefully they went from room to room, hoping to find a clue of some kind. “She had to have been here. We just have to find something that will tell us where she went.” What she didn’t say was that she feared the worst. Something terrible had happened to their mother.

  “Where is she?” asked Victor, on the verge of tears.

  “We’ll find her.” She had to be strong for her brother.

  She glanced around the room cautiously. The stark reality of this empty house weighed too heavily on her. Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the room to another door. And another.

  In the back of the house, the two children came to the kitchen. The space for the stove was empty. A hole in the ceiling indicated where the stovepipe had gone. Maria circled the kitchen, touching the surfaces and feeling the dust under her fingers.

  Victor wandered in the opposite direction, opening cupboards at random. He was hungry again and hoping to find something. When he came to the butler’s pantry, he opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Aaaghh!” Victor leaped back, waving his arms. “Spiders!” He had stepped into a spider web.

  In a flash Maria was beside him, trying to wipe away the sticky threads. While doing this, she glanced into the pantry and suddenly stopped.

  “Oh, Victor … Look.” In the middle of the pantry floor lay a lace handkerchief, just like their mother’s favorite one.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Retablo

  The evening descended quickly. The shadows from the trees turned to darkness. A monkey’s cry echoed through the quiet neighborhood as if it were a call to the night to be gentle. A black cat strolled down the center of the cobblestone street with a mouse in its mouth. The cat’s yellow eyes were slits cutting through the darkness.

  A few minutes later the rattle and creaking of wheels announced a tortilla cart before it turned onto the block. The old woman who pushed the cart was tired and moved slowly. As the woman approached the corner of Lourdes, Maria and Victor tumbled over the wall enclo
sing the home they had just searched. Maria clutched her mother’s hanky tightly. Even though they had not found her, she knew her mother had been at this house. This knowledge alone had given her hope.

  “Who’s there?” called the old woman suspiciously.

  “Just a boy on his way home, abuelita,” called a voice from the shadows up the street.

  Maria put her hand over her brother’s mouth and whispered in his ear, “Shhhh.”

  “Do you have any more tortillas?” the boy asked.

  “For you, my dear, anything,” the old woman cackled. “They were to be my supper, but I will sell my last dozen to you for twenty centavos.”

  The boy put his hand on his heart. “Five centavos.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Ten.”

  “Deal.” The old woman unwrapped the last of her tortillas and handed them to the boy. Maria strained to hear more. She wasn’t certain, but the boy sounded like Oswaldo.

  The boy paid and quickly bit into the first tortilla. “Sleep well, abuelita,” he called after the old woman as she pushed her cart on.

  “Quick, or we’ll be seen.” Thinking fast, Maria grabbed her brother’s hand and used the old woman’s cart to block the boy’s view as they darted across the street. She pulled Victor behind a stand of magnolia bushes.

  “But why can’t we—?” asked Victor.

  Maria put her hand over his mouth once more and whispered in his ear, “Because we don’t want Oswaldo to find out and kidnap you again. It’s better that no one sees us.”

  The two held their breaths, listening to the boy stroll down the street eating noisily.

  The smell of tortillas lingered in the air. Maria’s stomach growled.

  The gate at Lourdes 27 rattled. The boy must be trying to open it, thought Maria. But why? She couldn’t see out from behind the bushes.

  The boy stood there at the gate and ate his tortillas one by one, humming to himself. Maria and Victor tried not to move. But soon Victor shifted his weight from one knee to the other. As he did this, his back rose and brushed a branch.