Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  “Your kids are almost grown, and when they’re gone, what good is he? The truth is, you don’t need anyone,” Marcos said. “You are a strong woman.”

  Ana had also been told this all her life, and she didn’t know where it came from. The way she dressed? The way she talked? She couldn’t be sure, but she did know that since Esteban left, she felt lost.

  “And that’s why he left me, because I’m strong?”

  “He left because you already left him,” Marcos said.

  Ana couldn’t take any more. “That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard!” she screamed. “I didn’t go anywhere! Look around, Marcos! Who’s missing? I’m still here!”

  “Okay, okay! I’m sorry I upset you! Cálmate! Shit.” Like the bull in the china shop, Marcos could knock over everything with every turn. But he couldn’t stand what came after—the tiptoeing around to get out of the place without getting cut. He dug in his pockets for his car keys and jangled them nervously.

  “You’re not going to cry, are you? Por fa’, don’t cry.”

  Ana was too shocked to cry.

  “If Bianca comes back here, send her right home, okay?”

  Ana walked her brother to his troca and watched him hoist himself in. As soon as he was gone, she went back into the house. She walked through every room, setting picture frames straight, putting cosas back in order, straightening, rearranging, throwing out newspapers y junk mail. She wiped down every surface of the kitchen, then did the same in the bathrooms. She went into her children’s rooms and picked up dirty clothes and put them in the hamper and then hauled it to the garage, where she sorted the clothes and began a load of laundry. She returned to the house and went into the bedroom she’d shared with Esteban.

  The room was clean and orderly, the bed neatly made with clean sheets she put on that morning, the extra pillows bien fluffy and inviting. Ana climbed into the bed, thinking she would take a nap. Instead, she was tearing at the covers, pulling at the sheets, ripping the cases off the pillows, and tossing everything into a huge, rumpled pile on the floor. When the bed was naked, she sat on the edge of the mattress for a long, long time. What would her children think if they saw her like this? She didn’t want to, but she stood up and remade the bed, pushing and tucking and stuffing, till everything was neat and in order—the opposite of how she was inside.

  FOURTEEN

  Ana decided she would plan the Montalvo reception. Compared to Carmen’s quinceañera, it was nothing. It didn’t matter that she had to work with all the calendars of all the university VIPs who had to attend, the egos of the local artists who needed to be included, the politicos y otro big shots who must be invited, or the 1,001 details that would put anyone who could not stand the mix of egos, power, and money on edge. No, to Ana Ruiz, planning the reception was like a walk at the park. She could almost do it in her sleep, thanks to Cynthia and Mocte and with the help of Beatriz and her assistant (who had her baby a week before the event, just like Beatriz said).

  Because of the size of the reception, and because of the need to give it what they called a public face, it was held at the Museo Alameda, which of course wanted to connect with Montalvo, and he with them. It was one of those ideas that started as—cómo se dice?—cocktail chisme but could end up turning into something big with lawyers and agents and papers signed on the dotted lines. No one could tell when or if it would go from talk to a deal, so los players (and those who wanted to be) planned to be at the Montalvo reception with their feelers out.

  Ana got there to check the final details and make sure everything was going as planned. Beatriz was already there, joking with the bar staff, sampling jalapeño martinis made especially for la pachanga grande.

  “What are you doing getting all borracha before it even begins?” Ana joked.

  “Hey, my boss is paying for the booze. It’s my job to make sure they’re of the highest quality.” Beatriz gulped down a second glass, and as she began to reach for the third she paused, closed her eyes, and savored the flavor of sweet vermouth and the slight snap of jalapeño.

  “Eso! This is the one. Make them all like this one,” she commanded. The head bartender nodded and gave instructions to the others as Beatriz took the last martini and gave it to Ana.

  “Here, you deserve it,” she said. “You look great.”

  “Really?”

  “That dress is fantastic on you!”

  “Clearance rack at Dress for Less.”

  “You’re killing me,” Beatriz said. “I never have luck at that place.” In her last-minute run the night before, Ana found a simple, black cocktail dress with a neck that fell in soft arcs to the middle of her chest. For work, she wore a jacket to cover her bare arms. For the pachanga, she traded the jacket for a sheer wrap dotted with small crystals and changed her shoes from plain pumps to strappy heels (bien chula!). It was the middle of November, but it was a mild fall; the evenings were clear and cool, but not cold.

  “Y yo?” Beatriz struck a pose to show off her flared black slacks, a glittery black jacket over a pearly cream shell, silver jewelry, and a wide belt with a sparkly buckle that matched her shoes.

  “You’re chiney,” Ana said. “You look nice.”

  Beatriz got a portfolio she had stashed behind the bar. “Where will the big boys speak?”

  “Upstairs,” Ana said. “Come, and I’ll show you.”

  The large exhibit space on the second level had been transformed into a shrine to Montalvo’s work. Huge photographs of his sculptures in places around the world were hung with their plans displayed next to them. A wall in the center of the room had photographs of Montalvo at work, surrounding a larger one of him hanging in his harness. He was looking away from the camera, a sleeveless white undershirt showing his powerful arms and chest, his long legs dangling from the harness. Mocte was in front of the display, giving—how do they say?—un quickie plática to a group of wide-eyed admirers dressed in caterer’s uniforms. Even in two dimensions, Montalvo had a way of pulling attention, but what made him more attractive to this group was the fact that a dark-skinned Mexicano like them was the reason for the evening. The catering staff silently went back to work when Mocte excused himself and walked over to Ana.

  “Mocte! Qué suave, mi’jo!” Ana said playfully to the young man, dressed in a crisp white shirt and a black suit that fit him muy bien.

  “Thank you, miss. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s great! You did a great job! Didn’t he do a great job?” Ana asked Beatriz, who was gaping at the image of Montalvo in the harness.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That was a good idea you had, to get these photos blown up, since we don’t have any of Montalvo’s work to show. Right?”

  “That was your idea?” Beatriz asked.

  “Yes, miss.”

  Beatriz turned to Ana.

  “And whose office paid for this?”

  “Ours did.”

  “In that case, te aventaste! It’s fantastic!”

  “Thank you, miss. And thank you for helping me get to work with Señor Montalvo. It’s an honor.”

  “You thanked me already, pero de nada,” Beatriz said, smiling warmly at the young man. Then she looked over Mocte’s and Ana’s shoulders.

  “What’s going on over there?”

  They turned and saw Cynthia dressed in a worn traje de charro outfit she bought at an estate sale, unloading a huge harp.

  “She plays … mariachi?” Beatriz asked.

  “I hope so,” Ana said, taking a final gulp of her martini.

  Beatriz’s smile fell off of her face.

  “She brought me a CD,” Ana said. “They sound pretty good, and they’re not playing until later.”

  “Oh, good. Everyone will have had a few drinks by then,” Beatriz said. “But the harp?”

  “That’s what I’m not sure about,” Ana said, watching Cynthia wrestle the large instrument onto the small riser.

  “Some of the early mariachis had harps, and she pl
ays,” Mocte said with authority. He excused himself to help Cynthia, who almost knocked over the microphone he’d set up for later.

  “Who knew?” Ana said. “She’s playing solo the first hour and the mariachi later. Her price was right, and I want to check them out for Carmen’s quinceañera.”

  “So now Carmen wants a mariachi?” Beatriz asked.

  “We’ll see. I asked the girls to drop by to check them out, but I’m sure Carmen will come up with some excuse not to come.”

  The women walked through the rest of the building, making sure everything was in place, and ended up in the small kitchen where the caterers were busy loading their trays. Things were going as planned, so they each took a plato of bocadillos along with another jalapeño martini and made their way down to the patio on the main floor.

  “So, how is the quinceañera going?” Beatriz asked.

  “It’s going,” Ana said. “Carmen is more involved, but her heart isn’t in it. I think if she could do it without me it would make her happy.”

  “You know, you still haven’t told me how you want me to help. I can be the madrina of something,” Beatriz said. “How about la madrina de los pies y las manos? I’ll pay for the girls to have manicures the week of—how’s that?”

  “Yeah, they should like that,” Ana said.

  “But after this whole thing is over, I’m going to be la madrina de la mamá!” Beatriz said. “We’re going to go stay at the Guenther Hotel and order room service and get massages y facials y todo! Or better yet, we’ll go to Austin and stay at the San José and bum around like we’ve got nothing better to do with ourselves. Speaking of which …” Beatriz saw her husband, Larry, coming in, escorting a withered woman dressed in winter white and weighed down in pearls.

  “Time to go to work,” Beatriz said. She walked over to her husband and greeted the elderly woman. Larry Milligan had met her as she was climbing the steps to the Alameda and offered his assistance. Ana recognized the woman as Mrs. Gruber, who they called an obscenely wealthy patron of the arts and a major supporter of the university. Mrs. Gruber was ancient. Some joked that she was there when the Alamo was built, that she had had a relationship with Davy Crockett, or that she was first of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, the official gatekeepers of the Alamo.

  Mrs. Gruber’s husband had died two decades before, and unlike the old ones Ana watched, la viejita refused to die. She was invited to every major ay tú tú party in the city, and no one knew which ones she would attend and which ones she would not. Mrs. Gruber was—cómo se dice?—on the A-list, pero todo grumpy. Once inside the Alameda, la señora got a glass of wine and asked for help finding a place to sit for the rest of the night. Larry waved at Ana as he crossed to the bar for la señora’s wine and later helped Beatriz escort the rickety woman to the elevator and up to the Montalvo room, where the program would be.

  Ana saw how easy it was with Larry and Beatriz. While they gave their full attention to Mrs. Gruber, they gave each other a quick beso without making the woman feel overlooked. It was a brief, tender kiss, a moment Ana tried to remember having with Esteban.

  The pachanga grande started at six o’clock. By six thirty, the place was packed, the booze was flowing, and everyone was in what Beatriz called high schmooze. Cynthia’s harp sweetened the air above the bubbling crowd. Everything was going well until Ana looked at her watch. She pushed through the crowd to find Mocte.

  “Shouldn’t you have picked up Montalvo by now?”

  “He said they would get here on their own,” Mocte said. “He’s staying at the Guenther Hotel this week. It’s not that far, miss.”

  They? Ana wondered.

  “Do you want me to go over there anyway?”

  “No, no. We’ll give him ten minutes.”

  “Hey, dónde está el hombre de la hora?” Beatriz said into Ana’s ear. “The prez has to be at something else later this evening.”

  “The dean isn’t even here yet,” Ana said. She was getting anxious.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll feed him another martini. That should buy some time.”

  Ana didn’t want to be, but she was curious: Who was Montalvo coming with? She and Beatriz were worming their way to the bar on the main floor when Beatriz motioned for Ana to look toward the entrance. There they saw the dean and his wife coming in with Montalvo, who was dressed muy elegante, in a white tuxedo jacket and black slacks. A photographer who had been waiting for him started taking photos before he even knew he was the guest of honor. Montalvo was gracious, smiling that handsome smile of his, then he reached behind him and pulled forward a young woman. Híjole! La mujer was la mamasota! Todo hot stuff, como un siren, wearing an emerald-green dress that followed every curve (and there were many). The dress plunged deep in the front and deeper down her back. Montalvo asked the photographer to take a photo of them together. The young woman smiled como un movie star, and the photographer was suddenly more interested in his work. The flash of his camera brought the attention of the other photographers, who began to snap their own photos.

  “Oh, please tell me that’s not a student,” Beatriz whispered to Ana, as she handed her another martini. The thought came to Ana, too, but something about the young woman’s way didn’t seem to her like that of a student. For one thing, she didn’t shrink into the background, and Montalvo made no effort to hide her. The young woman was todo stylish and confident, posing for the cameras like she was used to having all eyes on her.

  “He should be ashamed of himself,” Beatriz hissed. “I’ll get the prez and meet you upstairs. You snag the cradle robber.”

  Montalvo’s private life was none of her business, Ana told herself. She pushed through the crowd to greet the dean and his wife, and then Montalvo, who was just about to introduce la mamasota to her when she stopped him.

  “Perdón, pero the president is anxious to get started. We must go upstairs now.” The group followed Ana through the crowd to the Montalvo gallery and to the riser where Cynthia finished playing a Peruvian song con mucha alegría. Ana stepped up to the podium to announce that the formal presentation was about to begin when she saw she was still holding the martini Beatriz gave her earlier. She looked around for a place to set it.

  “I’ll take that,” Montalvo’s woman said in a thick accent Ana didn’t know.

  “Are you old enough to drink?” Ana asked.

  “I’m old enough for a lot of things,” the young woman said. She lifted the drink from Ana’s hand and peered over the rim of the glass at Montalvo as she sipped from it. He smiled back at her.

  “Oh Ana! Always minding every detail!” the dean joked. The dean’s wife looked at Ana with an arched eyebrow and turned away.

  The presentation went as planned. The dean spoke, toasting Montalvo and saying how fortunate the university and the city were to have him. The president spoke, thanking all the supporters who made the event possible. Dignitaries spoke. It was, as Ana says, the typical litany of thank-yous and praise punctuated with light applause aquí y allá. The campaign to get Montalvo to stay in San Anto had started. But if someone could have read the minds of everyone in the audience, they would have discovered that most everyone had two burning questions on their minds: Who was that hot babe on Montalvo’s arm, and where have I seen her before?

  Finally, it was Montalvo’s turn to speak. He stepped up to the mic, and the light hit him perfectly. The crowd was hushed. Even the catering staff stopped to hear what he had to say.

  “Gracias todos for this lovely evening. I am so pleased to be in this great city. I have been treated with much care and respect at your fine university. I have found much talent among the students.”

  “We see that,” Beatriz whispered into Ana’s ear. They were standing near the edge of the riser, behind the speakers and out of the light but in a perfect position to watch the crowd.

  “I am honored by this wonderful display of my work, thanks to my able assistant Moctezuma Valdez, but I am afraid one of my proudest creations is missing.�
��

  Mocte almost had an estroc, until Montalvo reached back for la mamasota’s hand and pulled her forward. “I would like to introduce to you my daughter, Liliana Montalvo.”

  After a silent gasp, the audience put away any ideas they had had about what was going on between Montalvo and the young woman (cochinos!), and the crowd broke into applause that was part delight, part relief.

  “She comes here from Italy to surprise me this very afternoon! So, the evening is more beautiful than I thought possible. But please, enough talk. I invite you to enjoy the lovely event that has been planned. Muchísimas gracias.”

  That is when Ana saw that the woman looked familiar because she looked like her father. The chisme running through the crowd was that Liliana’s mother was an Italian movie star and that she was following in her mother’s footsteps. Some said they recognized Liliana Montalvo from a small independent film made by an Austin filmmaker, while others swore they saw her on their favorite novela.

  “Well, thank God,” Beatriz said to Ana. “Let’s have a toast!”

  Ana and Beatriz stepped off the riser and over to the bar set up in the far corner of the Montalvo room. “Everybody who needs to be here showed up, and those that didn’t will be sorry.” They clinked their glasses, and Beatriz raised hers to salute her friend. “Congratulations, mujer. Te aventaste! You really threw yourself!”

  A crowd instantly formed around Montalvo and his daughter. Those who weren’t trying to meet him or get a close-up look at his daughter were listening to Mocte’s plática. Whatever schmoozing or deal making to be done was out of Ana’s hands. She decided to take a break from the clamor while Las Florecitas Fuertes set up and walked into another gallery where there were fewer people.

  She was surprised to see a small balcony off to the side of the gallery. A couple had just finished their cigarettes and were returning to the reception through a glass door. Ana traded places with them and was relieved when the door closed, blocking the commotion from the gallery and allowing her to enjoy the gentle sounds coming from the street below.