Damas, Dramas, and Ana Ruiz

by Belinda Acosta

  A cool breeze fluttered her hair. She leaned on the wrought-iron railing and gazed at whatever caught her eye: couples strolling nowhere in particular; an accordionist playing in the distance; a pack of giggly girls eating raspas from paper cups; a pair of squat men, their bellies flowing over snakeskin belts that matched their boots, leaning against a brick wall and sometimes removing their cream colored cowboy hats to comb back their hair with their fingers. The tourists were obvious, Ana thought. They were the ones who didn’t know what to look at first—the dazzle of colored lights crisscrossed above the Mercado, the mounds of souvenirs that tumbled from small storefronts, the freestanding carts where the aroma of grilled meat danced with the sweet smell of fried churros, or the whiz of flies around the chunks of Mexican candies made of pumpkin, mango, coconut, y nopal. The people below were more tranquil than the crowd was behind her in the Museo. Ana enjoyed watching them from above, but just as she thought she should return to the reception, the door opened. When she turned, she thought she would see another pair of smokers. Instead, it was Montalvo, looking bien handsome in the moonlight.

  “Perdón, señora. Please forgive me! I neglected to thank you when I spoke earlier. I wanted to say how much I appreciate all the work you did to make this event,” he said.

  “De nada, señor.”

  “My daughter would like to thank you as well, pero I have asked Mocte to take her back to the hotel.”

  “Oh, is she all right?” Ana asked.

  “The jet lag. I told her she should go back and rest.” Montalvo turned to leave but paused. “Everyone is very kind, but I am not used to being around so many people,” he said. “May I join you?”

  “Sure.” Ana watched Montalvo take in the street scene below. It calmed him as much as it did her.

  “Your daughter is stunning.”

  “Thank you. She takes after her mother,” Montalvo said.

  “I can see where she takes after you, too.”

  Montalvo laughed.

  “Really, the resemblance is strong,” Ana said.

  “Yes, yes. Everyone says that. I was thinking if you said that five years ago, she would tear your tongue out! It is only now that we get along,” Montalvo said. “Her teenage years were”—he paused, searching for the best word—“unpleasant.”

  “Ah, yes, I understand!” Ana said, thinking of her Carmen. “But it looks like you survived. You said she came here to surprise you?”

  “Yes. For Thanksgiving next week, we will fly to California. She lives in Italy but wants to move to the U.S. to be in the cinema, like her mother.”

  “Oh, yes, the actress,” Ana said, suddenly feeling very plain in her clearance-rack dress. “Well, that explains it. Your daughter was a natural in front of the cameras, but after her entrance, I think the rest of us must look like frumpy old ladies.”

  Montalvo scoffed. “Youth has its appeal, but the most beautiful women I’ve met have lived life. They have the caress of worn leather, the elegance of antique furniture.”

  (Ay, tú tú!)

  “With all the nicks and stains to match,” Ana joked.

  “The things women see as their blemishes, I see as embellishments.”

  The sound of Montalvo’s voice in the moonlight was making Ana’s skin prickle. She had to change the subject.

  “Do you think your wife will like it here?”

  “No,” he said in a stony tone. Coraje! Ana wondered if she was being too personal, if this would be another thing between them that she would have to repair.

  “I’m sorry,” Ana said. “I wasn’t trying to be too—”

  “No, no,” Montalvo said in a softer tone. “She has decided she would rather be a great actress than to be with me. She stays in Italy. There is no need to be sorry. Once you’ve seen your private life splattered in gossip magazines, the rest is nothing.”

  A sad veil fell over him. Ana saw him mindlessly massage the finger where he once wore a wedding band. After a moment, he caught himself, looked at his hand, and shoved it in his pocket. Ana was touched. She could plainly see that this part of his life was bruised and still healing. She was suddenly aware of the nakedness of her own ring finger and made a note to call the jeweler about her ring. It had been several weeks. What was taking so long?

  “It was for the best,” Montalvo said. “But Lili did not agree. Her mother’s career started to take off when Lili turned fourteen. I kept her while her mother was making her films. But Lili wanted to be an actress, just like her mother. And she missed her terribly. I told her she needed to finish school, but I didn’t want her to be tutored on the set. I wanted her to have as conventional a life as possible. But teenagers can be very …”

  “Challenging,” they said in unison. Montalvo laughed.

  “So, you know about this?”

  “Oh, yes,” Ana said. “So, you raised your daughter through her teenage years alone?”

  “Yes. Most of the time. She saw her mother when possible, between her films.”

  “That must have been difficult.”

  “Only because Lili was angry. Her mother left, but I was the one she decided to be angry at.”

  “Because you were the bad cop.”

  Montalvo was puzzled.

  “The ‘bad cop’—the parent who has to make sure they go to school, they do their homework, clean their room,” Ana explained.

  “Yes, I was this bad cop. With that and seeing your private life talked about in those shameless magazines, ay! But really, I don’t blame her mother. She worked hard and got what she wanted. I understand the drive. It’s the thing that brought us together and the thing that pushed us apart. I think it must always be the way: the parent who is not there is the one longed for the most,” he said. “In the end, it was all worth it. She gave me one of my beautiful daughters.”

  “You have more?”

  “Oh, yes! I have five!” Montalvo said proudly.

  “Five!”

  “Lili is the youngest with her mother.”

  Ana wondered if four other daughters meant four other women. “Five! I’m having trouble managing one! Well, two, if you count my niece. No sons?”

  “No sons.”

  “Five!” Ana marveled again. “I should get tips on raising teenage girls from you sometime.”

  “Your daughter, what is she like?”

  “She’s a teenager.” Ana said it like being a teenager was the most sinister thing in the world. The two of them laughed out loud.

  “And her name?”

  “Carmen, after my mother.”

  “Ay, qué linda! I love that name, like the character in the opera. The woman with the fiery temper who makes the men crazy!”

  “You got the fiery temper right!” Ana laughed, “But she seems to spend most of her time driving me crazy.”

  “She’s headstrong?”

  “Headstrong, mouthy, stubborn, mean …” Pero Ana found herself getting sentimental. “But she’s my girl. I had no idea it would be like this when she was a baby. Childbirth? That was hard. Taking care of a baby and a toddler, that was hard. Teething was hard, colic and diaper rash, measles and chicken pox—hard. I would take all of that, all at once, if I could trade it for what it’s like now. So, tell me—how long do I have?”

  “Quién sabe? Lili hated me for ten years. Thank God her half sisters were my angels.”

  “Oh! So you’re the papacito of some daddy’s girls.”

  “That is not good?”

  “Oh, it’s good if you’re the girl or if you’re the daddy. Not so much if you’re the mommy.”

  “Really? So, your Carmen, she is the ‘daddy’s girl,’ as you say?”

  “Oh, yes. And I am that annoying woman who hangs around just to make her life miserable,” Ana said. “I think if I fell off the face of the earth, she wouldn’t notice.”

  “She would notice,” Montalvo said. He was looking into the moon, the light bathing his chiseled face, and in that brief moment, Ana let herself enjoy looking at
him.

  “I’m sure she would notice,” he said, turning to look at her. Ana realized she was leaning in close to Montalvo, and he was leaning in toward her. She stood up and moved away.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” she stammered. “But I better get back inside.” She turned back to him at the door. “It was nice talking to you.”

  “Yes, I would like it if we could do it again,” Montalvo said. “Really.”

  Ana was about to leave when she thought of something: Montalvo was stranded. “Is … is Mocte coming back for you?”

  “I sent him home for the evening.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think … I’m sure the dean and his wife will take me back.”

  “All right, then,” Ana said.

  Maybe because she learned that they shared something in common, or because she’d had too many martinis, or because the moonlight on Montalvo’s face made him look—how you say?—dreamy, Ana allowed herself a small indulgence.

  “Or, um, I could take you.”

  “Oh, no. I would not like to impose,” Montalvo said, raising himself to his full height.

  “It’s no problem, but I have to take care of some final details, if you don’t mind waiting. Or, I could take you now and come back. Either way is fine.”

  “Gracias,” Montalvo said. “It would be an opportunity to meet your husband.”

  “Oh, no,” Ana said, the dreamy cloud suddenly evaporating into the night. She looked inside the building to gain her bearings. A tipsy woman with maraschino red hair was waving an unlit cigarette as she spoke dramatically to an amused circle of effeminate men, dressed in, how Beatriz would say, their “cultivated edgy-artist best.” A museum guard in a uniform one size too large watched la redhead. The woman would not light the cigarette. She enjoyed keeping the guard on edge. La redhead was trouble, but Ana was glad to have something to pull her back into the world.

  “He doesn’t like to come to these things,” she said. “He’s more of a beer-and-tacos kind of guy.” What Ana didn’t say was that Esteban had only come to a handful of these kind of things, and when he did come he stood in the corner, staring at the walls or into his drink, until he finally disappeared to wait for Ana in the car.

  “Oh! Did you ask him about the taquerías?” Montalvo suddenly remembered. “I am starving!”

  “You didn’t eat?”

  “I have discovered, as the guest of honor you do not eat! I would like it if we could find a taquería on the way. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Ana smiled. “I think we can make that happen.”

  When Ana reentered the museo she immediately approached the redheaded woman and waved her and her friends to the balcony. The woman, who seemed always ready for a fight, decided to go without an argument when she saw Montalvo also come from the balcony. She looked Ana up and down, giving her that “quién es esa?” look, before she turned to Montalvo and ate him up with her eyes. He nodded politely and quickly left the gallery. As soon as he was gone, the woman’s men cackled wildly and followed her out.

  The crowd had thinned and the pachanga was coming to its natural end. As Ana walked into the Montalvo gallery, Las Florecitas Fuertes were just finishing a song to wild gritos y aplausos.

  “Hey, they’re pretty good,” Beatriz said, walking up to Ana. “I think Carmen likes them, too.”

  “Carmen is here?”

  Beatriz pointed to where Carmen was standing against the wall, casually dressed in jeans and a light sweater. Ana walked over to her daughter and discovered quickly that Carmen was furious.

  “Where were you?” Carmen began. “I was looking all over for you.”

  “I’m working. And I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “You said to come, didn’t you? So here I am.”

  When was the last time you did anything I asked? Ana thought.

  “They practically frisked me at the door,” Carmen said from behind her curtain of hair.

  “I told you it was a dressy event. I thought you might at least throw on a skirt. Where’s Bianca?”

  “She couldn’t stay.” Mentirosa! Carmen was lying. Bianca better back me up if she asks, Carmen thought. She didn’t ask questions when Bianca suddenly had something else to do. And where was she that Sunday of the quinceañera fair? Probably with some stupid boy, ignoring her cell phone, Carmen thought. She’ll tell me when she’s ready to dump him or wants to start bringing him around.

  “When can we go?” she asked.

  “In a while. So, did you like the mariachi?”

  “They were okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Whatever. They were fine. Don’t they have any food at this thing?”

  “Carmen, you can see it’s almost over. There was plenty of food earlier. If you would have come then, you could have eaten.”

  “When can we go?”

  “When I’m done working!”

  “Watching a bunch of snobs get drunk isn’t work.” (Ay! Cabroncita!)

  Ana shot la muchacha an impatient look.

  “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ana said. She took a deep breath to calm herself as the dean and his wife came up.

  “Ana, we’re leaving now,” he said. “Montalvo tells me he’s getting a ride with you?”

  “Yes,” Ana said, watching her daughter, who had stopped to look at the Montalvo photos. Ana was having second thoughts. Carmen was in one of her moods, and she didn’t know what to expect from her. Would she be mute and sullen, or would she do or say something to embarrass her? Ana wished there was a way to take back her offer to Montalvo.

  “Ana has offered to take me to the best taquería in town!” Montalvo announced as he approached the group.

  “Don’t be silly!” a pinched voice said below them. It was Mrs. Gruber. “I have a driver. You will come with me,” la viejita ordered.

  “I’m sorry,” Montalvo said. “I don’t believe we have met. I am—”

  “I know who the hell you are,” she barked. “You’re all I’ve heard about all night from the university people, the museum people, the arts people—everyone has been telling me why it’s necessary to keep you here. I should like to find out for myself.”

  Everyone was todo edgy, including Beatriz and her husband, who had just joined the circle.

  “Mrs. Gruber, is there something I can do for you?” Beatriz asked, searching the faces for the reason why la viejita had left her perch.

  “No, I merely offered this young man a ride home. If he were truly as gracious as everyone tells me he is, he would have accepted by now and we’d be on our way.”

  Even Beatriz had no words. The dean leaned down to Mrs. Gruber and explained that Carlos Montalvo was very tired and needed to rejoin his daughter, who was waiting for him at his hotel. Ana’s stomach lurched. Mrs. Gruber didn’t like hearing no for an answer; she hadn’t been introduced to Montalvo the way she liked, and now she was—how they say?—irked. But what really set her off was Liliana Montalvo. No one remembered Mrs. Gruber when she was a young beauty, when her smile or the curve of her backside was as valuable as any endowment she funded. She couldn’t say how she felt. Instead, the force of her frustration was being worked into a wad of chingazos she was getting ready to spit at the dean. But before she could make that first hack, Montalvo put out his hand to the brittle woman.

  “You are very kind, señora. I am quite tired. If you are leaving now, I would be most honored to accept your invitation.” Mrs. Gruber looked at Montalvo’s hand, deeply contrasted against his snow-white jacket, and took his arm como la coqueta. Then, in her most educated, Castilian Spanish, she spoke directly to Montalvo and no one else.

  “Come along then. I’m tired of these ridiculous people. I would like to hear why I should donate thousands of dollars to keep you in this town,” she said boldly. “I’ve seen your work abroad. Tell me, why in God’s name would you want to live h
ere? Do you really think there are any students here worthy of your talent?”

  Montalvo looked at everyone and with a nod of his head told them that he would be fine. Their leaving would have been faster if he had swooped her up and carried her under his arm (which she would have loved), but Montalvo adjusted his robust bearing to match her mincing steps, listening to her closely and responding to her in his own well-pressed Castilian Spanish, complete with a lisp.

  “I am at your service. Ask me what you wish.”

  The two of them ambled off, and just as the elevator door closed Montalvo caught Ana’s eye and winked at her.

  “I don’t know if that was such a good idea,” the dean sighed.

  “And you talking to her like she is an idiot was?” his wife snapped.

  “I am so sorry,” Beatriz said. “I should have introduced Montalvo to her sooner. But I couldn’t wring him away from his adoring fans, and then he disappeared.”

  “I’m beat. Let’s just all go home. We’ll check in with him tomorrow,” the dean said, looking at Ana. “Make sure the old crow didn’t make a nest out of him.”

  Before she left for the evening, Ana made a point to thank the catering staff, the bartenders, and especially the museum guard tormented by the redheaded woman and her bunch.

  “Them? I see them all the time. They’re all show,” the guard said with a wave of his hand. “They act like they’re going to be bad, and I act like I’m worried about them. I wouldn’t have anything to do if they didn’t show up to these things!”

  Ana was relieved the night was over. Her feet were killing her, and she couldn’t stop yawning. When she and Carmen walked to their car, she wondered how Montalvo was doing with Mrs. Gruber. But to tell the truth, she was glad to have an excuse to call him the next day.

  “I’m hungry. Can we stop somewhere?” Carmen asked.

  “We’ve got tons of food at home. I’ll make you something when we get there,” Ana said.