Toxicology Read online

  Mexico was my first real lover. And as with all lovers, my relationship to it is complicated. I wasn’t sure I wanted to return to Mexico, but at the same time I couldn’t wait to be there again. Felix had planned it so that I would arrive right before the Day of the Dead. He understood it was my kind of party. Skeletons of wood and papier-mâché, stacks of glittering sugar skulls everywhere you looked. The air perfumed with the pungent smell of marigolds, chocolate, copal incense, bloody meat.

  Of course I stayed with Felix. His house was painted a vivid pink, crammed with books and paintings, pre-Columbian artifacts and back issues of Blueboy and the New Yorker. It was lovely but a little too private, located at the far end of town on a steep, winding road that ran all the way down to the market. Felix had assembled his own Day of the Dead altar in the living room. Seashells, candles, a toy airplane, a bowl of fruit, a bottle of tequila reposado, and a vase filled with orange marigolds were set before framed sepia photographs of his deceased grandparents and parents and a framed snapshot of his younger sister, Alma, who had drowned while swimming in the ocean at the age of fourteen. In the center was a black-and-white portrait of Felix’s great love, the Argentine poet Guillermo Ford. Ford had lived with Felix from the age of twenty until his death in a fiery plane crash over the Andes at forty-five. Felix flew to Buenos Aires to identify and claim Guillermo’s body, since Guillermo’s fascist family wanted nothing more to do with their faggot poet of a son. Felix described what was left of Guillermo as “a slab of black coal.”

  But don’t get me wrong. Ixtlala’s macabre atmosphere suited me fine. I’ve been thinking about death all my life; I’ve never been afraid of it. Dry your tears, dispense with the grief, and throw a party. Bring on the mariachis, the boleros, and tequila. Get ready for the cleaning of graves, the singing, the sweets. Let us all die Mexican.

  What the hell. I was so happy hanging out with Felix in Ixtlala, I went a little crazy and drank and ate too much while I was there. Ran into my fair share of shamans and stray dogs but never made it to the spooky pyramid. The only scorpion I came across was a goofy totem made of beaten copper, installed to look like it was crawling up the side of someone’s house. Every time I walked down to the plaza, I’d pause to look at it.

  So who lives in that house? I finally asked Felix.

  A pair of unhappy artists.

  And?

  And nothing.

  We were drinking mezcal and snorting some really fine cocaine that Ángel had scored at my behest. Actually, Felix stuck to mezcal and abstained from the powder. He hated coke. He considered it a nasty, insidious drug and—having given up on me long ago—kept lecturing Ángel about its evils. Ángel Miranda was Felix’s new find—a gorgeous, moody nineteen-year-old college dropout and former waiter at La Fonda—with bright, hungry eyes and a stocky, muscular swimmer’s body. Fat, balding Felix was obsessed. So much so that he’d gone on a crash diet and was seriously considering hair transplants and a face-lift. Felix certainly had the money to spend on surgical improvements. He joked with me once about wanting to adopt Ángel. I want to take care of him, even after I’m gone. It was no fun watching a brilliant, tough-minded writer swoon over a little hustler. No fun at all. But I was the perfect houseguest and kept my mouth shut. Besides, Ángel Miranda had proved that he could be useful to me.

  The boy snatched the rolled-up bill from my hand with the most charming of smiles and helped himself to a couple of lines. Don’t overdo it, amor. Remember the last time? Felix chided him.

  Ángel did another.

  Felix rolled his eyes at me. Would you believe what I have to put up with? The boy never listens.

  Ángel wiped his nose with his wrist and gazed at Felix with contempt. And you, old man. You never shut up, he said.

  On my last day there, I wandered through the market in a melancholy daze. Purchased a little female skeleton for myself, which I still have. I call her Eleanor. She sits at a typewriter with a forlorn expression, badly in need of a bump or a drink. I bought a splendid bottle of tequila as a gift for Felix. A token, since Felix already had many splendid bottles of tequila in his possession. I was taking him to La Fonda later that evening. A good-bye and thank-you dinner. There was a lot to be thankful for. Felix—because of his literary stature—had secured quite a bit of government funding for my reading. I was flown in, fussed over, and paid much too much.

  My reading took place in the grand and gloomy Ixtlala Cultural Museum, a former sixteenth-century convent for Carmelite nuns. When Felix and I arrived, every seat was already taken. All the expats in town had decided to show up, along with the local artists and curious museum regulars. I started to panic. I can’t believe it, I said to Felix. There’s an audience. Felix rolled his eyes. I read the opening chapter of Little Deaths and excerpts from Eyes of a Jaguar, my voice quavering. I could feel everyone in the room looking at me and listening, listening hard. The applause after I read seemed sincere and went on for a long time.

  A group of sultry young vixens approached me afterward. They had taken the bus all the way from Mexico City. We are former students of Jocanda Fox, the most butch-looking one said to me in English. We have studied your work. How I wish Jocanda were here. How I wish you could have dragged her along. The butch girl smiled. She had a round, adorable face and dark, slanted eyes. I asked her name. Chiqui Rosa, she said. I apologized for not speaking better Spanish and flirted—shamelessly—with Chiqui Rosa and her pals. The girls were courteous and attentive, but I think they found me rather crass. Felix brought me a drink and a little dish of God-knows-what. Miniature flautas. Mango chunks on toothpicks.

  There’s someone in this room, I said. I feel the heat. Her energy.

  Of course you do, Felix said. You’re on the prowl.

  Everyone brought copies of my books for me to sign. I was too busy to notice Ángel saunter in. You’re late, Felix said. Is there any food left? Ángel asked with one of those endearing smiles. Clearly he was only interested in the lavish reception. He munched on canapés and helped himself to the fruit punch spiked with tequila and ignored us both. Felix had not eaten a thing and was quite drunk and furious by the time we left. We headed home in his old Mercedes. Ángel took the wheel. Well, I said, to no one in particular. I guess my reading was a big success. Felix let me have it. Why shouldn’t it be? You’re my guest. Did you expect me to fuck things up? You’ve got it all wrong when it comes to my country, Eleanor. Fiestas! Sugar skulls! Frida Kahlo! You think that’s all there is? That we’re a bunch of happy children? That we don’t read?

  Your country? Why not our country? I said.

  Chinga a tu madre, Felix muttered before passing out.

  Same to you, and shame on you, Felix Montoya, I said.

  Ángel snickered and kept driving.

  My last day in Ixtlala, I left the market and walked slowly up the hill toward Felix’s house. Savoring every step on that hot, dusty road, in no rush at all. I paused before the high adobe wall. The copper scorpion glistened in the late-afternoon sun. Next to the wooden gate was a little buzzer. I pressed the buzzer and waited. A dog began barking. The barking grew frenzied as the animal ran up to the gate. Then came the sharp voice of a woman, shouting in English. Tin-Tan! Benjamin! For godsake!

  I could hear the dog panting on the other side of the gate. So close. Sorry to disturb you, I said. But it’s about the scorpion.

  What about it? The gate flew open. A woman glared at me with gray-green eyes. Then she smiled. One of those arrogant, knowing smiles, instantly captivating. Well, well. This is an honor.

  I’m Eleanor.

  Delacroix, I know. I was at your reading.

  I’ve passed that scorpion every day, wondering who made it.

  I did.

  You must get a lot of unwanted visitors.

  Well, you’re not one of them. The woman extended a muddy hand. I’m Yvonne. Yvonne Wilder. Sorry, but I’ve been gardening. Please. Won’t you come in?

  She closed the gate behind me. A delicate
, pretty child with long, curly hair—Benjamin, I assumed—held on to the collar of a burly mastiff.

  Take Tin-Tan inside, Benjamin. Now.

  Who’s that?

  Her name’s Eleanor, and it’s she, not that. Benjy, please. The dog. We don’t want him biting our guest.

  Benjamin scowled. He won’t.

  Benjamin. Yvonne crossed her tanned arms.

  With great reluctance the child led Tin-Tan away.

  Yours? I nodded toward the black basalt fountain in the garden. Water spouted from the open mouth of a lizard.

  Sebastian’s. My—then she corrected herself. Benjamin’s father.

  A pair of unhappy artists. Everything fell into place.

  Anyway. Painting’s more my thing, Yvonne said.

  May I see them? Your paintings, I mean.

  There’s nothing to see. They’re in storage.

  I followed Yvonne into the large, airy house, which was hidden behind a cluster of flowering trees. I saw you the other night, I said to her.

  You saw me?

  Actually, I felt you in the room. You came late, sat in the back.

  Wish I’d known, she said. I loved your reading.

  Really?

  It was your voice. Hearing the uncertainty in it and then . . . It was interesting how it suddenly changed and became so strong. I was going to stay for the reception, but . . .

  Yvonne shrugged. It was a long, loaded moment of staring.

  I should go, I said. I need to pack.

  Leaving us so soon?

  Yup.

  Have a drink first, Yvonne said. I’ve got some fabulous mezcal. Felix says you can outdrink anybody. Outdrink him.

  What a gossip, I remember saying with a laugh.

  I followed Yvonne into the kitchen and watched her rinse the dirt off her hands. The cook—a plump young coquette whose name escapes me now—turned away from the stove and gave me a shy smile. Let’s go upstairs, Yvonne said. Upstairs meant her bedroom and terrace, which overlooked the valley of Ixtlala. Nice view, I said. The temperature had dropped considerably. Yvonne rummaged through the drawers of a big, heavy armoire for one of her shawls. Here, put this around you. We sat outside and watched the sun disappear behind the mountains. It grew dark very fast. Yvonne lit citronella candles to ward off mosquitoes. The cook brought up a tray with a bottle of mezcal, a dish of cut-up limes and salt, and two shot glasses. After she left, Yvonne poured us a round.

  You working on a new book? she asked, making me wince.

  I have to say, I really hate that question.

  So do I. But I couldn’t help asking.

  Why?

  I’m a fan.

  You’re not the fan type, I said. We drank and smoked cigarettes, pretending to be enthralled by the spectacular view.

  Where’s your husband?

  Living across town with his girlfriend.

  Fuck. I’m sorry.

  Nothing to be sorry about, she said.

  After a pause I said, You seem pretty calm about it.

  She gave another one of those dismissive shrugs. It would be hypocritical of me to flip out. I mean, I’m no saint. Sebastian and I—we decided it was better if he left. For Benjy’s sake. Just a sec—She disappeared into the bedroom and came back waving a big, fat joint. Care to join me?

  Nope.

  Yvonne sat down and fired up. Not your drug of choice?

  Nope.

  The marijuana smelled powerful. I watched her body relax in the chair. She took two more tokes, then put the joint out. This stuff is dangerous, she said with a crooked smile. So whaddaya think, Eleanor? New York? Chicago? Or maybe I should stay in Mexico. Get my own place. Build a sweat lodge. Fan myself with branches of sage.

  I don’t follow.

  We’re selling this lovely abode. Vaya con Dios. See ya later, alligator. Time for me to split.

  And Benjamin?

  My son goes where I go.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean—

  Stop with that “sorry” shit! Yvonne was in a fury. Agitated. Beautiful.

  I got up from my seat. Listen. I should go. Felix is waiting.

  She grabbed my hand. Stay. Have dinner with us. I’ll invite Felix. Why not? He’s an old pal.

  Not a good idea.

  But the fun’s just begun. Her face was raw and full of pain.

  You’re high, kiddo.

  So?

  Well, at the risk of pissing you off, I’ll admit that I’d like nothing better than to fuck you all night until you scream. In fact, this might be love at first sight. But I’ve got a date with Felix and—

  She burst out laughing. I expected you to be more poetic.

  Ever been with a woman?

  Her eyes narrowed. Does it matter?

  Depends. What do you want?

  That’s an interesting question, Yvonne said.

  I held her face with both my hands. Looked deep into her glorious, stoned eyes and kissed her. Let me call Felix and explain, she murmured. I had my hand inside her shirt. Never mind Felix, I said. She was not wearing a bra, and we were being very indiscreet. At any moment the child could walk in. She pushed me away and went back into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I helped myself to another shot. A few minutes later, Yvonne reappeared, triumphant.

  Felix declined my invitation.

  Really?

  He wants to hang out with that new boyfriend of his. Can’t say I blame him. I promised to drive you home.

  Ángel’s bad news.

  So what? He’s young and hot. Felix deserves a little joy and pleasure, don’t you think?

  What about you?

  About as fucked up as you are, lady.

  We heard the boy come up the stairs. Time to eat, Mum. In the dining room, a massive red table of carved madera de narra—another one of her husband’s pieces—was set for three people. We sat down. The meal was simple and sexy and elegant. Corn soup. A roast chicken. Avocados and lime. Everything tasted incredible. Tasted sexy. I couldn’t stop thinking of sex. Tin-Tan curled up under the table, by Benjamin’s feet, and let out a weary groan.

  Does your dog really bite? I asked.

  He’s vicious and brave and loves me and me only, Benjamin boasted. He turned to Yvonne. Isn’t that so, Mum? Tell her it’s true.

  True, Yvonne said.

  That’s pretty cool, I said. I’d want a dog like Tin-Tan if I were a kid.

  Well you’re not, the boy said.

  I wanted Benjamin to like me, and not just because he was her son. There was a sweetness and a melancholy about him. I don’t presume that children are naturally sweet and kind, but Benjamin was. Sweet and kind to his mother, to Tin-Tan, to the flirty cook whose name was Yoly or Yerma or something like that—it’s goddamn frustrating, it’s goddamn pissing me off how vividly I can recall details of that young cook’s face (which was heart-shaped, with a sexy little mole on the left side, right above her lip) but not her name.

  Well, anyway. Benjamin.

  He finished eating and turned once again to his mother. Is Eleanor spending the night?

  Why don’t you ask her? Yvonne said.

  ’Cause I don’t want to.

  I forced myself to smile. Benjamin—you know your mother’s friend, Felix Montoya?

  Benjamin gave a solemn nod.

  Well, he’s my friend, too. And I’m spending the night at his house.

  Benjamin looked as if he didn’t believe me.

  He did not want to go to bed. He thought of every excuse—including going down to the market to buy more candy to hand out to the children of Ixtlala who would be coming around with their plastic skull baskets. When Yvonne gently reminded him that there was already plenty of candy in the house, and furthermore the market wasn’t open at night, Benjamin burst into tears. The cook rushed out of the kitchen. Qué pobrecito, she kept murmuring as she stood by helplessly. Yvonne scooped Benjamin up and carried him to bed. I’ll read you a story, Benjy. I don’t want a story! Benjamin wailed, kicking and thrashi
ng in her arms. I hate you. I want Papa!

  Papa’s not here. So you’re just gonna have to deal with me, buddy. Yvonne shut the door to his bedroom.

  I brought my coffee upstairs and waited for her on the terrace. The muffled sounds of the child crying and Yvonne attempting to comfort him drifted up from below. I could not make out what Yvonne was saying. I looked around for the half-smoked joint. I wanted to get stoned, to stop worrying about what I was doing in this stranger’s house. A van was coming at the crack of dawn to take me to the airport in Mexico City. But who really cared if I missed my plane? There was no one waiting in New York. Time before time. Yvonne so close, so long ago. The crying in the house finally subsided. I wrapped the shawl tighter around me and looked down into the garden. Black. Everything was black, even the trees. I felt the heat of a jaguar’s curious, indifferent gaze. The black, balmy silence of night. Eleanor? I heard my name and didn’t move, waiting for the creature to howl.

  The Duende Speaks

  Ladies and gentlemen, the Widow Eleanor will never cook again. Not a complicated, pretentious meal like the widow’s attempting to cook tonight anyway. And for what? Watch the widow grimace while she shakes out her stiff, aching fingers. Watch how humiliating it is, this business of being old and alone. Not being able to operate a fucking can opener or uncork a wine bottle without weeping in angry frustration. Angry all the time! Where was the music and what the hell was E thinking, organizing another last-minute dinner party? She should’ve hired that humorless, stout little Serb—what was her name? Mattia—to help out for the evening. Stocky, impenetrable Mattia, who helped her wipe Yvonne’s ass, change Yvonne’s diapers, and give Yvonne morphine and Dilaudid, or whatever other sweet, soothing poisons the doctors might have prescribed. But with Y out of the way, E’s back to her old habits. E the widow, always showing off, flirting with bookish shopgirls and killing herself over some dumb dinner party that means nothing at all. And for what? Anyway, even if Eleanor had tried, she wouldn’t have found Mattia. The Slavic witch had never been one of those grateful “I like to be in America”-type immigrants. She pined for her beloved fucking Belgrade and never bothered to unpack her battered suitcases the entire time she was here. It’s only been, what—two years since Yvonne’s death? God how I miss her.