“Before he left, we overheard our dad talking to a friend on the phone about a peacock ring that the brilliant artist Frida Kahlo designed. She loved peacocks and wanted it as a birthday gift to herself.”
“She was very ill at the time,” Lizzie added. Paloma thought about the wheelchair she’d seen in Frida’s studio the night before. “She was stuck in bed all day. Frida knew she had only a few more days of life left,” Lizzie continued. Her voice was filled with such sudden sadness that Paloma got goose bumps.
“Her husband, the artist Diego Rivera, gave her the stones and helped her make the ring since she was so sick, but then she died and the ring disappeared.”
“Disappeared? How?” Paloma asked.
“That’s the mystery. No one knows. When Frida died, Diego was devastated. He said it was like the worst, most tragic day of his life. He locked up some of her jewelry and clothes in a room at Casa Azul and refused to let anyone inside.”
“Why?”
“No sé. I don’t know. Before Diego died, he asked a close friend named Dolores to make sure the room remained locked. It stayed that way until she died in 2002. A couple of years later, they found a note from Dolores that revealed the location of the locked room. At that point, the museum opened it.”
Paloma did the math in her head and gasped. “That’s, like, fifty years! I don’t get it. What was Diego scared of so much that he’d want to keep Frida’s jewelry locked up for so long?”
“Good question,” Gael said.
“Maybe to protect it and preserve it for the people of Mexico?” Lizzie said. “Frida was muy mexicana.”
“Muy mexicana,” Paloma repeated, liking how it sounded. She wrote it down on a note card.
“Diego made a list of everything that was locked inside the room. The peacock ring was supposed to be there, but when they opened it, it wasn’t.”
Gael passed Paloma a note card. “Here, I sketched it. The peacock ring was especially valuable because Frida had designed it herself. When Diego had it made, he used real emeralds that supposedly belonged to Cuauhtémoc, the last Aztec king, and blue sapphires worn by Cuauhtémoc’s daughters. The silver was from the mines of Taxco.”
Paloma gazed over his sketch. She had to admit, he had some mad drawing skills. If the ring was truly made from emerald and sapphire, it was probably worth millions. “This is cool, but doesn’t exactly sound life-and-death, you know?”
“But it is a great injustice, no?” Gael said. “If we find this ring for Frida and for Mexico, we’ll receive a reward! And you will be famous in Mexico, Paloma. Especially if we find it before Frida’s birthday on July 6. There’s going to be a big party at Casa Azul, and we could show everyone that we found the ring. That would be cray cray, right?”
“Okay, stop using ‘cray cray’ right now. I’m sorry I ever taught you that word,” Paloma snapped. She gazed over the peacock ring sketch. July 6 was a couple of weeks away. It wasn’t a lot of time. “So you want to find this ring just to get a big reward?”
“A huge reward. Cool, right?” Gael nodded.
Paloma frowned. Lulu Pennywhistle didn’t take cases to win rewards. She craved justice. Not the spotlight. Not money.
“Actually, we want to find it because it belongs at Casa Azul,” Lizzie said, sensing Paloma’s hesitation. “She designed it. It should be on display at the museum like the rest of her art.”
Paloma nodded. Now, that was a Lulu Pennywhistle–worthy reason. But how could she help them? She didn’t speak Spanish. She knew nothing about art or Frida Kahlo. Paloma frowned and shook her head.
“See, she’s not interested in helping us. I told you, hermano,” Lizzie said, leaning back in her chair. “She’s just like her name. A little pigeon who drops by to get a few fun scraps and then flies off back to Kansas and her huge mall.”
“What do you mean like my name?”
Gael laughed nervously. “She just means that your name in español is how we call the cray-cray birds that eat scraps in the plaza.”
Paloma scowled. Not only was Gael still using “cray cray,” but now Lizzie was comparing her to a filthy pigeon.
She had always been told that her name meant “dove.” Doves represented peace and love. At a cousin’s wedding, the bride and groom had released white doves at the end of the ceremony. That was the kind of “Paloma” she was. Peaceful. Loving. Not a gross pigeon. Had her mom been wrong about the correct translation of her name for all these years?
“Look, I’m not from here,” Paloma said. As soon as she released those words, she felt a pang of guilt. Her father was from Mexico. If he’s from Mexico … wasn’t she, in a roundabout way, also from Mexico? Paloma pushed away from the patio table. “And my mom has enrolled me in summer school. I don’t have a lot of free time. Sorry.”
Gael winced.
“We don’t need your help anyway, Kansas,” Lizzie said, grabbing her bag from the table. She stomped out of the patio and back into the house. Paloma could see her just inside the door, waiting for Gael. He gathered his note cards and stood up to leave, but hesitated.
“If you change your mind, you can find us near my aunt’s churros stand by the coyote fountain,” he said.
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
Gael gave Paloma a faint smile and stepped closer to her. “Do you want to know why I thought you could help us?”
Paloma looked down at her flip-flops to avoid his soft, sad brown eyes.
“It’s because that night at the reception, you were wearing a purple flower in your hair. I thought to myself, that is something very Frida.”
Paloma gazed up at him. Why was he making her feel bad about this? They barely knew each other.
“Then later I heard you say to Tavo Farill that you thought Frida was trying to tell us ‘not to be fake’ in our lives. I believe that, too.”
Gael leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nos vemos, Paloma.”
From the living room window, Paloma watched Gael and Lizzie walk out the front gate.
“What the heck does ‘nos vemos’ mean?” Paloma asked out loud.
“What, honey?” her mom asked from the computer desk.
“‘Nos vemos’? What does that mean?”
“‘See you around,’” Paloma’s mom answered. “Everything go okay? Gael and Lizzie didn’t stay very long.”
“They taught me how to say ‘courage’ in Spanish, and I taught them ‘cray cray.’”
“Why did you teach them … Never mind. I guess it’s a start, but I wish …” her mom began, and then let the rest of her thought fade.
“What do you wish?” Paloma turned away from the window and walked over to see what her mom was doing at the computer. The screen showed a picture of Paloma’s dad in Teotihuacán, Mexico, sitting atop the sun pyramid. Blue sky and fluffy white clouds hovered around him. Her mom clicked a button, and the printer hummed to life. As the picture came out, Paloma wished that memories of her father were as easily produced.
“I was hoping you would embrace this opportunity more seriously,” her mom finally said.
“Mom, it’s summer vacation. I’m supposed to be at the pool with my friends. Not here embracing serious opportunities.”
“Okay, Paloma.” Her mom raised her hands in surrender. “I just hoped you’d enjoy being in a new place, making new friends and learning Spanish.”
“Oh yeah, speaking of Spanish. Was it Dad’s or your idea to name me after a filthy pigeon?”
Her mom chuckled. Paloma didn’t think it was funny at all.
“What are you talking about? We named you after a dove.”
“Which also happens to be the same word for ‘pigeon.’ Gael and Lizzie also taught me that. It was a very eye-opening intercambio. Thank you very much,” Paloma said.
Her mom shook her head. “No, we named you after a sweet little dove. Hand me that silver frame.”
Paloma scanned the room, found the empty frame on a bookshelf, and handed it to he
r mom. She sat down on the couch.
“What are you doing?”
“I woke up this morning and looked around and thought it’d be nice to have some pictures of your dad here. He had always planned to bring us to Mexico. He wanted to take you when you were old enough to appreciate things, but …” Her mom’s voice trailed off.
Paloma was used to this. She knew the ending of that sentence. She’d heard it many times. Where did the rest of those words go? It was another mystery.
Her mom put the picture into the frame and placed it next to a vase of calla lilies on the top of the bookshelf. “Being in Mexico, even for just the one day we’ve been here, is triggering memories. I’m remembering things about your dad that I haven’t thought about in years.” She pulled off her wedding ring and handed it to Paloma. “Like my wedding ring. Your grandma gave it to your dad before she died. It’s red opal from Mexico.”
“Dad’s mom? Did you ever meet her?”
Her mom shook her head. “No. Your dad’s parents passed away before we met.”
Paloma felt the cool smoothness of the red stone. She had touched this ring many times. She knew it was a red opal, but this was the first time her mom had told her that it was a gift from a grandma she never knew. Paloma wondered how many more Mexican mysteries would be revealed in the next four weeks. She put the ring on her index finger, but it slipped off easily. She had a lot more growing before it would ever fit.
“I need to write this down.” Paloma pulled out a note card and pen. “Ring. Red opal. Mexican grandma. Got it. Continue.”
“Someday it will belong to you.”
Paloma stopped writing. Her mom’s words rang in her ears. She put down the note card and pen. She must have heard the story of how her dad proposed to her mom a hundred times, but she wanted to hear it again.
“Mom?” Paloma said with a yearning her mom knew so well.
“The story again? Don’t you ever get sick of it?”
Paloma shook her head.
“All my friends were betting that your dad would propose to me on my graduation day.” Paloma’s mom started the story they both knew by heart. “We had already been seeing each other for two years. Graduation day came, and there was no ring, no proposal. I was very sad. I thought he had changed his mind about me and—”
“After you had a big dinner with Gramps, Nana, and Dad … Get to the good part.”
“A good story can’t be rushed, young lady.”
Paloma groaned.
“Later that night, after a big dinner at my folks’ place, your dad went home, and I was super sad because he hadn’t proposed. My mom and I sat up and talked about it. Suddenly, I hear these guitars strumming outside and this wild screeching that sounded like an angry owl mating call. It was past midnight at this point. I go out to the porch, and there are two guys with guitars. Your dad has a bouquet of red roses, and he’s singing … really badly. All the dogs on the street howled at him. I think someone’s car alarm even went off.”
Paloma pulled her legs to her chest and laughed. This was her favorite part. Knowing that her dad had a horrible voice just like she did. Once in choir class, her teacher had told her to just pretend to sing with the rest of the group. Isha and Kate never let her live that one down.
“It was horrid singing, but it was the most wonderful night ever because your father got down on one knee, pulled out a box with this beautiful red opal ring, and proposed. The rest is history! The end!”
Paloma clapped. Her mom kissed the top of her head. “You’re a nut, you know? Why is it you always want to hear that story?”
Paloma handed the ring back to her mom. “I like knowing that he couldn’t sing, either. And I like that the ring is a memory. A memory I can touch that he touched, too.”
Her mom turned away like she might cry. Paloma often worried that asking her mom so many questions about her dad was hard on her, but her mom had always said that the day Paloma stopped asking about her father would be worse. At times like these, Paloma had learned to just give her mom a moment.
In the silence between them, Paloma looked out the window. A hummingbird hovered over an orange tree in front of their house. Lulu Pennywhistle had this joke about hummingbirds having to hum because they didn’t know the words to any songs. The hummingbird also reminded Paloma of the Frida Kahlo painting where the artist had one dangling from her neck. After a few seconds, her mom started tapping the computer keys again.
“Valor,” her mom said. “That’s a good word to know in Spanish and English.”
“Valor,” Paloma repeated, trying to get her mouth to pronounce it right. “Valor.” She glanced out the window. Gael and Lizzie were long gone.
Suddenly, Paloma felt ashamed. Her mom had told her that Frida Kahlo was one of her dad’s favorite artists. Had she made the right decision not to help Gael and Lizzie find Frida’s ring? The peacock ring was special to Frida. It was a memory, too. And if a ring was a memory and it was lost, didn’t it mean something about Frida was forgotten?
“Mom, do you know what a churro is?”
Paloma and her mom walked the three blocks to Coyoacán’s Jardín Centenario to try a churro. The park was full of families taking an afternoon stroll, buying balloons, and eating ice-cream cones. Paloma’s head swelled with questions about the peacock ring, Frida Kahlo, and the locked room. Now she just needed to talk to Gael and Lizzie. She hoped they’d forgive her. She wanted to help.
“Look! It’s the Fortune-Teller from last night,” her mom said. Paloma stopped and watched as the Fortune-Teller called out to tourists in different languages. Some of them stopped to look at her jewelry.
“Let’s go see what she’s got,” her mom said.
“How does a fortune-teller know all those languages?” Paloma pulled out a note card and wrote down the question.
While the Fortune-Teller chatted in a foreign language to a group of tourists, Paloma browsed the beaded necklaces, dangling feathered earrings, and a few silver earrings laid out on the serape. She listened closely, trying to determine the language they spoke. It was full of shushing sounds that Paloma liked.
“Not finding what you’re looking for?” asked the Fortune-Teller, startling Paloma.
“Me?” Paloma pointed at herself.
“Yes, you. The girl with the scowl.”
Paloma’s mom laughed.
“I’m not scowling,” Paloma protested. “I’m just thinking.” The Fortune-Teller’s gray eyes sparkled with specks of green, and she grinned with straight white teeth. “What language were you just speaking to those people?”
“Russian. I speak many languages because I’ve traveled all over the world, selling rings and telling people’s futures. Would you like me to throw the stones for you?”
“Throw stones? No, thanks, but can I see what you have in that box?” Paloma pointed at a wooden box, no bigger than a box of tissues, which was at the Fortune-Teller’s side.
“Paloma, don’t be so nosy! Lo siento,” Paloma’s mom said, but the woman waved her apology away and placed the box in front of Paloma.
“These are special rings,” she said. “I keep them close because these are only for the serious buyers.”
Paloma quickly sat down on the sidewalk across from the Fortune-Teller. “Special rings?” she asked. The Fortune-Teller nodded. “I could be a serious buyer. My grandparents gave me lots of spending money.”
A wide smile spread across the Fortune-Teller’s face. She opened the box. Inside the box were a dozen shimmering silver rings delicately folded around auburn, turquoise, and emerald gemstones. Paloma reached to grab one from the box but stopped.
“Go ahead, you can touch them, mi reina.”
Paloma selected a thick silver ring. It was large and round with intricate designs. She looked closer to see a small face carved into the center of the ring.
“That is the Aztec sun calendar,” the Fortune-Teller explained.
“Wow. Let me see it,” Paloma’s mom said. Paloma
handed it to her. A soft smile spread across Paloma’s mom’s face as she examined the tiny engraved ring. “You know, the first time I met your dad, he wore an Aztec sun calendar medallion. He wore it almost every day, but when you were born, he stopped because whenever he’d hold you, you’d pull it with your tiny hands and try to put it in your mouth …”
“I did?” Paloma giggled. It was another detail about her dad she didn’t know. She took out a note card and wrote it down.
“He stopped wearing it because he was worried one day you’d pull it off his neck and swallow it,” her mom continued. “He always worried so much about those things because you were a very touchy-feely baby …” Her mom held the ring between her fingers and trailed off. The Fortune-Teller’s eyes moved back and forth between them. Paloma knew they must seem weird. A quiet, dreamy woman stuck in a memory and her note-taking daughter trying desperately to capture the memory with ink.
Even back home, Isha and Kate had told Paloma to cool it with all the note cards. But that’s the thing with memories—Paloma never knew when they were going to show up. If she didn’t capture them right on the spot, maybe she’d never get the chance again. And she couldn’t help but feel she’d already missed too much.
“Well, your rings are beautiful,” her mom said, handing the ring back to the Fortune-Teller. “We should move along. We’re on a mission to try a churro. Not to buy a ring. Do you know where they sell them?”
“The best ones are made by Camila,” the Fortune-Teller answered. “Her stand is in front of the coyote fountain. She has a green umbrella. You can see it from here. Just take this path straight ahead.”
As the Fortune-Teller pointed toward the coyote fountain, Paloma tucked her note away and noticed a postcard sticking out beneath the Fortune-Teller’s serape. She squinted to get a better look. It was an image of Frida Kahlo and the beginning of a word that started with “FEL.” There was no way to mistake Frida’s eyes. Professor Breton had said that Coyoacán breathed Frida Kahlo, but was it coincidence that this Fortune-Teller was also a Frida Kahlo fan and sold rings? Lulu didn’t believe in coincidences. Moments like these were when Lulu always struck. She used her charm to put people at ease and pressed further for clues. The churros could wait a little longer.
Me, Frida, and the Secret of the Peacock Ring Page 4