by Carrie Arcos
At the desk, I read the women’s name tags. One is Amy. The other one is Morgan.
Maybe I just imagined someone saying Leslie’s name.
I quickly drop my head and start to walk away.
“Can I help you?” a woman asks.
I turn and see a girl standing next to me. She moves her black hair to the side and I read her name tag: Leslie de Prieto. Her whole name spelled out in thick black letters.
“Um.”
“Anything I can help you find?”
I break out in a sweat. All the words I want to say to her return to the wound that’s marked my soul ever since I heard Dad whisper her name.
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
Now that she is real and standing in front of me, I have no idea what to do.
“Try me.”
She moves to one of the open computers.
“Well, um,” I say, following her. “I’ve got this paper.” I’m trying to think of what a college student would say and do.
“For freshman comp?”
Good. She thinks I’m a freshman. “Yeah.”
“Okay. So what’s your thesis?”
My thesis? I know what that is. It’s an argument for a paper. Suddenly my years of being in academic recovery are paying off. I may actually be recovered.
“If you don’t have one yet, we can just start with your topic.”
Or not. I’m in way over my head here.
“Neruda?” she asks.
“What?” I panic. How does she know my name?
She points to the book I’m holding—Twenty Love Poems. “Are you researching Pablo Neruda?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes I am.” I hold up the book as if it’s a trophy.
She types something into the computer. “Depending upon your research questions, we have most of his collection, plus multiple translations and biographies.”
“Biography,” I say. Anything to end this conversation quickly.
“All right, I can show you where they are.”
Before I can say That’s okay, I’ll find it myself, she’s walking toward the stacks. I follow her, completely stuck now.
“What made you pick Neruda?” she asks.
I cannot believe we’re having this conversation. Suddenly I feel like everything is wrong. What was I thinking coming here? I’m an idiot.
I say the only true thing I know in the moment. “He’s the greatest love poet.”
“Ah,” she says, and smiles as if she knows something I don’t. It’s a side smile, the kind that makes you want to know what’s behind it. I wonder how many times she and Dad exchanged knowing smiles. The thought makes me sick.
“He’s more of a political poet, in my opinion,” she continues. “It’s not as apparent in the book you have, the one that made him famous. But if you look at his canon of work, you’ll see what I mean. Though I suppose you could argue that even in his political poems, he’s motivated by love. Love for nature. Love for his people. Love for his country.”
The way she speaks reminds me of Dad, and I want to run. They probably discussed all kinds of writers and literature.
“Not to mention his love of many women. Amazing how history can just write off what a womanizer he was because he was such a great artist.”
Leslie takes me to the stacks and pulls out a book. “Maybe start with this one?”
On the cover there’s a black-and-white picture of Neruda as he is usually captured: later in life, wearing a hat and sitting with his legs crossed.
“Thanks,” I say. The only word I’m able to utter.
“If you need anything else, just let me know.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a card. “Also, I’m available for tutoring. My specialty is writing, so if you need any additional help for your paper, I’d be happy to.”
On the white card is her name, LESLIE DE PRIETO, in bold block lettering, followed by the words ACADEMIC TUTOR and her email and phone number. She walks away from me.
I need to get out of there immediately. When I get outside, I inhale lungfuls of air, trying to steady myself. I don’t stop moving until I’m at the Metro station, and my heart races long after I find a seat.
• • •
At home I research Pablo Neruda’s personal life, focusing specifically on his relationships. I discover he was married three times. How did I never know this? He also had many affairs. I have no idea what to do with this information.
It angers me that Leslie was right. But what angers me more is that The Poet, this great artist who wrote about true love as this powerful, life-changing force, was a liar. What right does he have to speak about everlasting love? How could he write such lines of pure conviction about one love and then betray himself with another on the next page? How can you love someone with all your being and then love another the same way?
I slam my computer shut and stare at Papi’s old collection of Neruda’s books on the shelf. The words that have been passed down from father to son.
My phone rings. It’s Ezra.
I take a deep breath and answer.
“What’re you doing?” he says.
“Nothing.”
The wail of a siren comes through the phone, so it’s hard to hear him.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Walking. Hey, you think your parents will let you go camping with me next weekend?”
Yes. Anything to get me away. Away from this house. This mess. All of it.
“Where do you have in mind?” I ask.
“Santa Barbara.”
DOWN THROUGH THE BLURRED SPLENDOR
The whole next week, I do my best to shake off thoughts of Leslie, thoughts of Dad, even thoughts of The Poet. The only thing getting me through the week is the promise of going away. That, and Halloween.
On Halloween night, I show up at Callie’s door at 5:00, like she told me. I’m also wearing nice black pants and a long-sleeve white button-down shirt that really needs to be ironed. I try to smooth it out as I’m standing on Callie’s doorstep, but she answers before I make much progress. She comes to the door in a long white old-fashioned skirt with a red corset at the waist and a white blouse that exposes both shoulders. Her hair is curled and pinned up in the front, and down in the back. A couple of curls hang over the front of her bare shoulders. There’s glitter all around her eyes, and her lips are a ruby red.
“Well?” She poses with one hand against the door frame, the other on her waist.
I take a guess, glancing at her naked shoulders for the one hundredth time in the last twenty seconds. “Sexy bar girl?”
“What? No. Oh, wait.” She grabs something from inside and bends to put it on. When she turns to face me, half her face is covered by a white-and-gold mask with a white peacock feather sticking up on the side.
I can’t think of who she’s supposed to be, but I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that it should be obvious.
“Um . . .”
“Christine. You know. Phantom of the Opera.”
“Yeah. Right. You look just like her.”
“You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”
“Not really. I mean, I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know the story.”
She rolls her eyes and smiles. “Come on in.”
“You should probably make a list of movies you’d like me to see. You know, so we can avoid your general disappointment,” I say.
Callie laughs.
We head to her room, and for a moment I entertain the fantasy that we are together and we’re going upstairs to make out. That illusion is shattered when she points to the chair in front of her makeup mirror.
“Sit, please.”
“What are you—”
“Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared.” I’m curious because she
’s all hyped up and I have no idea why. What is Callie planning to do with me?
She points to a black hat, cane, and black cloak spread out on her bed. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“The Phantom’s cape. But we have to get you ready first.”
“You mean I’m supposed to wear those over what I’ve got on?”
“Of course. This costume only works if we’re both dressed up.”
Callie opens her makeup kit and uses a wedge to start applying a light sand color to my face. It tickles and makes me sneeze right away.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. I actually sneeze too when I put this stuff on. But don’t worry. It’ll come off real easy when we’re all done.”
Callie bends close to my face as if to study her canvas. Her breathing is soft and steady like a summer breeze on my cheeks. Her blouse is open and reveals the slight line of her cleavage. I imprint the image in my mind so that I can draw her later. I imagine my hand running along the line, shading in the curve of her breast underneath her top. A flush rises in my face and I shift in my chair, hoping she can’t tell how she’s making me feel.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I drop my gaze.
“Your cheeks are a little red. Don’t be nervous.”
“I’m not.” I stare at her.
“Close your eyes.”
I do and she applies makeup around them. I imagine reaching for her, pulling her close to me. Her lips are almost on mine when she starts talking.
“Now, the Phantom is very handsome, but he was in a tragic fire years ago. Half of his face is normal; the other half is disfigured. The ugly part will be covered by a mask, but I have to make your mouth droop a bit underneath.” She touches the bottom half of my lip and my body trembles. I hold the sides of the chair with both of my hands. I stare straight ahead, trying not to look into her eyes.
When she’s done, she turns me to face the mirror. I look just like she described. Dark circles encase my eyes. One half of my face looks like it’s melting. My bottom lip is swollen like it’s spilling down my face. Even my eyebrows droop. The other side of my face is normal, except my skin is now a pasty pale color.
“You’ve turned my face into a living Dalí portrait,” I say.
“Exactly,” she says. “See, that’s why you’re so cool, Neruda. What other guy would know about Dalí? I like him with all his melting watches and trees.”
She holds the bottom of my chin with her hand and turns me this way and that as she checks her work.
“Not bad, Callie. Not bad at all,” she says.
I may not look attractive, but it’s definitely the look she was going for. Maybe it’s even a face she can imagine kissing.
She begins to loosely touch my arms, my chest, and my neck as she helps me with the costume. She places the black fedora on top of my head, then ties the cape around my neck and hands me the cane. I stand in front of the floor-length mirror on her wall.
“Ta-da!” she says.
A smile plays grotesquely across my mouth. The cape. The hat. The cane. I am the Phantom, but I’m also some twisted version of The Poet when he was young. It’s a little unnerving.
Women beware of the power of his words, because your fall will be swift and all-consuming.
Forget women. All I need tonight is one particular girl to fall for me.
Callie stands at my side and I touch the edge of her dress. Even though she’s a tiny bit taller than me in her heels, we look like we belong together.
“Oh. One last thing,” she says.
She places a white mask over the half of my face that’s distorted.
“Now you’re perfect.”
Downstairs we pose for pictures like we’re going to the prom or something. Callie’s mom directs us in all of these overly dramatic positions.
Callie turns away from me and I grab her arm as if I’m pulling her back.
Click.
Callie is on the floor, clutching my leg, and I look down at her menacingly.
Click.
In the last shot, I stand behind Callie, holding her neck with one hand as she leans back into me. My other hand encircles her waist.
Click.
Callie waves good-bye to her parents as we pull away from the curb. Then she finally does what I’ve been hoping she would: She wraps her arms around my waist.
I don’t care where we go. I don’t care what we do. I don’t care that I look like a psycho. I don’t care about anything except how it feels to have her arms wrapped around me and how her body molds against mine with each turn.
Callie directs me from behind, and our destination, the Walt Disney Concert Hall downtown, comes way too soon. I could have ridden with her forever.
“What’re we doing here?” I ask.
“Going to the movies.”
Of course we are.
She points up to a sign that says LA PHIL PRESENTS PHANTOM OF THE OPERA.
We get quite the attention at the will call booth. People think we’re part of the experience or something and ask us to pose for pictures with them. It’s like we’re those superhero characters along Hollywood Boulevard by the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Callie acts all coy, as if she’s both attracted and repulsed by me. I give the cape a flourish like I’m a matador and she’s the bull. One couple actually gives us five dollars.
Inside the theater, I notice most of the people in the audience are much older and dressed in really nice clothes. We are the only ones in character, and we get more than a few stares as we find our seats. Normally this would embarrass me, but the mask helps. No one here would recognize the real me if I passed them on the street.
The lights go out as the curtain opens and the low, menacing tones of a live orchestra play while the title credits roll in black and white on a huge screen.
Callie leans in and whispers, “With old movies, they always showed all the credits in the beginning.” It sends shivers along my spine.
The movie opens on a guy walking around a dungeon with an old lantern. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, and the next scene switches to the Paris Opera House, where they’re putting on some sort of ballet.
Even though it’s slow, in black and white, and there’s no talking, I’m drawn in by the live music. It kind of reminds me of the Hollywood Bowl and when they do the John Williams experience, where the orchestra plays music from all of his movies while scenes from them play on the huge screen. From what I can tell, Christine is an up-and-coming singer and a man named Raoul wants to marry her, but she wants to have a career. The Phantom, who lives at the opera house and watches Christine from one of the boxes each night, is also in love with her and has murdered people so that she can become the star.
We sit there in the dark, not even an armrest separating us. Callie’s hands are folded in her lap. I keep stealing glances at them, trying to work up the nerve to touch them. The closest I get is to place my arm down between us. We are now shoulder to shoulder and she doesn’t scoot away. We must be glued together because I suddenly find I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
When the Phantom’s face is revealed, it looks nothing like the makeup that Callie did for me. This Phantom has a pig nose—his nostrils are large and black. His face is a living skeleton.
The end of the movie has some crazy action scene with kidnapping and death and near drowning, and an angry mob eventually kills the Phantom. Christine marries Raoul and lives happily ever after.
We stand with the audience and applaud the philharmonic.
“So, what’d you think?” Callie asks.
“I’m glad you didn’t make me up to look like him.”
“Yeah, I like the musical Phantom makeup better. It’s a more romanticized version of the story. But what’s interesting about this movie is that th
e actor who played the Phantom came up with his own makeup. He was also the guy who did the original Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
“Cool.” I make a mental note to watch The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
We walk through the halls and exit through the large doors to the outside.
“Another fun fact of the night for you,” she says. “When the Phantom’s face was revealed for live audiences, supposedly women shrieked and even fainted. It was pretty scary for its time.” She giggles and hugs herself.
The night air is cooler now than when we entered the theater. I take off my cape and wrap it around Callie with a dramatic flair.
“Why, thank you, sir.” She curtsies.
“You’re welcome, m’lady.” I bow in her direction.
Suddenly, I feel bold in my costume, so I touch Callie’s corset. “I didn’t notice Christine in one of these either.”
She shrugs. “Artistic embellishment.”
“You’re a better Christine than the movie version.”
“Thanks,” she says. “It’s fun being someone else, if only for a little while, don’t you think?”
“Sometimes.”
“You can stop worrying about things and kind of hide a little from it all, know what I mean?”
I nod, realizing I haven’t thought about my family and the drama with my parents all night. I’ve been able to be a different person—one who is twisted and powerful and in love with Christine. It feels nice.
The streetlights have come on now, and it feels much later than it really is. Callie’s looking up at me, and I get that idea about kissing her again.
Suddenly she bends down and removes her shoes.
“I can’t wear these for another minute. They are so uncomfortable.”
“Why’d you wear them?”
“Because they look good with the outfit.”
“You should have worn your boots.”
“I almost did, but that wouldn’t have been authentic to Christine.”
She walks alongside me, heels in one hand, the other holding the black cape to her chest. Our steps barely make a sound.