Becoming Marta

by Canales, Lorea

  Marti arrived at the charmless storefront on Avenida Universidad. She shut her eyes in disgust. Was this the sort of place her husband frequented? She bemoaned the fact that she didn’t really know him after nine years of marriage. She had imagined him patronizing prostitutes in decent places, not lab assistants. No, in truth she hadn’t imagined anything. She occasionally heard him masturbate, and from time to time he still pursued her. Marti was not naïve. She realized that their intimate life left much to be desired, but a laboratory on Avenida Universidad?

  Walking in, she saw a dark, skinny woman with big eyes.

  “Are you Marisol?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re carrying my husband’s baby,” Marti said, looking directly at her, practically spitting out the words, as though she’d been chewing on them the whole way over and could no longer contain them in her mouth.

  “What?”

  Marisol hadn’t recognized Marti at first, but now she did. The blood rushed to her temples. What did she want? Why was she here? Would she harm her? What should she do? She’d never expected Pedro to tell his wife. She thought he’d just give her the money. She’d wanted him to pay, to take some semblance of responsibility. Marisol hadn’t yet answered when she realized that Marti de la Vega was crying. She took out an ivory linen handkerchief from a suede purse with gold buckles.

  “I can’t have children. Apparently, Pedro does not have the same problem. We weren’t sure. In any case, Pedro told me you want an abortion. How could you?”

  Marti looked at Marisol with such loathing and disgust that Marisol thought she might pass out. Her nausea, bad to begin with, tripled.

  “I have not come to lecture you,” Marti said, drying her tears. “I’ve come to tell you that you may not want the child, but I do. We were planning to adopt anyway. At least now the child will have my husband’s blood. I am trusting in God that you are not lying.” She placed a leather-bound checkbook and fountain pen on the counter. “Will two million pesos do?”

  Marisol wondered how much the rings she was wearing had cost.

  “That should be enough to start a business, don’t you think?” Marti said, scanning the squalid room.

  Marisol couldn’t believe it: two million pesos. But what was this? Did they think they could just buy the baby? True, it was an unwanted child, and Marisol needed money in order to get rid of it. They were offering her money to give it away. No, they were asking her to sell it. I will not sell my child, she thought. But she didn’t want it, and it really wasn’t her “child.” She’d told herself a thousand times over that she would be disposing of an embryo, a few cells that had mistakenly decided to multiply. This could be a good omen, one of those “things happen for a reason” moments. Pedro had arrived in his white Mercedes to save her from misery one last time. Marisol had gotten pregnant in order to give this woman the child she so badly wanted.

  “I need to think about it,” was all Marisol could say.

  Marti did not want her to think about it. There was nothing to think about—she had to have that child; it was the right thing. This woman could not be allowed to kill it.

  “Two and a half million.”

  “I’m not trying to negotiate,” said Marisol.

  “Neither am I. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. This country has laws, although some people might find that hard to believe. I’ve spoken to my lawyers. The life you have inside you is protected, and if you dare to harm my husband’s child, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your days in prison. On the other hand, you could take these three million pesos and sign some papers tomorrow at this address. It will not be an adoption. In the eyes of the law and everyone else, this will be my child.”

  Marti handed Marisol the check. Three days later they signed the papers.

  55

  The Suitcase

  Hunger gnawed away at Marta. Water. Water simulated the sensation of eating. There was nothing healthier than water. After the third glass, she felt like she’d throw up if she took another sip. It had happened before: foul-smelling water would come out, rancid water infused with her soul, her essence.

  She considered eating an apple but would wait forty-four minutes before doing so. If she ate too much on one day, her body craved calories the next, and it took twice as much discipline to restrain herself. She liked feeling her body anticipate the apple’s arrival. She had to make it last all day. It was easy in the morning, when she wasn’t hungry, but after a workout her stomach roared, and she needed to force herself to eat only what she had set out. Sometimes she ate blueberries instead of the apple. In the afternoon she’d feel completely lethargic. Finally, at night, as though a switch had been turned on, she’d get a second wind and explore the parties and the people.

  She lit a cigarette. People didn’t get it. It wasn’t about vanity. It wasn’t that she wanted to be thin. It had to be this way. Marta did not need anything. The emptiness made her feel complete.

  She spent a lot of time thinking about life. What to do. How to live. When to eat. She tried to quit smoking once more.

  She bought four of the largest suitcases she could find and stuffed them with as many clothes as would fit. She dialed Adriana, as though nothing had happened between them, and made a date for coffee.

  Marta was already there when Adriana arrived.

  “I’m returning to Mexico,” said Marta as soon as Adriana sat down. “I want to give you all my clothes. I really don’t need them.”

  “You think that I do?”

  “No. I’m asking you this as a favor in good faith. You can do whatever you want with them. The clothes are expensive. Sell them for all I care.”

  “You think I need your money? By the way, tell me how much it cost to rent the farm animals so that I can pay you. I don’t need your help.”

  “No, Adriana, I did that for myself. I’m asking you this as a favor. I have to return to Mexico, and I don’t know what to do with everything I bought. It would be stupid to throw it in the garbage, because it’s valuable. That’s all I’m saying. Look, if I behaved badly with you—no, let me rephrase that; I know I behaved badly. I want to apologize, okay? I need to take care of some things. I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I wanted to give you these clothes. That’s all.”

  “Fine.”

  “Take care of yourself, and take care of Mau for me. He is great, and I’m happy that you two found each other.”

  56

  The Lottery

  She put on a pair of jeans, the only ones that still fit her snugly, and some Ugg boots. She’d felt uncontrollably cold in her feet and hands, a chill that made her tremble and distracted her. She would have worn gloves if she didn’t already feel like a freak.

  She had prepared carefully for her return to Mexico and had every intention of doing it right. For once in her life she would do it all right. She was determined, no matter the cost. She’d gone two days without smoking. Fortunately, that automatically made her eat more. But she was careful not to eat junk. She carried almonds and dried cranberries in her purse. She started the day with an apple.

  She put a relaxing playlist on her iPod and listened to it four or five times a day, as often as necessary. Inhale. Exhale. But she didn’t plan to get hooked on it either. It was just a transition. Inhale. Exhale.

  It had felt good to see Adriana again. Marta laughed, remembering that Adriana had been offended. She was so sensitive! In the end she’d taken the clothes, and that’s what mattered. Marta wanted to travel with as little baggage as possible.

  She did keep a black diamond skull bracelet as a reminder that death is always at hand, and a moon pendant that made her feel watched over and loved. It was a privilege to be a daughter of the moon, and she did not want to ever forget that. She also packed the stole that had belonged to her mother, her running clothes, two pairs of jeans, and some T-shirts.

  She spent the last few days in New York walking the streets, even though it felt like b
eing inside a freezer. The biting cold worked like anesthesia, which was exactly what she needed. When she couldn’t take it any longer, she’d walk into a museum and pass the time. She had avoided museums because she believed they would remind her of her mother. She had only ever visited museums with Marti. But she no longer felt her mother’s presence in museums any more strongly than on the street. Staring at paintings on walls made her forget herself for a while.

  She visited the Frick and the Morgan Library. She enjoyed imagining their original owners. At the Morgan she broke her vow not to drink alone, ordering the champagne cocktail that the home’s original owner used to serve.

  She suddenly wanted a house of her own where she could serve cocktails to guests. She wouldn’t have such a grand library, but maybe an impressive collection of movies and music. Nah, these days everything fit on a computer. What would her house be like? Why had she never imagined it?

  Perhaps the fear of returning to her mother’s house made her think of happier options. She could not stay in that house alone, flooded with memories. The last time she’d entered her mother’s room she’d noticed, on the bookcase that normally had family photographs in silver frames, two wigs on faceless mannequin heads. One was light brown and styled in bangs, and the other was in a bun. They had used the third wig for the funeral, but its mannequin head remained there, eerily bald. She would take care of everything when she got home. She would sell it all, even the Diego Rivera.

  What had her mother lived for? True, the maternity clinics helped hundreds of women every day, but what about the rest? They should bury people with all their belongings like they used to, thought Marta. What do the living want with the possessions of the dead? Let them take it all with them; let them take it to the afterworld.

  Upon arriving in Mexico, she would spell out in her will that she was to be buried with her skull bracelet and pendant. She needed to leave detailed instructions for everything. Before, she’d imagined, perhaps stupidly, that Mau would take care of it. But now she would have to do it.

  She boarded the plane with her earbuds in. The gum between her teeth kept her from breathing properly. She took it out and rubbed it between her index finger and thumb, as though it were Buddhist prayer beads.

  She’d go to India to furnish her new home. She’d go to China and Vietnam to buy antiques. She’d use only the finest woods, certified as sustainably harvested, so as not to harm the forests. It would be a green house with solar panels and rainwater filtration. It would have a natural pool without chlorine, with lotus flowers to clean the bottom. Inhale. Exhale. She fell asleep imagining the house of her dreams.

  She was the first to get through customs, because she only had a carry-on bag. Israel was waiting for her.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  She’d have to fire him. Definitely. He reminded her too much of her mother.

  The ride home was insufferable. Everything was the same as before. It was obvious that the maids had taken pains to attend to Marta as her mother had trained them. The Lalique vase in the dining room had white roses. They brought her telephone messages on a silver tray, along with a glass of water on a starched lace napkin. She ran up to her bedroom and locked the door. It was the only room in the entire house that belonged to her, the only room with smooth walls instead of wallpaper, and wood floors instead of carpeting.

  Marta felt energized. She had slept the entire flight, but she didn’t know what to do. She paced the room like a caged animal. She plunked down on the black leather sofa and turned on the television. “Sony Entertainment Television” came on the screen with that pseudo-seductive voice she knew so well. She turned it off immediately and, as if she feared its engrossing presence, unplugged it.

  Her father had called her. He would have to wait. She didn’t have any other messages.

  She turned on her computer and went on Facebook; she had four hundred and fifty-three friends. What if she invited all of them to the house? Would they come? She could serve champagne cocktails. She’d throw a party like when she turned fifteen. It would be grand—pipe-and-hat style—à la Pierpont Morgan.

  The thought cheered her up for a moment. Then she grew restless again.

  She noticed the look of panic in the servants’ eyes when she left the house wearing only shorts and a sports bra. Israel tried to follow her for three blocks. Despite wearing dress shoes, a jacket, and tie, he ran after her, warning her of the danger, telling her to at least put on a T-shirt and pants, begging her to return.

  “You’re fired,” Marta finally said to him.

  What was the worst thing that could happen to her? A bullet through the head? She’d be grateful. Rape? Kidnapping? She’d have to warn them that only she could pay her own ransom, and only if the trusteeship approved the payment.

  She remembered Patty Hearst. Maybe she, too, could befriend the kidnappers and become a freedom fighter. She felt capable of planting bombs.

  She came to the third section of the Chapultepec Woods, the part known as El Sope, and ran laps.

  On the fifth lap a short, dark man started following her. Marta felt his steps behind her. She tried to keep a distance between them, but the man got closer. She didn’t want to turn around or make him suspect anything. He was closing in on her. He came by her side. She instinctively checked her wrist; she had on her father’s gold watch. She’d forgotten to take it off. Perhaps he was going to assault her. He kept running at her side.

  “Have you run marathons?” he asked suddenly.

  “No,” she replied. Marta was intrigued. If the man was going to mug her, he wouldn’t bother chatting. Or would he? Maybe he was a kidnapper.

  “I can train you if you’d like.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a trainer. I train people for the New York City Marathon. I take a group every year. We’ve been going for over ten years now. I trained Adriana Fernández. Do you know who she is?”

  “No.”

  “She won the marathon in ’99, when I trained her.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  They continued running in silence.

  “You like running, right?”

  “Yes,” Marta said.

  “I used to be a runner, but now I’m too old. Pardon me, but how old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “You’re at a good age. What’s your best time?”

  “What?”

  “What’s your best time?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never run a race.”

  “Well, I can train you if you’d like. I’m here every day from six in the morning.”

  “I don’t run in the mornings,” said Marta.

  “You’ll need to get used to it. It’s the best time. There’s not as much smog. First thing in the morning you get up and run. You can have coffee and a banana, but the important thing is to start first thing in the morning. I don’t recommend oranges, they’re too acidic—a little toast is better.”

  “I don’t get up early.”

  “Set your alarm,” he said, before picking up his pace and leaving her behind.

  She realized that he was checking his speed so as not to lose her entirely. She followed him. How could someone with such short legs run so fast? Marta watched his long strides. She ran as fast as she could as long as she could, her heart pounding. The man stopped, and Marta finally caught up with him.

  “What’s your name?” she asked with admiration.

  “Federico.”

  “Marta,” she introduced herself, putting out her hand and barely breathing.

  That night she set the alarm clock.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to all who read this book and who share my passion for literature. I wish to thank my husband, Dave Morgan, and our daughters, Ana and Julia. My sisters, Jimena and Fernanda. My parents, Ernesto and Rocío. Eugenia Aguilar, Socorro Carrillo, Araceli Uraga, and Flor Romero, thank you. Diamela Eltit and all of the accomplices at NYU, Felipe Hernández, Alej
andro Moreno, Renato Gómez, Rubén Sánchez, Margarita Almada, Carolina Gallegos-Anda, Javier Guerrero, Claudia Salazar, and Lina Meruane. Mario Bellatin for his transatlantic help. Thank you Sergio González Rodríguez, René Solís, Ricardo Ruiz, Inés Senillosa, Beatriz Blanca, and Miriam Morales for your readings. Thank you for your care, time, friendship, advice, faith, and company while I was writing Becoming Marta: Alejandro Rosso, Jessica Dayan, Diana Suárez, Andrés Ramírez, Florencia Molfino, Buzz Poole, Gabriella Becchina, and Ignacio Garza for his lovely desk. To all who were with me, thank you. The most special thanks to Gabriel Amor, who translated this difficult work, and whose talent and dedication shines through. He is the best friend and translator anyone can hope for. Thank you to James Fitzgerald, whom I met when I first came to New York and who had faith in me from the outset. And to my editor, Gabriella Page-Fort, who liked Marta and gave her this magical opportunity to become.

  About the Author

  Photo © 2012 by Arturo Zavala Haag

  Lorea Canales is a lawyer, journalist, translator, and critically acclaimed novelist. One of the first Mexican women admitted to Georgetown Law, Canales worked in antitrust and electoral law in Washington, DC, and Mexico before joining the newspaper Reforma as a legal correspondent.

  Since then, Canales has taught law at Instituto Tecnológico Autónomo de México, edited for the New York Times Syndicate in its Spanish news service, and worked for Felipe Calderón’s presidential campaign in Mexico.

  In 2010, Canales received a master’s in creative writing from New York University. She published her novel Apenas Marta (Becoming Marta) in 2011 and Los perros (The Dogs) in 2013. Canales currently lives in New York.