But now, Viridiana thought it was definitely a good omen and that night, when they went to bed she stopped in front of the saint and made the sign of the cross.
Chapter 3
The guest room had white sheets and a white cover. All the walls were white, but the one behind the bed’s headboard was painted with red, yellow and brown circles. A curtain with a matching circle pattern hid a closet with built-in shelves, next to which sat a table and a white chair with a red cushion. A large, yellow pendant lamp with a chrome ring hung from the middle of the ceiling.
Viridiana set down her suitcase on the bed and contemplated the room. It looked modern, but sterile, like something out of a science fiction film. She could not imagine anyone living here. Viridiana’s room had posters of a couple of Luis Buñuel films which her father had owned before her: The Exterminating Angel and Viridiana. There were postcards from Paris and Madrid, also leftovers from her father—he had been in Europe for three months before he met Marta. The detritus of his life. And there were other bits she’d collected on her own, from newspapers and magazines. The picture of an actor or a model who struck her as handsome. A hairstyle she’d seen and thought to imitate.
But no one had ever lived in this room, it was an empty shell.
An egg shell, even, since the table was rounded and there were circles on the wall. She imagined herself lying on that bed, on her side, curled up, like the chick inside an egg. Embryonic, lacking a shape.
Viridiana opened her suitcase and took out her clothes and placed them in the closet. She hadn’t brought much, and she was done quickly. Then she unzipped her backpack and pulled out her tape recorder.
Several times she had thought to send the tapes to her father, so that he might hear her voice. But mostly she spoke to an unnamed listener. Like now, as she described the room. On the rare instance when she went to the movies in a nearby town she cut out the ad for the film from a newspaper and glued it into a notebook. She was still at that age when every experience must be catalogued, and she described the room with the vague notion that it might be important one day. That she might be important and her haphazard recollections would be of value to historians.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Viridiana said.
“Hi,” Daisy said. “I wanted to see how you’re finding the place.”
“It’s pretty good.”
Daisy glanced at the tape recorder and the microphone on the bed and chuckled. “I thought you were talking to yourself for a moment.”
“I suppose I was, kind of. It’s a sort of journal I keep,” Viridiana said, tucking away the recorder in a side table by the bed.
“I kept a journal, too, when I was a girl. But it had pages and I used a pen.”
“I had one like that too,” Viridiana admitted. “But then my father sent the recorder. He never sends any sensible presents, but all my mother and my stepfather do is give me sensible presents. New shoes, that type of thing, you know?”
“My grandmother used to knit a horrid sweater for me each Christmas,” Daisy said, sitting on the bed with her. “She really couldn’t knit, so the snowmen were deformed and the reindeer were the wrong color. No matter how much I asked for something else, it was always a sweater. What kind of shoes do they buy you? Are they chunky and horrid?”
“Yes,” Viridiana said with a chuckle. “Patent leather, like a little schoolgirl.”
“And black? And must you wear them often?”
“Yes, I have to wear them every Sunday.”
Daisy smiled. “Then you have it worse. I only had to wear the sweater on Christmas Eve.”
Like Gregory, Daisy had a beautiful smile. But it had a different quality. Gregory’s smile was self-assured, even vain. Daisy’s smile was magnetic. You knew, looking at it, that Daisy had been admired and well-loved wherever she’d been. That when she’d left a town, people had thrown her a party. That she’d promised everyone she’d send postcards, she told them she would be back as soon as summer ended. That she had laughed and raised her glass of wine as others toasted to her. And then they never saw her again.
“I know you’ve asked only for Sundays off, but if you want Saturday, too, so you can go out with your friends, I can see if Ambrose would agree to that,” Daisy said.
Viridiana glanced down at her backpack, tugging at the zipper. “No, there’s no need. I don’t have many friends these days.”
“Oh?”
“I used to. But then my boyfriend and I broke up. You could say they took sides.”
“That’s sad.”
Viridiana thought it was expected. Her ex-boyfriend’s family had more money than hers and he was well-liked. She, on the other hand, quickly eroded the patience of the couple of friends who sided with her; she was curt and annoying. She could not help it. She hated how Patricia and Trinidad looked at her with their soft smiles and their hugs, hoping to find her heartbroken, and taken aback when she wasn’t. They had been quietly incensed when she finally snapped and told them the simple truth: she could never see herself married to Manuel, she couldn’t stomach being tied to this godforsaken town full of mediocre, silly people.
They took that as a personal insult—as ultimate proof that she was a cold-hearted bitch. They took that to mean she was like her father, an outsider cruising through.
“I dunno,” Viridiana said.
“Maybe on a Saturday we can go to a spa and have our nails done.”
“There are no spas around here. But there’s a lady who cuts hair at her home and—”
“Of course there’s no spa. I keep forgetting where we are,” Daisy said, shaking her head. “We can do our own nails. Let me see those hands. You bite your nails! You shouldn’t, it’s crass. But, it can be fixed.”
Viridiana’s hands were indeed rather ugly, her cuticles a mess. She chewed and picked at them. Daisy’s hands, on the other hand, seemed perfect and the nails were long, painted a glossy red. They matched the car parked outside.
“I’ve never really done my nails,” Viridiana said.
“You’re kidding. I love nails. I have since I was a young girl. The perfect polish can perk up your whole day, like a new pair of earrings. You do have pierced ears, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Viridiana said, touching her earlobe.
“Good. We’ll have fun.”
Viridiana didn’t normally get this personable with the foreigners she worked for, but Daisy had that special quality which invites others to open their hearts. Within an hour she had decided that she liked the woman very much. She thought they might become best friends, that she could be like one of those lady’s maids in old movies. A traveling companion, merrily seeing the world together.
Ambrose, on the other hand, she did not like at all. He had told her to unpack several boxes filled with books and papers, but nothing else. It wasn’t hard work, but it was his tone that made her frown. He was used to lording others around.
On Viridiana’s third night in the house, Ambrose ordered her to get a notepad and start taking dictation. He had not spoken at all about his book, so it was the first time she was actually asked to do real work.
They sat in the living room. Ambrose was on the couch in front of her, talking about inspiration.
“Don’t take notes yet,” he snapped, when he saw her grab her pen. “We’re chatting right now. I’ll let you know when to take notes.”
Viridiana placed her hands against the notepad and waited. And listened. And waited.
Daisy came back with two glasses filled with ginger ale and handed one to Ambrose. It had three ice cubes, as he had requested. As far as Viridiana could tell, Daisy’s main role around the house was to fetch things for Ambrose. He could never be bothered to stand up and walk to the kitchen.
“What will your book be about?” Viridiana asked, because all through his monologue about the art of writing, Ambrose had given no hints about what he was working on.
&n
bsp; “Well... about a lot of things. California, for one. My life in California.”
“Then it’s autobiographical.”
“No, no,” Ambrose said, shaking his head and almost spilling his drink. He set it down on the coffee table in front of him. “It’ll only be inspired by my life. But it’ll have a realness to it, real stories, juicy ones. I know a lot of people. Big people. I have a lot of friends in Hollywood.”
Ambrose set a hand on Daisy’s leg as he spoke. His wife was wearing white shorts and a white t-shirt, but somehow the ensemble managed to look chic and effortless rather than plain.
“I even dated a couple of movie stars.”
Daisy let out a little chuckle. “Don’t let him fool you. Ambrose, darling, strippers are not movie stars.”
It was nothing but a little joke and Viridiana smiled at it. Ambrose did not find it funny. His face went very red, he narrowed his eyes and he lifted the big hand which had been resting on Daisy’s leg and brought down with a dry thud. It wasn’t a playful slap. It was a mean, harsh blow. Daisy winced and Viridiana opened her mouth, but did not speak.
Even if she had said something, she doubted Ambrose would have heard her because now he was screaming loudly.
“What do you know?!” he yelled. “What the fuck do you know?!”
Daisy did not reply. She clutched her glass of Ginger Ale, her body stiff, her lips pressed together.
“Always with your little digs. You think I don’t notice? I notice alright, I notice.”
He stood up and walked out, muttering words she did not understand. Once he’d left, Daisy placed her glass on the coffee table and sat back. She did not look at Viridiana, but she also didn’t turn her head. She simply seemed to pretend she wasn’t there. Viridiana had no idea what to do. Should she stay? Should she leave? Finally she rose, clutching the pen and notepad.
“You should ignore that,” Daisy said. “I do.”
“I’m… I don’t—”
“He’s not this bad usually. But he recently stopped drinking and stopped… the other stuff he did, and he’s a bit on edge still.”
“That’s a bit of an edge, for sure,” Viridiana said dryly.
Viridiana had seen men mistreat women before. She guessed it didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, a local or a foreigner, there were always men wanting to be all-important, making their wives or girlfriend feel like dirt, slapping them around when they got too mouthy. Still, it didn’t feel nice to have to witness. It felt like a rerun of those times her aunt’s ex-husband came by to make a scene.
Daisy smiled at Viridiana, but the smile was cold. “Go to your room. I don’t think he’s going to dictate anything tonight.”
Daisy stood up and left. Viridiana stared at the two glasses on the coffee table, the ice slowly melting.
Later that evening the couple was laughing, merrily going on with their lives. Daisy had forgotten her husband’s cruelties, or pretend to. Viridiana told herself that if a man was ever disparaging to her, she would not forget. She wouldn’t sweep it away. She’d hold it in her heart and notch down his cruelties. She’d bite. Hard.
Chapter 4
Daisy was mutable, that Viridiana learned quickly. Her friendliness evaporated the next morning when Viridiana found her in the kitchen, tossing oranges into a fancy juice extractor. Daisy did not acknowledge her when she walked into the kitchen, but she gave her orders all the same.
“You’ll need to go town for groceries, we are out of everything,” Daisy said. Her hair was wrapped in a turban. The look was effortless and chic, as if it had been thrown together in a second although Viridiana would have never thought of dressing like that in a pinch. “My brother will take you, he has a list of things we need.”
“Sure,” Viridiana said. She rested a hand against the kitchen table, unsure of what to do. She had intended to make herself breakfast, but Daisy was there, and she did not know if she could fry herself an egg or whether she should wait.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss my business with anyone when you are in town today, or any other day of the week for that matter,” Daisy said.
“I’m sorry?”
Daisy placed the lid on the juice extractor. “My husband. I don’t want you telling anyone about Ambrose’s little display yesterday.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know how people gossip in small towns,” Daisy said, opening a cabinet and taking out a glass. She placed it under the juicer’s spout. “I come from a small town, myself.”
“I’m not like that.”
Daisy stared at her. “I don’t care what you’re like. Keep your mouth shut.”
Viridiana nodded slightly and hurried out of the kitchen. Her bedroom was on the ground floor, the other rooms were upstairs, so she climbed the stairs in search of Gregory, but halfway there she bumped into him. He was carrying a camera between his hands and wore hip hugging jeans and a denim jacket. She turned around, he grabbed the car keys which they kept in a blue and yellow Talavera dish atop a table right by the front door, and out they went.
Viridiana got into the car and folded her arms.
“I thought we might stop to take pictures of sharks after we buy the groceries,” he told her.
“If you wish,” she replied.
“It’s an excuse to hang out at the beach.”
“We don’t hang out at that beach.”
“Why not?”
“People work there. And you didn’t bring a hat for the sun,” she said, looking down at her own hat, which rested on her lap.
“Are you mad about something?”
Viridiana shook her head. She wasn’t really mad, but she hadn’t liked the way Daisy talked to her. As though she was a small child or an idiot. There was contempt in Daisy’s voice, in her eyes. She wanted Daisy to like her. Had she already gone down the wrong path with Daisy? Was it impossible for Viridiana to be liked?
They parked by the town square. Viridiana pointed out the businesses. There was the bank, the pharmacy, the tiendita which sold everything from detergent to limes, the butcher. The post office was a narrow little space, and right outside of it sat a letter writer with a typewriter who would, for a few pesos, type letters for the illiterate fishermen. Marta’s store was not at the square, but a couple of blocks from there. Viridiana was glad, since she didn’t want to introduce Gregory to her mother.
“Most of everything you’ll get from Marciano,” Viridiana said, and she started to head in, but Gregory steered her away, towards the church.
“Let’s go here first. I want to take pictures.”
They walked in. Viridiana took off her hat. Gregory took out his camera and snapped a couple of pictures, but seemed disappointed. Not that she could blame him. The church wasn’t very grand. The eighteenth century colonial missions that remained around the peninsula, even the ones that had been sorely neglected, had much to show. Some contained precious objects of silver and gold, elaborate furniture, dragged by tired pack mules and deposited in a lonely, harsh strip of land. But this church had not been built until the 1940s and the only notable thing it possessed was a priest, since it was sometimes hard to convince even the most eager seminarist that he should move to a small town like this.
When they stepped out, instead of heading to Marciano’s, Gregory asked about the hotel which could be seen from the entrance of the church, it was a mere block away. She walked him there and he seemed more interested in that building. It was two stories high and although its carpets were worn and the walls stained, the exterior was striking enough: it was a pretty colonial-looking stone building. There were new towns and there were old towns in Baja. Most of the new ones were company towns. An American salt company had built Guerrero Negro, a French mining one created Santa Rosalía. Desengaño was never a company town, it did not have a single purpose. It rose, haphazard, chaotically, by the sea, but at one point an American magnate had tried to instill order into it.
&
nbsp; The magnate—Taylor was his name—had arrived in Baja California like many men back in the day: by air. Many towns in Baja had an air strip nearby to allow American sportsmen to swoop in on their Cessnas for the weekend, fish, and head back home. Taylor swooped in but he didn’t feel like swooping out. He saw potential for a hotel, for tourism, and so had built La Sirena. But while other people got lucky with their dream resorts, La Sirena went nowhere. Ten years after the hotel first opened its doors, Taylor shot himself in the head. He’d lost all his money on this gamble. Narciso Ferrer had picked the property and ran it nowadays. The hotel still had nice furnishings and its faux-mission style packed sufficient charm, but the jet set wasn’t exactly dying to stay there.
They walked back to the square and bought the groceries, Gregory wanted to know if there was a liquor store. There was, and Gregory bought three bottles of rum.
“If you want a glass of rum you can come to my room for it,” he said as they stuffed their purchases in the trunk. “Just don’t tell Ambrose we bought it.”
“Why not?”
“Daisy hasn’t mentioned it?”
“She mentioned he stopped drinking. Was it really bad?”
Viridiana got into the car. They had parked in the shade of a tree and, although it wasn’t noon yet, it was already too warm. That’s why Viridiana preferred the bicycle. Cars were stuffy, the plastic sticking to your rear. It was like rolling around in an oven. With a bicycle it would take longer to reach your destination, but if you were smart enough to carry a canteen with water (and when she rode the bicycle, she always did), you could stop by the side of the road, take a sip, admire the yucca or the ash-green pitahaya, and get going after a few minutes. She liked doing that, standing by the road outside town, observing how it stretched towards the horizon.
“Ambrose’s pastime was drugs. If he wasn’t snorting something, then he was drinking. But he quit a couple of months ago, he was finally afraid for his health, and he’s determined to live a clean, healthy life. That’s why we’re here. To keep him away from all temptations.”
Untamed Shore Page 3