We lived there two years. During that time my mother sold my grandfather's main factory and I was subjected to regular and increasingly routine doctors' appointments. Once a month my mother traveled to Mexico City. When she came back, she would bring me novels, Mexican novels that she knew I liked, old favorites or new books by José Agustín or Gustavo Sainz or even younger writers. But one day I realized that I couldn't read them anymore and little by little the books in Spanish were set aside. Shortly afterward, without warning, my mother showed up with a friend, an engineer called Cabrera who worked for a construction company in Guadalajara. The engineer was a widower and had two children a little older than me who lived in the United States, on the East Coast. He and my mother got along easily, and it seemed like they'd stay together. One night my mother and I talked about sex. I told her that my sexual life was over and after a long argument my mother started to cry and hugged me and said I was her little girl and she'd never leave me. Otherwise, we hardly ever fought. Our life consisted solely of reading, watching television (we never went to the movies), and weekly trips to Los Angeles, where we saw gallery shows or went to concerts. We had no friends in Silverado, except for a Jewish couple in their eighties whom my mother met at the supermarket, or so she told me, and whom we saw every three or four days, just for a few minutes and always at their house. According to my mother, it was our duty to visit them, because old people could have an accident or one of them might die all of a sudden and the other one might not know what to do, something I doubted since the old people had been in a German concentration camp during World War II and were hardly unacquainted with death. But it made my mother happy to help them and I didn't want to argue with her. The couple were called Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz, and they called us the Mexican Ladies.
One weekend when my mother was in Mexico City I went to see them. It was the first time I'd gone alone, and to my surprise I stayed a long time at their house and I enjoyed talking to them. I had lemonade and Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz poured themselves whiskey. At their age it was the best medicine, they claimed. We talked about Europe, which they knew pretty well, and about Mexico, where they'd also been a few times. But the idea they had of Mexico couldn't have been more wrong or superficial. I remember that after we'd been talking for a long time they looked at me and said I was clearly Mexican. Of course I'm Mexican, I said. Still, they were very nice and I started to visit them more often. Sometimes, when they didn't feel well, they would call me and ask me to do their shopping at the supermarket that day or take their clothes to the cleaners or go to the newsstand and buy them a paper. Sometimes they would ask for the Los Angeles Times and other times for the local Silverado paper, a four-page flyer devoid of anything of interest. They liked Brahms, whom they thought was both a dreamer and a rationalist, and only very rarely did they watch television. I was the complete opposite. I almost never listened to music and I had the TV on most of the day.
When we'd been living there for over a year, Mr. Schwartz died and my mother and I went with Mrs. Schwartz to the burial at the Jewish cemetery in Los Angeles. We insisted that she come in our car, but Mrs. Schwartz refused, and that morning she drove off behind the hearse in a rented limousine, alone, or at least so my mother and I thought. When we got to the cemetery some guy in his forties, dressed entirely in black and with his head shaved, got out of the car and helped Mrs. Schwartz out as if he was her beau. When they left, the same scene was repeated: Mrs. Schwartz got in the car, then the bald man got in and they left, followed closely by my mother's white Nissan. When we got to Silverado, the limousine stopped in front of the Schwartzes' house and the bald man helped Mrs. Schwartz out, then got back in the limousine, which immediately drove away. Mrs. Schwartz was left alone in the middle of the deserted sidewalk. It's a good thing we followed her, said my mother. We parked the car and went over to her. Mrs. Schwartz seemed lost somehow, gazing down the street after the limousine. We got her inside and my mother made us tea. Until then Mrs. Schwartz had let herself be led, but after the first sip of tea she pushed the cup away and asked for whiskey. My mother looked at me. There was a gleam of triumph in her eyes. Then I asked where the whiskey was and I poured her one. With water or without? Straight up, dear, said Mrs. Schwartz. Ice or no ice? I heard my mother's voice from the kitchen. Straight up! repeated Mrs. Schwartz. After that we grew closer. When my mother went to Mexico I would spend all day at Mrs. Schwartz's house, and sometimes I would even spend the night there. And although Mrs. Schwartz never ate at night, she would prepare a salad and grill a steak and make me eat. She would sit beside me, with her whiskey nearby, and tell me stories about her youth in Europe, when food, she said, was a necessity and a luxury. We listened to records too, and commented on the local news.
During the long and peaceful year of Mrs. Schwartz's widowhood, I met a man in Silverado, a plumber, and slept with him. It wasn't a pleasant experience. The plumber's name was John and he wanted to see me again. I told him no, that once was enough. My refusal didn't convince him and he started to call me every day. Once my mother picked up the phone and they spent a while telling each other off. A week later my mother and I decided to take a vacation in Mexico. We were at the beach and then we went to Mexico City. I don't know why my mother got the idea into her head that I needed to see Abraham. One night he called me and we agreed to meet the next day. By this time, Abraham had left Europe for good and was living in Mexico City, where he had a studio. Things seemed to be going well for him. The studio was in Coyoacán, near his apartment, and after we had dinner he wanted me to see his most recent paintings. I can't say whether I liked them or not. They probably left me cold. They were very large canvases, strongly resembling the work of a Catalan painter Abraham admired, or had admired when he lived in Barcelona, although to be fair, they'd been filtered through his own sensibility: where once there'd been ochers and earth tones, now there were yellows, reds, blues. He also showed me a series of drawings and I liked those a little better. Then we talked about money, or he talked about money, about the instability of the peso, about the possibility of going to live in California, about friends we no longer saw.
Suddenly, out of the blue, he asked me about Arturo Belano. It surprised me because Abraham never asked such direct questions. I told him that I didn't know what had happened to Arturo. I do, he said, do you want me to tell you? First I thought about saying no, but then I told him to go ahead, that I wanted to know. I saw him one night in the Barrio Chino, he said, and at first he didn't recognize me. He was with a blond woman. He looked happy. I said hello to him, since we were in a little dive bar, practically at the same table (here Abraham laughed), and it would have been stupid to pretend I hadn't seen him. It took him a while to recognize me. Then he came closer, almost pushing his face in mine, which made me realize that he was completely drunk (so was I, probably), and asked about you. And what did you say? I told him that you were living in the United States and you were fine. And what did he say? That it was a weight off his shoulders, or something, I guess, that sometimes he thought you were dead. And that was all. He turned back to the blonde and a little later my friends and I left.