19 August

The señora in the hospital all week; it seems very serious. They moved her again to the Inglés. It’s a long drive to take her lunch. On the way back today we brought food to the Painter in the Palacio Bellas Artes, where he’s touching up that mural after they put some electric wires in the wall behind. It’s the re-creation of the one that frightened people in New York so badly. Last summer the plaster boys made bets it would show monsters with devils’ heads, or worse. Seeing it now, it’s hard to guess which part is frightening. No monsters. Maybe the white and dark-skinned workers side by side. In the United States they require different bathrooms. But the Painter says no, it was only the face of Lenin, leader of the Russian Revolution.

The boys on the plaster crew are all different ones from last summer, so no one there today remembered Sweet Buns. That name is gone. Sometimes the past can vanish.

25 August

Señora Frida is still in the hospital. The house is both dull and chaotic, the blue side ruled by the monkey lurking on the stairs, awaiting the return of his mistress. He hangs by one hand from the stair rail, scratching his nalgas. The Painter, on his side of the house, is doing approximately the same. She is the center of everything.

29 August

The Painter is working like a madman in his studio. Candelaria refuses to take him his food or clean the studio while he’s in there, for reasons she won’t disclose. An acceptable reason would be: it looks as if a giant dog, after a large lunch of food, socks, paints, trousers, and pencils, walked into that room and vomited everywhere.

It’s no easy trick to clean up around him. The man takes up a lot of space. He seems to be painting landscapes. Unlike his wife, he does not ask for a servant’s opinion on his work. He interrogates. Yesterday: “How long have you been in this house?”

“All day, señor. My bed is in the little carriage house, shared with César.”

“I know that. And you used to be on the plaster crew. Sweet Buns, they called you. I’m asking how long you’ve been with us here in San Angel.”

“Living here, since last October, sir. Before that, two times in the summer when you had those gatherings and needed an extra cook. You hired me full-time after a girl left. Olunda recommended me to your service. Probably she regrets it now.”

“Why is that?”

A pause. “Modesty should prevent my saying it, but my bread is better than hers. Beyond that, Olunda views life in general as a regrettable contract.”

“I see your point. That’s enough for now.”

But today he launched a second interrogation, even more blunt. Beginning with: “Your name is Shepherd, and you’re a foreigner. Is that right?”

“Only one-half foreign, sir. Mexican mother, gringo father.”

“He lives in the United States? Doing what?”

“Keeping track of money in a government office. Building and road repairs.”

“I see. And are you trustworthy?”

“It’s a hard question to answer, sir. Saying ‘yes’ could prove either case.”

He seemed to like that answer, smiling a little.

“Half American does not mean half loyal, Señor Rivera. Your household is generous and inspiring. A worker could not ask for much more.”

“But workers do, every minute. I understand you’re a writer.”

“Señor, what on earth gives you that understanding?”

“One person. By name, César.”

“He does?”

“He says you scribble every night. Are you reporting on us to someone?”

César is a perseverant snitch. “It’s nothing like that. Just a diary of kitchen nonsense and little stories. Romantic adventures set in other times. Nothing of consequence, meant for no one else’s eyes.”

“César says you write in English. Why is that?”

“With respect to your old comrade driver. How does he know it’s English?”

The Painter considered this. “Meant for no one else’s eyes, including César’s.”

“You could understand the need for privacy.”

His toad-frog face broadened helplessly. “You’re talking to a man who smears his soul on the walls of public buildings. How would I understand?”

“Well, no sir. But consider how your wife views her art, something she does for herself. It’s more like that. But of course it isn’t art, these little notebooks, there’s no comparison. What she does is very good.”

“Don’t panic, I’m not going to fire you. But we have to start being careful about security. We can’t have a spy in our midst.”

“Of course not.” A long pause. Clearly it is important not to ask why. Does he want more reassurance, something personal? “About the English, sir. It’s a habit from school. They taught us to use typewriters, which are very handy, I have to say. But they didn’t have the Spanish characters. So a story begun in English keeps going in English.”

“You know how to use a typewriter?” He seemed quite surprised.

“Yes, señor. When the question of Spanish characters came up, the officer at school said no typewriter anywhere has characters beyond those needed for English. But it isn’t true. The one you sometimes leave on the dining-room table has them.”

“Those gringos. What jingoists.”

“That was the problem at school. You can’t get far on a story without the accents and eñe. You begin with Señor Villaseñor in the bath, reflecting on the experience of his years, but instead he is ‘en el bano, reflexionando en las experiencias de sus anos.’”

The Painter laughed, throwing a streak of blue across his big belly. Olunda will offer up some curses over those trousers. The big toad has a wonderful laugh. That must be what women like about him, besides the wad of tin. Not his face, for sure. But his joy, the way he gives himself up entirely. As he said, a soul smeared on walls.

The suspect was then released, carrying a pile of dirty plates from the room of interrogations. If César can read his name here, let him worry. Let him fret all day over Senor Villasenor in the bath, reflecting on the experiences of his anuses.

3 September

Señora Frida is back from the hospital, but not well. Both master and mistress are in the house now, requiring service day and night. Candelaria, forced to choose between devil and dragon, has chosen the one that needs her hair combed. Just as well, because the other devil needs a typist. The Communist Party has thrown him out over the never-ending argument of who is better, Stalin or Stotsky or Potsky or what. The other Communists won’t come over for supper and do his typing anymore. And the mistress seems angry with him over some private matter. Olunda has plenty of theories. Poor toad-frog Diego, losing people faster than he can paint new ones on a wall.