FRIDA HAD BEEN UP NORTH LESS THAN SIX WEEKS WHEN I RECEIVED HER first letter. Do you want to read it? Here it is. Look, she calls me Kity. It was her special name for me.
San Francisco, November 28, 1930
My darling Kity,
How you would suffer if you could see the way they treat your poor twin in this dreadful place, the City of the World. They’re such hypocrites, these San Franciscans! I feel like a performing monkey here. They’re always giving parties and luncheons for Diego, and I have to sit there and pretend I find their stupid conversations riveting. The other day we were at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Baker. He’s the president of a bank and is thinking of commissioning a painting by Diego. She was showing off her glittery new cigarette holder.
“Look how long it is, my dear!” she kept saying. “It was the longest one I could find. It has sixteen diamonds on it.”
“That’s not long,” I said. “My husband’s prick is longer than that!”
Mrs. Reginald Baker turned red as a chile and everyone else just stared as if they couldn’t believe their ears. Diego roared with laughter, but afterward he told me to be careful with these people, because we absolutely need them. He makes me mad. First he acts as though he’s thrilled with my comebacks, then he carries on about how I’m ruining everything. “Don’t you forget,” he tells me, “that we can’t go back to Mexico because the government will never forgive me for being a communist hero who fights for the people. They might even kill me, Frida. Maybe that’s what you want, so you can run off with that gringo lawyer who was flitting around you. Well, don’t count on it, bitch! He’s a faggot!”
I don’t know what’s come over him since we got here, but he’s more jealous than ever. He’s always accusing me of making eyes at some guy, and sometimes I don’t even know what guy he’s talking about. What I really think is that he doesn’t like it when I say something funny that attracts attention. He doesn’t like me to upstage him. He wants me to keep my place. Well, I’ll keep my place, all right. I’ll stay right by his side and play the adoring wife, because I have nowhere to go in this huge, horrible City of the World, although sometimes I feel like running out and jumping off one of those bridges that San Franciscans are so proud of.
Let me tell you, there are a lot of us Mexicans up here. Most are farm hands who pick oranges or onions. Everything grows here, Kity. You’d be in paradise, because there’s everything you like to eat. Of course, the avocados are not as good as our own, and the lemons are dry, not juicy and tart like the ones we get at home. Anyhow, most of the Mexicans who aren’t pickers are servants. The rich Americans treat them very badly, and the terrible thing is, deep down, they think all Mexicans are low. I’m sure they look down on us because we’re dark-skinned, even though they bow down to Diego because he’s a famous painter and a genius when it comes to fitting murals into odd-shaped spaces. He incorporates the architectural elements right into the design—but I suppose I’m getting rather technical for you, aren’t I, darling? Well, what I’m saying is, even though they’re nice to us on the surface, deep down, they disdain us.
I don’t know how they can reconcile treating their servants like shit and at the same time kiss up to Diego as though he’s Jesus Christ with a palette. After all, we’re all Mexicans, aren’t we? Do you understand what “reconcile” means, precious Kity? It means “bring together” or “make compatible.”
Diego is very busy. He is going to paint murals in the San Francisco Stock Exchange Luncheon Club and also at the California School of Fine Arts. We’re staying with Ralph Stackpole, a sculptor who has a big studio on Montgomery Street. There’s another couple here, Lucile and Arnold Blanch. He is a sculptor and she is a painter. I avoid talking to them about art, though, because I’m afraid I might forget myself and say something that makes them mad, and we might need these people someday.
Precious Kity, I am going to say good-bye now. I hope this letter was not too tedious for you. Please give my love to Mami and Papá, to Maty and Adri, and, of course, to my darling little Toño and Isolda. I miss you very much and I love you,
Frida
No, you’re absolutely wrong. I felt no satisfaction at all. Why should I have been happy that Diego was mistreating my sister?
Everyone was wining and dining Diego, taking him to parties and to picnics in the country. They even took him to a football game. Frida says American football is a ridiculous sport. Also, he gave lectures. There were a lot of Americans who believed in communism in those days because of the Depression, and when Diego talked about the role of the artist in bringing about social justice, people showed up in droves—intellectuals, artists, workers, all kinds of people. Frida went along, the silent, admiring bride, so dainty, so beautiful. She was playing her part.
She sent us postcards showing acres of orange trees, purple foothills, interminable bridges, graceful and dramatic. She sent back magnificent silks from Chinatown, which she had made into the most unusual Tehuana outfits. She sent me back these jade earrings, see? I always keep them in this box, with her letters. But was she happy? Just look at this letter.
San Francisco, February 1, 1931
My dearest Kity,
I hope this finds you all well. I am having a wonderful time, in spite of the fact that this place is very dreary. So many people are poor, not only the Mexican workers, but huge numbers of whites who stand in breadlines for hours just to get a few crumbs. In the meantime, the people on Telegraph Hill live in mansions and dine on caviar and quail’s eggs. But in spite of the horror, I find pleasure in my everyday existence.
Diego is at work on the Stock Exchange mural, so I have plenty of time to roam the streets and explore. I love to take the cable cars up and down the hills. Some streets are so steep that you feel as though you’re walking up a wall, as though if you turn around and look down, you’ll drop like a glass ornament and shatter into a million pieces. When the trolley takes off, I hold my breath and force myself to keep my eyes open. At first, I was afraid, because I would remember my accident years ago, but now I find it exhilarating, like a roller-coaster ride. Another thing I love to do is wander around the Chinese section. The Chinese children are so lovely, all decked out in colorful outfits—some purple, some orange, some pink, some red—like candied ices. I would like to eat them up!
When I walk down the street, everyone stops and looks at me because of my beautiful Tehuana skirts. No one here has seen anything like them. Complete strangers come up and talk to me, and I answer them in English. I’m getting more and more fluent! You wouldn’t believe it if you could see how well your little sister prattles gringo. Here are my favorite words: dick, shit, pussy, ass, and my all-time favorite, fuck. Repeat them a few times every day, darling, so that we’ll be able to speak gringo together when I get back. With Diego’s friends I don’t get that much practice because everyone wants to talk with him, even though he doesn’t even speak English. I just sort of stand there and smile.
I can’t do too much walking because my right foot has been bothering me again. I don’t know what’s the matter with it. It’s like a boat that wants to float off in its own direction. It turns outward, you see, and it’s such a strain to make it go where I want it to that sometimes I just give up. But not very often! And my sweetheart, I have the most wonderful news! I met a famous doctor here, Leo Eloesser, who is sure he will be able to help me. He’s a dear person. I’m going to do a portrait of him when I begin to paint again. He has looked at my back and tells me I have severe scoliosis. That means a crooked spine, darling. He also tells me I have a missing vertebral disk, which is terrible news, but the good thing is that they are very advanced here in medicine, and if Dr. Eloesser operates, I’m sure he’ll leave me as good as new. And then I’ll race Toñito from the pulquería to the park and back again!
Also, guess who else I met! Cristi, you’ll never believe it: Edward Weston, the great photographer, the one who was Tina’s lover for so long. I’ve always been curious about him. Tina talked about him so much. She once told me he was as sensitive as a rose petal, as passionate as a windstorm. [Look, here you can see that Frida drew delicate little flower petals and puffing clouds with fiery eyes!] I didn’t know what to expect, especially since he and Diego had both screwed Tina, but it turned out to be wonderful, darling, because between them, Weston and Diego generate an exquisite tension. Weston is so handsome, with the most sensuous eyes. He and I did nothing but flirt in the most brazen way, and Diego just ate it up. Weston took a picture of Diego and me. I can’t wait for you to see it.
Last month we went to New York, the capital of the world, the lunatic asylum of the universe, because Diego’s show at the Museum of Modern Art was opening. The Americans kissed his cheeks right and left—not the cheeks of his face, of course. He showed some of his paintings of Zapata, agrarian reform, all Marxist ideology stuff, and they just lapped it up. Imagine, these fancy hags in their long, brocade dresses with rods up their asses, ooing and ahing, all pretending to be friends of the suffering peasants. They like to champion the masses, you see, because it makes them feel less guilty about their poodles with diamond tiaras and their gold-trimmed Daimlers. American guilt. You see it everywhere. In the way they adore the lustiness of Mexican art, in the way they pretend they don’t notice that Diego and I aren’t white. “Oh, my dear, just look at the robustness of those figures! So earthy! So authentic! So sincere!” “And do look at Rivera’s little wife. Isn’t she perfect, with her darling little native costumes!” I didn’t talk to any of them, I just stayed close to Diego and let him patter away in French, oblivious to the fact that no one understands a word he’s saying.
These Americans have such awful taste. You should see what Mrs. Alice Bricker was wearing, the one who invited us to her penthouse the night after the opening. A perfectly wretched draped gown with ruffles at the shoulders and a huge bow behind, pale pink. She looked like a fifty-year-old schoolgirl. And her friend, Mrs. Fitch, in her layered pajamas that turned her into a walking version of the Chrysler Building!
You can imagine how exhausted I am, precious Kity, going to one party after the other. Everyone wants to meet us. We travel constantly and I see new things every day. Imagine, the Empire State Building, a monument to modernity! Diego loves it. I’d like to get married again, way up on the top floor! Now that we’re back in San Francisco, on top of everything there are important political rallies that we simply must go to, because the people worship Diego, they absolutely worship him.
Oh, darling Kity, why am I lying to you, my own sister? It’s not going wonderfully at all. Diego is gone for days at a time, and you can guess why, can’t you? He says he’s doing research for his new mural, but the only research he’s doing is between the legs of his new model, the glamorous, athletic, white-skinned Venus, Helen Wills. She’s a famous tennis champion, and Diego is making her an allegory of California in his painting. He follows her around everywhere. Supposedly, he has to see her in action to get a sense of the fluidity of her movements. He’s seen her in action, all right. I can just imagine what goes on at their practice sessions: “Take off your blouse, darling, and serve again! That’s right, now lift your arms, turn toward me. Now take off your panties and show me your lob!” You should see the nude he’s doing of her. Up there hovering on the ceiling like a winged forest nymph, like the moon goddess Artemis. What she really reminds me of is a skinned vulture.
A man like Diego has to have his distractions, I guess, but the thing is, I’m so lonely, my little Kity. If only you and Toñito and Isoldita were here with me. Diego is always surrounded by people—assistants, students, admirers, hangers-on. Everyone fawns on him, and nobody pays any attention to your poor little twin. I mean, of course they do—Diego introduced me to his entourage, and they’re always inviting me out—but only because I’m Mrs. Rivera, not because they really care about me. I have to be nice to them, especially to people like Al Bender, the famous art collector who not only got a visa for Diego, but also bought a lot of his paintings. People like that keep us alive. But really, they’re not interested in me. I’m just an accessory. Diego’s wife. Diego’s bootstrap. To tell you the truth, I don’t like gringos at all, with their faces like half-baked rolls and their complexions like oatmeal.
My dear Kity, how will I survive here? I know you won’t write back to me, but please save up all the news you can, so that when I get back, you can tell me everything, EVERYTHING, and we can relive those important moments I missed. Give Mami and Papi a big kiss from me, also my darling niece and nephew. To you I send all my love,
Frida
It’s true I never wrote back to her. I wasn’t that good at writing letters, and besides, I was busy with my children. On the one hand, I felt sorry for Frida, but on the other I thought, well, she’s finally getting a taste of what it’s like to be the other one. Yes, I admit it. I felt a certain satisfaction in knowing that, for once, she wasn’t the center of attention. I was going through a very bad period, living with my kids at Mami’s, with practically no social life.
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want Frida to suffer. And the part about her foot bothering her, I didn’t like that part at all. But let’s face it, in spite of all of her complaining, Frida was living it up—going to parties, meeting exciting people, riding cable cars, visiting Chinatown, dashing off to New York. So what if everybody’s eyes weren’t on her? She was still having a good time. But then I started thinking about something else—someone else—Helen Wills.
I had never seen her, not even in pictures, but I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Firm and athletic, with hair like moonlight reflected in a quivering sea. White, but an outdoors type. Would her skin be the color of fine sand or the color of blond wood, smooth and varnished by lotions? I imagined her practicing her backhands and overheads, wearing nothing but her visor and her tennis shoes, raising her arms to exhibit luscious breasts, twisting to show the suppleness of her torso, Diego’s eyes caressing her as she shot up against the clear, blue California sky. Radiant smile. Sparkling eyes. Gleaming teeth, all straight, the way gringos’ teeth always are. And Diego, licking his lips, swallowing in delicious anticipation, while he made sketch after sketch. What about the detachment of the artist at work?
I hated her, not for what she had done to Frida, but for what she had done to me.
What had she done to me? It was all very confusing.
Frida didn’t write for a while after that. She had started painting again, since she had a lot of time on her hands and often couldn’t go out walking because of her foot. She did do a portrait of Eloesser, one of her worst, in my opinion. He looks like some sort of cheap doll, his head too big for his body and stuck onto his shoulders awkwardly, with rubber cement. She painted Eva Fredrick, a black woman with tight, high cheeks and a rounded body. Frida liked blacks. She said they were like Indians—beautiful, intelligent, rich in culture, and completely neglected by the upper class. My favorite painting from that period is the one she did of Luther Burbank, a man who did experiments with plants. She transformed him into a plant, with a sturdy stem, wide-reaching roots, and robust green leaves. And then there was a kind of wedding scene she did of herself and Diego, with a banner over it, like in the old-fashioned paintings you see in haciendas, where she refers to him as “my beloved husband Diego.” She was getting good at that role, you see. The role of worshipful wife, I mean. “My Diego this, my Diego that …” Look at this letter:
San Francisco, August 15, 1931
Dearest, darling Kity,
I have to make this short because I’m getting ready for a big exhibition. Mine! Can you believe it? In New York! So much has happened since I last wrote. Summer here is delightful, although I haven’t been able to do as much hiking around the hills as I would have liked because my foot has been giving me terrible problems. Your poor little twin has such miserable luck with her extremities. How I wish I could be beautiful and healthy like you! Diego and I have both been working like mad, especially me, because I have to have everything ready for my show in a week. It’s all very exciting. Here in San Francisco everybody loves my paintings, everybody wants one! I can hardly keep up with the requests because we simply have to leave time for our social activities. I’ve gotten so much better at gringo parties, darling, even though I really hate them because Americans are such bores. They all have personalities like boiled white rice, speaking of which, no one here knows how to cook. All they eat is bloody red meat that makes you want to throw up just to look at it.
Last week we went to a dinner party at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Jerome Pattison, very important art patrons who have bought three of Diego’s paintings and may acquire another. She was wearing a pencil-thin silk sheath that was about three sizes too small, with a flowing organdy robe over it that she apparently thought gave her a kind of ethereal look. Actually, it reminded me of somebody’s laundry flapping in the breeze. Well, they droned on about workers’ rights and other stuff they know nothing about. I was bored to tears, just sitting there and sipping my wine, so finally I said, in a very earnest tone: “You know, there was a man who had an extremely serious problem.”
Everyone stopped talking and looked at me, expecting me to make some pronouncement on the plight of the unemployed.
“Yes,” I said, “a very serious problem.”
Every single eye was on me. The corners of Diego’s mouth were twitching. I knew he was struggling not to laugh.
“So he went into a pharmacy and he said to the lady at the counter, ‘I have this problem and I need to talk to the chemist.’
“‘I am the chemist,’ the woman said.
“‘Well, it’s very personal,’ he said. ‘I’d like to speak with a man chemist.’
“‘I’m the only chemist here,’ she said. ‘But you can tell me anything. I am a graduate chemist and completely professional. I own this business with my sister.’
“‘Well,’ said the man, ‘the problem is, I have a permanent erection.’
“‘A permanent erection. Hmm, I see,’ said the lady chemist.”
You have to imagine this, Cristi. Everybody was looking at me and giggling. They’d all been drinking for hours, and they were already more than halfway to the land of Bacchus. Diego was chuckling out loud in spite of himself.
“‘Can you give me anything for it?’ he asked.
“‘Well,’ answered the chemist, ‘let me consult with my sister.’”
Here I left a pause, Cristi, just to create a sense of expectation. Then I went on:
“After she had been gone quite a while, the lady chemist came back and said: ‘Yes, I’ve consulted with my sister, and we can give you two thirds of the business, plus thirty percent of the profits!’”
Everybody just roared, Kity. You should have seen them! After that, they all started telling dirty jokes, even the staid Mrs. Pattison, with her face like porridge. I told one after the other, and Diego sat there beaming. When we got home that night, instead of chewing me out for shocking his refined, high-paying benefactors, he threw his arms around me and said I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I love him so much, Kity, more than life itself. You just can’t image how it thrills me to make him happy. From that experience, I learned that it’s all in the timing. You can have them eating out of your hand if you just wait until they’ve got enough alcohol in their gut before you bring on the filth. Ever since then, the parties have been more fun. And it helps, too, that Diego is done with his mural and is more relaxed, with more time to spend with me. Maybe I’ll get through this Calvary after all, dearest Kity.
I miss you all so much, you can’t even imagine. Please remember your little twin in your prayers. I love you all,
Frida
It wasn’t true, of course. She wasn’t deluged with requests for paintings. She sold hardly any in San Francisco, and her show in New York was a complete disaster. Diego told me. I never told her I knew the truth, though. Never. After all, I loved her. I had to protect her.
Things get a little blurry at this point. Frida and Diego went to Detroit at the end of 1931, I think, or maybe it was in 1932. Diego had got a huge commission from this important American businessman. Ford was his name, you know, the one who makes cars. Not Henry Ford. Edsel Ford. What a funny-sounding name. Diego once bought Frida a car, and he bought me one just like hers. Ford wanted Diego to do some murals celebrating the car manufacturing business. That was right up Diego’s alley, because he was going to be able to show men at work, men with grimy faces and flexed muscles, the whole industrial thing, the masses, the proletariat, the nobility of sweat. Viva Marx! Viva Zapata! Diego loved machines, machinery, anything modern, anything that had to do with progress. What kind of a name is Edsel?
Well, they arrived in Detroit, and first off, they went to the Wardell, a hotel where you can live full-time with maid and laundry service and everything, but you can also have a kitchen and cook your own dinner. Frida hated American food. She insisted on cooking Mexican meals because she said the gringos made everything taste like wet plaster. They moved into this very classy hotel with all their stuff, Diego’s colors, Frida’s Tehuana dresses, Diego’s oceansized boots, Frida’s medicine cabinet, Diego’s booze.
“You know what makes it such a good hotel?” Bill Regginer told them. He was a guy who raised money for the Detroit Art Institute.
“What?” said Diego.
“They don’t take Jews.” He thought that was funny. Regginer did, I mean. He thought he was letting them in on some kind of inside joke.
But Frida felt like she’d caught an ice pick in the throat. “It never stops haunting you,” she told me later. “You can never get away from it.” The curse of Guillermo Kahlo, that’s what I call it.
So you know what Diego did? He went to the manager and said: “I hear you don’t take Jews at this place.” He spoke in French. Frida had to translate for him.
“That’s right,” said the guy. “After all, this is one of the best addresses in Detroit. We have standards to maintain.”
“Well, Carmen and I will be moving out, then, because we’re both Jewish.” He had taken to calling Frida “Carmen,” because Nazism was on the rise and it wasn’t good to have a German name. The guy’s jaw must have dropped two feet under the floor. Diego was the most important artist in the world, and it was prestigious for the hotel to have him there.
“That can’t be …” stammered the manager.
“Well, it is!” Diego laughed. “We’ll go up and start packing right away, unless you change your policy!”
“The thing is, it’s not really a policy—it’s just that …” Diego had the guy in corner and was enjoying watching him squirm.
“I mean, it’s not my policy … I’ll have to check with—check with the, uh, I mean, there’s a board—”
“Go ahead and check, but unless you’ve changed your policy by the end of the day, we’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
Well, the Depression was still on, and they needed the business that a name like Diego Rivera could bring in. The upshot is that they not only changed their policy, but also lowered the price of the suite from $185 to $100 a month. Diego considered it a triumph over bigotry.
Not long after that, they went to a dinner party at Edsel Ford’s house. “Full of bitches with satin sanitary napkins and their noses pointing at the moon” is how Frida described it. They all sat around talking about who knows what. Tennis, maybe. Helen Wills had just won the U.S. Women’s Singles Championship. Or maybe Chaplin’s latest film, or Gary Cooper’s. Frida would say things like “You saw City Lights? Well, shit!” And when the society ladies turned pale, she would say, “Oh, did I say something wrong? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say when something is fantastic? I guess I meant ‘Great’! My English isn’t that good yet.” Anyhow, they were at this party at Ford’s, and he was famous for hating Jews. Later, during the war, he rooted for the Germans. All of the sudden, there was a lull in the conversation, and Frida piped up and said, “Oh, Edsel, I hear you’re Jewish! Isn’t your mother a Jew from Brooklyn?” Well, you can imagine!
Of course I wasn’t there. I’m telling you what I think it was like, the way I imagine it.
Another time, they were attending a function at the Art Institute. There was a kind of reception line, and Frida was standing next to Diego in a silk Tehuana outfit with loads of jewelry and a ring on every finger. The society ladies would go through the line and say things like “Oh, I just love your husband’s work!” “We’re so delighted you and Mr. Rivera are here!” And Frida would gush, “Oh, thank you. Fuck you!” Afterward, she explained in her sweetest little voice, “Oh, I thought that’s what I was supposed to say! I thought it meant something like ‘You’re very kind.’ That’s what my husband told me. Naughty Diego. He’s just trying to get me in trouble!”
But if you think Frida was having a good time in Detroit, you’re wrong. Her foot was torturing her, and to make matters worse, she got pregnant in the spring. Why worse? Because she was in a foreign country, where everything was different—the people, the language, the food, the way of reacting to a pregnant woman. In Mexico, an expectant mother can depend on her sisters, her mami, her maids. I would have attended to Frida, watched her like a hawk, and made her obey the doctor when he told her not to drink or go to so many parties. But she always had to be in the middle of things, and besides, she didn’t like taking orders from anybody. Diego worked all the time. He had to finish those murals for Ford. Frida couldn’t stand to be alone, so she went out, she pushed herself, and—this letter is from the end of May.
Detroit, May 30, 1932
Darling sister,
I don’t know how to begin this letter. I would like to tell you that everything is wonderful, because I’m expecting a baby. I am! I’m expecting a baby! I should be deliriously happy, but oh, my dearest Cristi, I am suffering so horribly. I have strange thoughts, I see weird and terrifying creatures in my sleep, monsters with wings like bats and beaks like parrots that hiss and caw, that swoop down and snatch my child out of his cradle. I want to go back home, but there is no chance that Diego will finish his frescoes before September. The baby will be born in December. The thing is, I want to go now. Nobody here knows how to take care of me, and Diego doesn’t show the teeniest bit of interest in my condition. Whenever I’m nauseous, which is all the time, or whenever my leg aches, he stomps out and slams the door. “You had to go get pregnant,” he yells. “Now live with it!” He’s always snarling at me, he’s in a perpetually ugly mood. I don’t see him for weeks, he says he sleeps at the Institute of Art so he won’t waste any time getting ready in the morning, but who knows where he sleeps, or who he sleeps with!
Oh, Cristi, I hate this dreary city. The whole place is like a tenement basement, and it’s so hot that rats and roaches lie frying on the sidewalk. I wish I could die! Pray for me, darling Cristi. Communists don’t believe in God, but maybe he will come to my rescue anyway.
Your loving sister,
Frida
Something was eating at me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. This time she’ll have it, I thought. Dieguito. Little Diego. I never doubted that it would be a boy. The darling of Mami’s life, the apple of her eye. “Please, God, don’t let me die before I see Frida’s baby,” Mami kept wailing. Because she was very sick, you see. The doctor had told Mami that she had cancer, and she knew she might not live to see her new little grandson. She had Toñito, but he was only mine. The new one would be Frida’s. Everyone was carrying on so. “Against such tremendous odds!” “That little Frida is such a fighter, such a heroine!” And I admit it, yes, I was irritated, because Frida was in the United States playing the naughty but adorable little wife of Diego Rivera, socializing with the cream of Yankee society, and yes, she did love it, in spite of what she said, and I was stuck in Coyoacán trying to raise my two children and take care of Mami too. Well, I thought, at least this will clip her wings. She won’t be the crucifix, the Holy Grail, and the altar boy’s prick all rolled into one anymore. She won’t be Jesus Christ in lavender pajamas for a while. She can’t be the center of the social scene and take care of a newborn at the same time. She’ll have to stay home and take care of herself and the baby. Poor Frida, it’s true she suffered terribly because of her spine and her foot, and the pregnancy would only make her medical problems worse. I felt sorry for her. Of course I felt sorry for her. But still, I was suffering too. Mami wasn’t easy to deal with in the best of circumstances, and with her illness, she was unbearable. Pills, doctors, bedpans, vomiting all day long. And complaining. Constant complaining. Oh, if only Frida were there, Mami whined, everything would be better. Her darling Frida. The whole thing was wearing me out. I was a young woman, I needed to get out. But there I was, stuck at home day after day. I was glad to do it for Mami. I loved Mami. She was my mother. I owed her care and attention. The thing is, why didn’t Frida owe her those things too?
By the time I got the letter, the baby had already died. One night Frida started to bleed. Oceans of blood. Clots like islands. Diego went into spasms of grief at the hospital. The Monument Rivera suffering his monumental agony. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be nasty. I don’t doubt that he was really grieving, but not for the infant. If he was going through hell, it wasn’t because of the child, which he never wanted. It was the thought that Frida might actually slip off to paradise and leave him alone in that piss-filled, pus-filled city. “Perfumed caca,” was how Frida described it, “diarrhea garnished with parsley.”
After she recovered, Frida started painting again like a wild woman. I’m sure it was hard for her, because she wasn’t a very organized person. She would start a project, and then you’d say something like “Let’s go shopping” or “Let’s play cards” or “Let’s go visit the Soliz girls down the street,” and she’d forget all about work. But this time, she put herself on a schedule. She’d paint all morning, then bring Diego his lunch at the Institute because, of course, he wanted enchiladas and mole, not sawdust and dried paint. She’d cook it the night before. Good Frida. The dutiful wife. She’d sit there and eat it with him. And he’d pick off tortillas with that amphibian tongue of his and berate her. His moods were getting uglier. He criticized everything. Not her art, not her clothes, not stuff like that, but other things. Why did she have to have to go and get pregnant again? And why did she keep running to doctors? Why didn’t she stop complaining about her toe?
She made sketches of fetuses, just like the first time. Sketches of dead babies, aborting mothers. It was around then that she really started collecting dolls in earnest. She had always liked dolls, she already had quite a collection. Now she became obsessed. She not only dressed them and undressed them, she baptized them (even though she was a communist) and taught them their prayers and buried them when they died. Quite a few of them died, you see. She shrouded them in sheets or old shawls and buried them. I don’t know how many she left rotting under the ground in the yard of the Wardell Hotel.
This is her next letter:
Detroit, July 8, 1932
My adored sister,
You can’t know how much I am suffering here. Diego works all the time and pays no attention to me. He is still mad that I got pregnant again, and he is punishing me by never coming home. He not only sleeps with every pretty model and art student at the Institute, he flaunts his affairs, making me the laughingstock of Detroit. Oh, Cristi, why do I go on living? I desperately want a baby, but every time I mention it, Diego flies into a rage and starts to throw things. Yesterday the brass candlestick holder barely missed my head. When he walks through the door, it’s like a storm crashing through the apartment. Sometimes I think it’s better that he spend the nights in the arms of those blond dimwits. I paint to forget, but my misery is so intense.
I’m very sick, Cristi. I’m still bleeding, and my foot burns horribly. I wish I could cut it off! If only I could go home, Cristi. You and Inocencia would take care of me because you love me. You’re the only people who really love me. Diego doesn’t love me at all.
Please tell that old pícaro God to watch out for me, sweetheart. He’ll listen to you because you’re pure at heart. He won’t listen to me, though, because I’ve always been a black sheep.
Good-bye, darling. I’m counting the days until I see you again.
With love from your devoted sister,
Frida
Frida got her wish. Early in September I cabled her to come home immediately. Mami was dying.