Durango, 1956
Was I That Baby?
Lola was down in the dumps and so was I. Let’s start with Lola.
The Golden Age of Mexican Cinema was over, she said, and the junk the studios were making—cheap tearjerkers and silly comedies—was nothing like the beautiful films of the forties—Flor Silvestre, María Candelaria, those films.
“Today’s audiences want foreign stuff, or else soppy Mexican melodramas,” she complained. “There are more American, Italian, and French movies in Mexican theaters than Mexican.”
“She’s been in a funk for weeks,” Lew confided. “She didn’t make a single picture last year except a botch-up mess called Señora Ama, directed by her cousin Julio Bracho.”
“Well,” I said. “Gatitas always land on their feet. I’m sure something will come up.”
“We do have our production company,” said Lew. “I was thinking we could work out something for Lola through that. Falmouth Theater in Massachusetts is always asking me to do a project with them.”
A few years before, in 1953, Lew and Lola had launched Producciones Visuales to provide the material paraphernalia for film and theater productions. It had seemed like a good investment at the time, but so far, nothing much had come of it.
“You mean theater?” said Lola when Lew mentioned it to her one day as they were having lunch on the patio. “I’m a movie actress. I can’t do live theater.”
“You can do anything you set your mind to, Lola. Maybe it’s time to try something new.”
She laughed and kissed him on the forehead. “You know, darling, I think you’re right.”
She got up and went inside, then rummaged through her desk and pulled out her phone book.
“What are you looking for?” Lew asked.
“The phone number of Stella Adler. If I’m going to be a stage actress, I’d better learn technique, and Stella Adler is the best acting coach in the business.”
I hadn’t been back in Mexico for two years, not since Frida’s funeral and my visit to Doña Elvira—two remarkable years during which I managed Marie’s beauty salon, planned Gabi’s wedding, attended Lupita’s graduation from nursing school and Lexie’s from high school, and helped Lexie with her college applications. None of my daughters would be a hairdresser, like me. None of them had opted for cosmetology school. Best of all, I became a grandmother! Lolly and John had had their first baby the previous June, and I took a leave from Marie’s to care for little Nicholas, the sweetest ball of giggles and talcum powder you’ve ever seen. By then, Marie’s son, Bobby, was doing better, and she was once again able to manage the shop.
So why was I down in the dumps? With all the activity back home, I hadn’t been able to return to Mexico to continue my search. Now that I was here, though, I planned to spend a week in Durango interviewing people who might remember the Morales-Pardo family, examining birth and death records, and ploughing through newspaper archives in search of information about the fire. Most important, I had to find out more about the laundress who had stolen Pedro Kehlmann’s heart. Was she really Miguela Ruiz, the betrayed lover from the ballad?
Lew and Lola were leaving for Acapulco in Lew’s car, so Lola asked David to drive me to Durango. I’d told Lola about my visit to Doña Elvira’s, and she understood how urgent it was for me to find out more about the mysterious laundress. David dropped me off at the Hotel Carlota, a grandiose colonial-style building with sweeping, arched windows, graceful balconies, and a massive front door of carved Mexican oak. How different from my last trip to Durango, I thought, as I looked around my bright, sunlit room.
I reviewed my to-do list: examine the church records in Canatlán, check the archives of the local newspaper, interview anyone who had known the Morales-Pardos or the Kehlmanns. In the morning, David drove me to Canatlán, but as I’d been told, the birth and death registers had been badly damaged during the Revolution. I did see that Gustavo Kehlmann had died in 1932, and that he was survived by one son, Mauricio. There was also mention of a son named Gustavo, who had died in the Revolution at age twenty-four, and another son, Pedro, who had died in 1906, at the age of twenty—it didn’t say how. In the Landholders’ Registry, Gustavo Kehlmann’s property was listed, but there was no inventory of his belongings or photograph of his servants.
In the morning, I set off for the library to have a look at copies of old newspapers. “For local news and gossip,” said the librarian, “you might want to check La Verdad. It’s more a monthly scandal sheet than a newspaper, but you might find what you’re looking for.”
What I found was mostly a mixture of political news and local gossip: June 1906. Labor unrest erupts in the haciendas, more than twenty peons killed and many more injured. July 1906. The mutilated body of Don Esteban Mendoza y Montenegro found dead in the coal bin of his manor. Authorities suspect his wife and her reputed lover, Bernardo Ortiz, the family physician.
But then: Pedro Kehlmann y Mendoza, youngest son of Don Gustavo Kehlmann y Abdendaño, was found stabbed to death at his father’s estate. Don Gustavo blames the laundress Miguela Ruiz, and has sworn to kill her and every member of her family.
So, I thought, Pedro Kehlmann hadn’t died of a heart attack or a disease. He had, in fact, been murdered by Miguela Ruiz. Laura had lied, but why? I thought back to the photograph of the Morales y Pardo servants. The name that had been scratched out began with an M and had a letter that extended below the line: Miguela. I shuddered. If Miguela was actually my mother, that meant I was the daughter of a murderess. No wonder Tía Emi believed my life was in danger. Gustavo Kehlmann had sworn vengeance. But why hadn’t he gone after Tía Emi? I wondered. He probably didn’t realize the two women were sisters. After all, they didn’t have the same last names.
If only I could remember the corrido. That was the key. “Don Pedro amaba a Miguela. / La persiguió noche y día.” I closed my eyes. Little by little, I pieced together the first stanza.
Don Pedro amaba a Miguela
(Don Pedro loved Miguela)
La persiguió noche y día
(He pursued her night and day)
La agarró sola en la cuadra
(When he saw her alone in the stables)
La tumbó y dejó con cría
(He knocked her down and left her expecting)
La tumbó y dejó con cría. What ever happened to the baby? I wondered. Was I that baby?