That was the only time Faith ever left her book lying out in plain view, but the damage was done. I was hooked. All that week, I kept sneaking into her bedroom for a peek whenever she was out. The journal kept moving around, from her bedside table, to under the mattress, then hidden in a stack of books. But I always found it. That Saturday, she confronted me, holding up a strand of hair. “You little snoop,” she said, “You’ve been reading my journal.”
I’d always found the best response to any attack is counterattack. “What do you expect when you leave it lying around for anyone to see?”
“Don’t give me that.”
I did have the grace to blush, I think. Ever since, Faith had gone to incredible lengths to hide her journal. And I had to be extra careful about putting back any strands of hair, nail clippings, or pieces of fluff whenever I rooted it out.
This time I hadn’t set out to pry. It was all because of the cockroaches. I couldn’t stand them anymore. I was determined to find out where they were coming from before we left for Cuernavaca.
Every night we had to spray for those damn insects — I felt my lungs shrivel a little more each time — and every morning there were six or seven big new ones succumbing on the floor. I couldn’t imagine coming home to several days’ worth. Actually, I could. Which was why I decided to act.
My idea was to find their gateways into our flat and plant Raid inside. Yes, I valued the gift of life. In mammals, birds, and humans. Not in cockroaches. Not yet. Maybe someday I’d convert to Jainism, become a monk, and wear a gag so no flying creature’s life could come to a brutal end in my mouth. I’d live on water and air. But not yet.
The bathroom was first on my list. All that damp made it a hothouse for bugs.
I found a broken tile just under the sink, with the bottom right-hand corner missing. The perfect size for a cockroach to squeeze through. With my bent knife — not much choice there since in my bargain apartment every chair wobbled, the table had a gimpy leg, forks were missing tines, plates were cracked, and knives were bent — I started to pry the tile from the wall. I was surprised at how easily it came off.
No cockroaches skittered away in the wavering light of my flashlight, but a gleaming something winked back at me — a plastic bag dangling out of a broken pipe. I counted to four then gingerly reached in and pulled it out.
Inside were several looseleaf sheets rolled into a tube. I saw Faith’s writing on the top sheet and a date. To think I hadn’t even been looking.
October 29, 1993
I was right! Nahuatl makes the perfect code! Who needs numbers and signs!
Key to code — keep any possibility of meaning from potential decoders — refer to reality no one knows exists (1st letters of Nahuatl words for most exotic Mexican flora and fauna = alphabet. Nahuatl the language of metaphor: white — izta-c — means ‘like salt,’ black — tlil-ti-c — ‘like ink.’ Endless poss. for combinations!)
Difficulties — the 35 dialects in modern Nahuatl. So much to learn!
I never thought Faith would be the kind to use exclamation marks. And for what? A bunch of foreign letters and words. The stuff of Faith’s work was the forcing, bending, and twisting of words into unnatural, indecipherable codes; the stuff of my work was play — colours and textures that I scooped up and plastered on, not knowing precisely what hue or shape each blob would form. I never realized Faith might see her work as play, too. I skipped the code part and flipped to the next entry.
October 31, 1993
Mexico = Makesicko. Feel like throwing up most of the time. Losing weight. No more Gordita, dreaded Papi nickname. Said it meant sweetheart, not little fat one. I’m not so sure.
Found a tutor. Kiko’s his name. Instant rapport.
Hope still looking for excuses not to paint: boyfriend, street kids, reading bios, copying quotes. Overheard her on the phone with Mom making plans for our trip and telling her she is a liver first, a painter second. Hope should call herself a kidney while she’s at it!
Ouch. Prying had its drawbacks.
She was wrong anyway. Already in the short time since that first painting, I’d done several quick studies in charcoal and ink. I was experimenting with the introduction of new colours to my oil palette, the vivid colours of Mexico. Helping at the market with the children was actually feeding my work, too; the crafts, for me, were a new exploration of old materials. And I’d taken a few bios of artists out the day I showed Faith the way to the library: Frida Kahlo, Georgia O’Keeffe, Debora Arango. She was the one who said a nude is a landscape in human flesh. Oh, and La Malinche. But she wasn’t an artist. I was just curious. Plus, I was going to be able to teach José something now. That Malinche wasn’t a traitor, not really. That she’s the mother of the majority of today’s Mexican people, her child the first mestizo — mixed blood — and that my blood is as mixed as the rest. And how did Faith know I’d been keeping a record of my favourite quotes?
Even when she was absent, she had the knack. I felt like I’d been caught in the bathroom playing cockroach killer and amateur spy when the studio was where I should really be at.
I rolled the sheets back together, slipped them into the plastic bag, and pushed it back into the recess, shining the light first just in case. Faith would never know. Meanwhile, I might actually have to hide my quote book.
V
Faith’s retching filled my ears and nose. We’d pulled off the road. José was standing next to the car and looking over the roof while I stood next to Faith on the other side, holding her forehead as she doubled over, all her weight pushing against my hand. This was a first for us. Back in Montreal, during my CEGEP years, I was always the one down on my knees hugging the toilet bowl, Faith’s hand supporting me. Of course, mine was always due to too much Baby Duck, too many rum and Cokes, or a record night of beer chugging. Like today, my warm beer to give me courage for the reunion. Faith never over-indulged, over-imbibed, over-anything that I knew of. Always in such control.
It wasn’t like she was one to get carsick either. That too was my specialty on our yearly holidays, trips across the entire breadth of the country (to become true Canadians we had to know the whole of Canada, Papi said. Papi never did anything by half measures) or, on one occasion, all the way back to Mexico. On the first day of driving, we’d inevitably have to stop by the side of the road at some point for me to throw up. That was on good days, when Papi managed to find a place to pull over soon enough. Faith hated it when he didn’t make it in time. I was too far gone to care.
On our first night out, the ritual was always the same. Vacations, Mom decreed, were her time off from mothering, so Papi washed my matted hair — somehow I never remembered until the second day to tie my hair back — in whatever cheap motel room we’d managed to find, always, again, at Mom’s insistence. Left to his own devices, I think Papi would have driven through the night. We called it being hyper. In the moisture-sucking prairie provinces, on top of the upchucking, my nose would start to bleed and keep on bleeding for days.
Papi didn’t seem to mind the vomit or the blood or the dust. He took delight in helping me make soap-beehive hair-dos, shampooed French buns, spikes on either side of my head, then he’d hold the mirror up for me to admire our creations or fly into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Afterwards, my favourite part, two parts pain to three parts bliss, I’d stand shivering between his knees, one towel wrapped tight around me, another in his hands, while he attacked my hair, wringing every last drop of water out. He always rubbed too hard, but the pleasure was never less than the pain.
I wondered if poets ever stopped to consider the pain or pleasure they wreaked on their muse. Not that the pain was Papi’s fault,