Despite my mother’s disappearance and my continued lack of success with origami, deep down I felt lucky: I was having the most interesting vacation of my life. I felt as if there were a chasm between myself and my classmates, who would all be in Acapulco or Cuernavaca or some resort, having fun with their conventional families, while I was solving mysterious disappearances, finding ways to avoid criminals, and training myself in the ancient and honorable art of origami—plus the ancient and honorable art of being alone. I thought that when I returned to school, all the other kids in my class would gather around, eager to ask my advice on anything at all, and they would respect the wisdom I’d acquired during the summer. When talking about what I’d done, I might perhaps add a little harmless exaggeration to heighten their awe. I’d tell them, for example, that in addition to staying home without adult supervision for several days, I’d constructed whole origami cities. I could also say that my Zero Luminosity Capsule was really a complicated machine, a sort of paranormal microwave, and not just a closet with cushions made from odd socks.
6
I GUESS MY FATHER MUST HAVE SPOKEN TO SOMEONE (an acquaintance or one of the secretaries in his department) who knew something about bringing up children and told him that it wasn’t such a good idea to leave me alone in the house for eight hours a day so soon after Teresa’s disappearance from our lives. I find it hard to believe that, without assistance, he would have understood the risks that situation might involve for my mental health. My father was never capable of anticipating extrinsic emotions. The inner lives of others—including his own children—were a strongbox for which he didn’t have the combination. He was incapable of empathy, and all his decisions were based on his own feelings and needs. At times, when I think of all the years we spent under his guardianship, I’m still surprised that both Mariana and I have survived.
To cut a long story short, my father decided that it wasn’t possible to leave me alone every day, and as he couldn’t take me to work either (this would have raised suspicions and generated questions among his colleagues: appearances had to be kept up), he opted for leaving me in the care of my sister. One night, making an enormous effort to break through her absolute refusal to discuss the matter, my father interrupted the movie we were watching (much to the annoyance of Mariana, who immediately complained), and asked us to try to spend more time together “until Teresa’s return.”
Naturally, “spending more time together” meant Mariana had to be my babysitter and couldn’t just take off every morning and return late, as she’d been doing, while I spent the whole day in failed attempts to master origami. My sister looked at Dad incredulously and, with some justification (time brings understanding), complained: “It’s not fair. You can’t spoil the vacation just because my mom’s decided to leave.”
Mariana always referred to Teresa as her mom, while I usually just called her Teresa. Mariana or my father would sometimes try to correct me, force me to say “my mom,” too, but Teresa never seemed to mind. After all, it was her name. Nevertheless, I now wonder if that difference between my sister and I didn’t in some way determine our experiences as offspring. Maybe Mariana was a little more Teresa’s daughter, maybe I, as her son, should also have called her Mom right from the start.
My father and Mariana entered into negotiations. In the meanwhile, I feigned complete indifference to their discussion, snacking on successive bowls of cereal with added sugar and trying to imagine endings for the movie that had been left on pause throughout. I don’t remember which movie it was but am almost certain it had dinosaurs or alien life forms or alien dinosaurs. Finally, they came to an agreement: Mariana could invite her friends to the house so she wouldn’t be bored, and I had to play in my bedroom and “let them have some space.”
The following morning, my father left for work very early, and Mariana and I had breakfast alone. She explained that some of her friends would be coming around, and that I was categorically banned from asking them dumb questions. A few hours later, just after noon, the first of Mariana’s friends began to arrive: Citlali, Ximena, and Javier. I’d memorized all their names even though they didn’t know mine: I was simply “Mariana’s brother.”
When the second wave of teenagers turned up, my sister’s bedroom became too small for them all and they took possession of the living room. They played very loud music and someone appeared with four cans of beer, which they passed around, pretending to like the taste. I made discreet forays into the kitchen for one glass of water after another to check what was going on. It was annoying to miss out on all the noisy fun, but I knew that Mariana would be angry if I spied on them at close quarters. Luckily, her friend Citlali took advantage of one of my trips to talk to me. She asked if I liked beer and laughed without waiting for a reply, possibly amused by my discomfort. “Your brother’s really lovely,” she said to Mariana, who was stumped by her comment. I guessed that she hadn’t planned the beers and was irritated by the thought of having to ask me to keep them a secret from my father. If she did make that request, we’d both know that she would automatically owe me one, and I could make her pay by ordering Hawaiian pizza or talking to Citlali for hours without her being able to complain. But Mariana had no other option: she pulled me aside and made me promise not to say a word to anyone about the beer
