A memory I didn’t know I possessed flashes through my mind, and I freeze.
Me as a six-year-old, carrying a paper to Father’s office. My fingers are blue and yellow from the colors I used. I’m proud of the picture I’ve painted. It shows me standing in front of a bunch of other kids—each with stick hands and feet.
My knees shake a little as I walk up to his giant nutmeg desk where he spends all of his time when he’s at home. Normally, I’m not supposed to disturb him, but he asked me to paint something for him.
I hand over my creation to Father.
His skin plays in a deep scarlet tone—a premonitory sign of his aneurysm, no doubt. “What’s this, Nathan?” He glances up from the file he’s reading.
“My future, Father. You asked me to draw it for you.”
“And what would that be? I can’t recognize what you meant.”
“A teacher, like Aunt Marjorie’s husband,” I say proudly.
His face contorts in a grimace of disappointment, and his pointy chin quivers. His voice rasps as he barks at me, “Son, you’ll have to become so much more than that if you want to be worthy of my legacy. Sooo much more.”
How could I forget that talk? It was the last one I had with Father.
My body feels like a bow bent to its maximum. A cold sweat prickles down my neck. I close my eyes and inhale and exhale deeply while I gather my wits. This memory still doesn’t prove Eva’s point. I’m not doing all this because of what Father said to me. Or perhaps I’m doing it also for him. But what’s so bad about honoring a dead man’s last wish? Becoming a teacher was just a silly idea I came up with. It wasn’t a real desire. If it had been, I wouldn’t have forgotten all about it. Leading AMEA is my dream. Period.
And with Eva, I’m on a good path to achieving it.
Eva…oh, no!
My eyes spring open. Where is she? I look around in my living room, but besides the giant shadows cast by my Ceccotti sitting furniture, I can’t see anyone. She must have left me alone after I stood here like a mental person with my eyes shut, squeezing my fists.
“Eva? Eva?” I call out, but no answer comes.
I’m about to amble to the corridor to ask Tracy if she has seen Eva, when I spot Eva standing in my study in front of a picture.
She turns when she hears my approaching steps. “Did you know that my favorite painting is from Chagall? I suppose this is an authentic work?”
I’m glad that she isn’t asking about my behavior. Speaking about art is a much more agreeable topic than digging in my past. “Yes, it is. He’s one of my favorites too, together with Modigliani, from whom I have two drawings in my bedroom.”
Eva’s mouth is hanging loose. “Wow, the price of this oil-on-canvas must be four or five times the worth of my grandmother’s entire house.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I used to think a surplus of money, you know, beyond the level of an average person’s wealth, was superfluous. But this…” She points at the picture. “Having the chance to look at this each morning…this could be a definite perk of being a billionaire.”
Oh, Eva, you never cease to surprise me. How the heck do you do this? “To possess a Chagall is probably the least frequent reason I’ve heard to become a rich. Especially from women…” I chuckle.
A pensive glint penetrates her black irises, making her look even more attractive. “Ah, really? And what are the most common ones?”
“You know, the usual…clothes, shoes, jewelry, living in a villa, traveling with a private jet…”
Eva gives me a mischievous smile. “Then I guess I’m truly the weird one, because I’d trade all of those to own a Chagall.”
“Which is your favorite of his?”
Her nose wrinkles into a delicious little grimace. “Les Trois Cierges, definitely. I love how on that particular one, life and fantasy melt into a fairy tale and the couple seems to float in between.”
“Do you like fairy tales that much?” I tease her, because her dreamy voice and clouded eyes don’t fit the fiery, decisive girl I’ve gotten to know.
“I liked them as a kid, like any child, I guess. Though less than my cousin for sure. Anyway, I’ve learned with time that they’re written to instill values in us.”
I want to discover more about what kind of fantasies Eva harbored as a girl. “Which story did you listen to the most? I might know it.”
Eva bites on her lower lip. “I doubt you would.”
“Try me, please.”
“‘La Mujer Sin Alma’?”
“A woman without…what?”
“‘The Woman Without Soul’.”
“Is it from the Grimm Brothers?” It certainly has a dark enough title to be one of theirs.
Eva shakes her head. “It’s a folktale from the village where my mother’s family comes from in Mexico. It’s…” Eva’s hands curl around her middle, her chin dipping down.
Is she feeling embarrassed about this? Why? I step close so I can reach her face. I cup her cheeks and raise it to me. When I release her, her glance stays interlocked with mine. “So what’s this ‘Mujer Sin Alma’ about?” I ask.
“It’s the story of a poor woman who was the lover of a rich man.” Her voice wavers at these last words, but then she continues, “The man promises her they will get married, but he lies. He weds another, an elder woman who is even more wealthy than he is. The poor woman’s heart can’t take the pain, so she rips it out from her chest, becoming the Woman Without Soul. She is thought to live in the darkest part of the Lacandon Jungle and only comes out at midnight to feed on the souls of women who are silly enough to follow in her footsteps and get betrayed by their rich lovers.”
I gulp, tipping my
