Mateo, March 2019 – Mira, Wisconsin
Mateo Miraldo fumbled for the remote and turned off the television. The late-night shows, the repetitious news, even the old movies had failed to catch his attention. Vacantly he looked at the now silent and dark fifty-five-inch Samsung screen in the middle of his baroque entertainment center.
Damn Ambien! Why wasn’t it working? He rubbed his burning, tired eyes.
He thought of the vital years on his vast estates in Mexico, where daily dares thrilled him and nightly passion rewarded him with hours of peaceful sleep. How he missed the beauty of the country and its culture, longed to sing ranchera music again and listen to mariachi bands. How he thirsted for his abundant adventures.
All gone now. Why had he failed to anticipate the chicanery of those he trusted? How dare Manoel, his flesh and blood, betray him? Mateo gazed into the absence of light for answers. But instead of solace, unpleasant scenes continued to twirl through his head.
And what was wrong with Pelón? Was he in hiding?
“I did what needed to be done,” the bald bodyguard had said. Did that mean Pelón had killed the old man? “Do not call me! I’ll know how and when to get in touch with you” was all he’d said before disconnecting the call.
Mateo squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to recall any gratifying memory, but as soon as he managed to retrieve a well-defined, attractive image, it got crushed by more upsetting reflections.
By now it had been over two weeks since Pelón told him to destroy the burner phone and wait. With so much at stake, how much longer should Mateo wait, especially after paying the bodyguard an enormous amount of money? More intrusive thoughts triggered Mateo’s anxiety. He felt weird; his heart was pounding.
Cursing into the darkness, Mateo realized that his yesterdays were by now far more numerous than what was left of his tomorrows. Even if he still had time to make all the wrongs right, how would he do it? He groaned as he envisioned his own footprints in the graveyard of unresolved desires.
How many decades had passed since he’d asked Marta to move out of their bedroom? As he counted backwards, flashes from the past became alive again behind his heavy lids.
Booming music stung his senses when he opened the doors to her studio. Marta was standing several feet away from her easel, loudly singing along with whoever that foreign pop group was. Her right hand held the brush in midair, ready to put new strokes on her newest creation. Her reddish-brown hair trailed to the middle of her back, glistening like polished mahogany. Under a kimono, flowing with wild abstract print, she wore only a purple bra and tight matching shorts. Her motley attire mirrored her newest creation, like she wanted to morph into her work.
She stopped singing and, without turning around, asked, “Mateo
Miraldo! What brings me the honor?”
“I can’t hear myself think,” he shouted. “Turn it off!”
Giving him a challenging look, she lifted the tonearm off the record to replace it on its resting spot. “Bet you never even heard of the Beatles,” she grinned. After cleaning off her brush, she wiped her hands on the colorful kimono. “Well, why are you here?” Mateo swallowed. Even in her bizarre outfit, Marta managed to look exotic. Striking. Despite having had two children and being a lover of food, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body; her skin was smooth like alabaster, her face almost free of wrinkles. Even though Mateo had long ago fallen out of love with his wife, pangs of jealousy returned whenever he thought of the stream of accolades Marta received from people; admiration and applause that should have been his. To this day, Mateo envied her sparkling spirit and zest for life. Those attributes had not only had a magnetic effect on him the first time he’d laid eyes on her, but her striking features and bubbly personality still magnetized everyone she met. Fucking Marta, he thought, so stunning, yet cunning.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you were diagnosed with catathrenia, Marta, but that’s the reason why I’m here.” He cleared his throat again. “It will benefit both of us not to share quarters anymore. The sounds you emit with every single expiration of breath keep me up all night.” Hoping to look weary, he rubbed his eyes. “You are my wife and I respect you, but without seven hours of sleep, I simply can’t function.” Trying to camouflage his boredom, Mateo hoped he sounded empathetic. But he really was tired of her and the monotony, fed up with the lack of variety and the nightand-day-sameness of it all.
Marta shrugged and nonchalantly said, “Who are you trying to fool, Mateo? It’s your international exploits that keep you out of our bedroom, not my mild form of catathrenia.” With a dismissive grin, she lifted each finger as she counted his paramours. “Let’s see—first there was Yolanda, then Lisette and Norma, followed by Kate, Maria, and Francesca.”
Mateo felt his face redden, more in anger than surprise. “As usual, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“As a matter of fact, I trust the sources that keep me informed. Not just about your appetite for women and flattery—it’s all the other dishonest things you’ve gotten up to.”
“Your sources?” To this day, Marta still baffled him; he loathed the way she wielded her sharp wits like a weapon. Mateo threw his head back, forcing a laugh. “Are you referring to the stories your father kept fabricating about me? That man never liked me, never gave me credit for being a self-made man.”
“Self-made?” Marta plopped herself down onto the small sofa under the skylight. “Did you forget that my father was instrumental in starting your business? Not only did he finance you, but he also introduced you to the most influential people in Mexico.”
Mateo stared at her when she spread her arms across the backrest of the sofa, and for a second the kimono opened, exposing some of her body. His eyes narrowed when she pulled the fabric over what he still considered to be his property. Though he had no proof, he suspected she had a secret lover. But the few times he’d instructed his moles to dig up dirt, they’d returned with empty hands. He squared himself in front of her. “So what? It’s not my fault your father died before I could pay him back. But since I afforded his daughter to live the life of a queen in majestic homes all over Mexico, travel on private yachts and planes, and stay in the presidential suites of the finest hotels while being adorned with jewelry, I think I repaid . . .”
“Mateo! Stop!” Marta pulled the kimono even tighter around her slender body. “You may still manage to trick your global goddesses with your good looks, your wealth, and your promises, but your attempts to pacify me stopped working long ago.”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“The only blessing that came out of our marriage is our two sons. I love Marco and Manoel unconditionally and have an unbreakable bond with them. One day they will understand why I refuse to interfere with the relationship they individually still need to form with you.”
“Marta, I came here in good faith to discuss something simple. Why do I have to listen to all this gobbledygook? What the heck are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m done with you and demand a legal separation immediately. But until Marco and Manoel are old enough to understand the severity of what’s going on, I insist on living in one of the guest houses on the estate; I already hired an architect to draw up plans for the addition.”
Baffled, Mateo watched Marta cross the room. “I don’t give a damn where you live, but what do you mean by . . . until Marco and Manoel are old enough to understand the severity of . . .” He threw his hands into the air. “. . . of fucking what?”
“The truth!” Marta opened the door and motioned him to leave. “The truth is about to surface, and when it does, it will be the death of all your joy, Mateo Miraldo.”
“Thetruththetruththetruth . . .”
Her voice echoed in his head so clearly, it ripped his eyes open. As Mateo groped for his water glass, he glanced at the digital clock, realizing he had slept for less than an hour. “That dream was so damn realistic, like it was yesterday,” he whispered and stared at the dark shadows, expecting a reply. “Nobody ever appreciated when, after the separation, I continued to be more than generous with Marta. I never questioned her comings and goings. For many years I let her live in the most lavish of the guest houses on my estate,” he mumbled, hoping the ghosts of the past would understand and finally leave him alone. But . . .
A month before Marta turned fifty years of age, she began to vanish in the labyrinth of early-onset Alzheimer’s. Under the watchful eyes of Marco and Manoel, Mateo promised his sons their mother would always be properly cared for in her ample quarters. But as time went on, Manoel was the only one who spent time with his mother, whereas Marco’s fleeting visits became less and less frequent.
On the rare occasions of Mateo’s own compulsory drop-ins, he found Marta smiling and singing while painting demonic creatures on endless canvases. Trapped in the prison of her abandoned mind, she was unaware of her own beauty and the great talent that had made her a celebrated artist. She did not remember that the Galería de Arte Moderno had several of her paintings on permanent exhibition and that most of her creations were sold to private collectors.
Manoel was devastated when Marta failed to recognize him and his brother, addressing her sons by various god names from Aztec mythology. And he immediately fired two caretakers who referred to Marta as the compassionate cuckoo behind the family’s back.
For years Marta caused no problems to others, but as soon as it was brought to Mateo’s attention that his estranged wife had begun painting the canvases with her own bodily waste, he had no choice but to admit her into a private and very expensive memory care facility. Complications with the decline in her brain function led to her early death at age fifty-nine.
Mateo sighed and turned on his back again, desperate in his need to forget past miseries. When was the last time he’d felt a warm body next to his? He reached for his groin and groaned. Why was it so difficult to zero in on the rapture of countless nights of pleasure, when he’d showered his paramours with promises that were meant to be broken? Now the nights had become his enemies. Watching television kept him awake. Reading a book only helped on rare occasions.
What he truly hungered and thirsted for was one exceptional woman, the one his heart painfully ached for.
“Ula-Ula,” he whispered. “My Ula! It’s only been you I’ve wanted!” How he longed for lust and passion to return, to experience the exquisite exhaustion and the deep, dreamless sleep afterwards.
He rolled from his left side to his right and then onto his back again, scrutinizing his life, scanning himself.
Wasn’t he still in good shape for his age? His diet had always been relatively healthy. To this day, a personal trainer put Mateo through a methodical workout four times a week. He very much enjoyed hearing from others how handsome, hale, and hearty he looked at eighty-two.
Still, his body had started to play tricks on him. Shortly after his eightieth birthday, his physician had told him he had elderly-onset rheumatoid arthritis and hypertension.
Mateo kicked the damask sheet and brocade duvet cover aside. Fucking old age. He lay still for a while, letting his mind go as dark as the hours of night.
Suddenly he felt a chill and fumbled to retrieve the sheet again. With another groan, he pulled it all the way over his shoulders, up to his chin. He rolled onto his right side and clasped the long body bolster tightly to his chest and abdomen, like he was spooning another body. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to the soft pillow.
When he woke, it was still dark and he felt confused. Where had she gone? Hadn’t she just been here? Next to him in his bed? He still tasted her magnificent body, distinctly heard her fruity voice.
“You’re right, she’s more than magnificent,” he told Robert Graf when the banker introduced his daughter Ursula in Switzerland. She soon became his Aphrodite, and he plotted a scheme, a ruse that would backfire years later in the worst way imaginable.
But back then, the Miraldo-Graf arrangement worked as planned. The moment his son Marco, hand-in-hand with Ursula, walked into the foyer of the grand old hacienda in Mexico, Mateo promised himself he’d be patient. There was no need to hurry; according to Mateo’s formula, this gorgeous young woman—this magnificent creature that took his breath away—would one day be his alone.
There she was, in that lilac silk organza dress, its transparent fabric silhouetting long legs, narrow hips, and firm, developed breasts. A few strands of her wavy honey-blond hair had escaped from her loose ponytail, brushing against her golden-tanned skin. And when she held out her hand, Mateo took it into both of his. He cradled her fingers for too long; he simply had no desire to let go. Her green eyes, her straight-edged nose, the dimple in her right cheek, and those plump rosy lips kept him hypnotized from that very moment.
“My Ula,” Mateo whispered as these recollections echoed into the now. “Why did you leave me when everything was so perfect?”
He felt dizzy, suddenly nauseous, exposed. He gasped for air, yearning to retrieve the moments when nights were filled with delicious scents. He gasped again. What was happening? He touched his forehead, then his chest. He felt peculiar.
Mateo tried to focus. And suddenly, in the absence of light, he saw a shadow. He lifted his head. A silent storm grabbed hold of his emotions.
“¡Mi cielito! Don’t go! Come back here!” When he stood up, he felt the room tilt and reached for the nightstand. With a sigh, he sank onto the edge of the bed again. “Come here,” he pleaded and strained his eyes against the darkness. He sniffed. There it was. The delicious fragrance of pheromones, mixed with the scent of her fresh hair and young body; it made him feel lightheaded.
Trembling, his hand searched for the remote control to turn on the lights. He cursed when he heard it drop on the floor. The darkness remained. His chest felt tight, his throat was dry. He hesitantly sucked in air, not wanting to remember the taboo, the criminal and verboten—the unforgivable.
There was a rustle. Was that her shadow?
“Ula? Where are you going? Don’t leave!” He stood up and stumbled forward. There! He knew it. It was her. So beautiful, so young. He chuckled hesitantly, and then, with overwhelming happiness, he laughed out loud. “Ula, ¡mi cielito!” Determinedly, he took another step closer and leaned forward. “Ula-Ula, mi amor,” he breathed and giddily reached out to touch her.
