Frida: A Novel

Part I

CHAPTER 1

Frida! Frida!

I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR, DOCTOR, BUT I’M SORRY, YOU’RE NOT going to pry some sordid confession out of me. You psychiatrists are all alike. You want to make me say that I despised her, that I resented her always being the center of attention, but you’re wrong. In fact, I hated it when people looked at me, which they did often because, to tell you the truth, I was the prettier of the two. He told me that.

But this isn’t fair. Believe me, in spite of everything, I loved her.

Look, from as far back as I can remember, she was kind to me. She protected me. I always looked up to her; she was the smarter one, the more talented one. I was quiet. She was dynamic. I was prettier. Maybe she didn’t think so, but … well, I mean, she had to realize that everyone admired my looks, even if she pretended not to. After all, she wasn’t stupid. He always said that I was gorgeous. Of course, he was a liar, a sweet-talker. But even so, I was the one he liked to paint. I was his favorite model. She didn’t like it when I posed for him, but I did it anyway. All the time. In the nude.

The point is, it’s not as though I wanted to get even with her. That’s not why I did it. She had her strong points and I had mine. She was clever. I was beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful. How could she be? A lame girl with a mustache and one leg shorter than the other? Sometimes she teased me, but that was to be expected. I mean, since she was the bright one and I was so dim-witted. Anyhow, she teased everybody. I wasn’t special in that sense. Let’s say I wasn’t the exception. I was never the exception.

It’s not as though I didn’t know what I was doing. I knew, but I thought she wouldn’t care. She was so wild and eccentric. Rules never mattered to her. Other people’s feelings never mattered to her. So I thought, well, okay, since she doesn’t give a damn about anybody, since she thinks it’s fine to go ahead and do whatever you want and to hell with what people think, I’ll just follow her advice.

You see, she was the leader. I was the follower. I was always the follower.

Let me give you an example. You were asking about our childhood, so let me tell you.

This happened a long, long time ago, when we were little. Such a long time ago, and still I picture it so vividly, as though it’s etched in my brain. You see, I’m an artist too. No, I don’t mean I’m an artist the way she was. I can’t paint pictures on canvas, but I engrave images on my mind. Well, I guess that’s not worth much, is it?

This is what I see: Frida, crouching behind a pillar, surveying her enemies. Estela, the commander, whispering to María del Carmen, the chief strategist. Estela gives the signal, and battle lines form. There are maybe forty girls in the courtyard. About fifteen of them group into attack teams. The others continue jumping rope or playing hopscotch, engrossed in their games. Now Frida is peering out from behind the post, taking stock of the hostile forces and biting her lip.

She was an adorable child. Not like me. I was tubby and kind of dull. I guess I have to admit it. In those days, she was the pretty one, although not for long. She was a delectable little girl, with a tea-and-cream complexion, full, rosy cheeks and pudgy arms. She was about six then, and she had chin-length, fluffy, dark brown curls that framed her face, which was still soft and babyish. Mami always sent her to school with a white bow in her hair, and in her gingham pinafore, she looked like an angel.

The school building was a Spanish colonial-style structure, with an interior patio surrounded by a colonnaded arcade. It had just rained—one of those quick, sudden downpours that fall in April on the Central Plateau—but now the sun was shining, and the pools that had formed on the patio tiles were glistening in the brightness. In the center of the yard, schoolgirls were giggling and jumping into puddles, each one vying to make a bigger splash than the others.

Frida wasn’t paying attention. Her eyes were glued on Estela and María del Carmen, who had hooked elbows and taken their positions at the head of their troops. They were going to try to goad her into coming into the open. But Frida didn’t wait for the taunts to begin. She thrust out her jaw defiantly, like this, then stepped away from the column.

Frida! I whispered. Frida, don’t go! I was shrinking in the shadows.

Shut up! she scolded. Don’t be a sissy! She was always calling me a sissy.

I cowered behind the column, waiting for her to move forward, into the line of attack. Suddenly I felt wetness, and the skin between my legs smarted. I shifted position, and the urine trickled down my legs onto my new white socks with the lace trim. I knew Mami would be furious.

Frida stood facing Estela. She was squinting, probably from the sunlight. Her lips were trembling, but her feet were firm, and she stared right into the eyes of her adversary.

Estela grinned, and as if on command, the girls in the hostile brigade began to chant:

It was horrible! Horrible! We were Catholic! We had made our First Communion, every one of us, but in that horrid school, the girls were always calling us Jewish because of Papá.

I wanted Frida to turn around and walk away, but instead, she tightened her jaw to keep it from trembling. The children who had been playing started to gather around her. Soon they had formed a large, jagged semicircle. Frida lifted her head and folded her arms. The knot in my stomach was growing tighter. I started to sob.

For an instant Frida’s chin quivered, but she blinked hard and managed to hold back the tears. Some of the children were snickering and pointing. A kind of phosphorescence was enveloping the yard. Frida swallowed hard, then took a deep breath.

Shut up! She hurled the words at Estela as though they were a spitball.

The children began to sing even louder.

Shut up! shouted Frida again, but this time her cry was inaudible above the chant.

¡Frida, Frida!

Shut up! Shut up!

The singing began to die down.

What a stupid song! she screamed. An idiot must have made it up!

Some of the girls started to giggle. A few took up the chant once again, only this time more softly.

I could hardly see what was going on. I peered out from behind the column and stood on my toes, but I was smaller than the girls who had formed a barricade around Frida, and I couldn’t see over their heads. I felt like pushing through the line in order to get a better view, but I knew that the others would make fun of my wet drawers and socks, and besides, they might turn on me just for being her sister. So I stayed hidden.

Estela and Frida stood staring at each other, not more than a foot apart. No one moved. The tension had been mounting for a long time—weeks or even months. And now, finally, the standoff. And now, finally, the showdown. The other children stood watching, waiting. They were frightened yet excited, hoping that maybe something terrible would happen.

You don’t belong here, you’re not one of us, hissed Estela. You’re foreign!

The children recoiled as though a bogeyman had dropped from the roof into the middle of the courtyard. Every eye was on Frida. I wanted to kill Estela, but what could I do? I stayed behind the pillar.

I am not! Frida countered.

Yes, you are, FREY-DA! Estela pronounced the name with a guttural German R. You have a foreign name!

Frida hesitated a moment. It was true she spelled her name the German way: F-R-I-E-D-A. And it was true our father was a German Jew of Hungarian origin.

She looked straight at Estela. My name is Magdalena Carmen Frieda Kahlo y Calderón. That’s the name I was baptized with in church!

"You’re foreigners! Your father speaks Spanish with an accent. When he says república or revolución, he sounds like a pig grunting."

I’m not a foreigner. I’m a Mexican!

Mexicans are Catholic!

I’m as Catholic and Mexican as you are! I go to church every Sunday! I go to the Church of San Juan, just like you, so you should know!

Not that there’s anything wrong with being Jewish, doctor. Years later, Frida would brag about being Jewish. But at the time, in post-revolutionary Mexico, anything foreign was considered bad. Are you Jewish, doctor?

Your father’s name is Wilhelm!

My father’s name is Guillermo!

Not his real name, FREY-DA. His real name is Wilhelm!

Wilhelm, Wilhelm, the children chanted, her father’s name is Wilhelm!

The light caught Frida’s hair, causing the top of her head to shimmer like a halo. In the brightness she looked like a seraph, all gossamer and sparkle. She brought her delicate baby fingers to her lips and stood staring at Estela.

My mother says your father is one of those foreigners brought in by Porfirio Díaz, said Estela. She says foreigners ruined the country, but now, with the Revolution, you’re all going to be hanged!

Your mother is a stupid fucking whore!

Frida had caught Estela off guard. The girl’s parents were sympathizers of the revolutionary Emiliano Zapata and his agrarian reform, but they were decent people, not riffraff. In those polished bourgeois surroundings, you didn’t hear that kind of language. Certainly not from a young lady. Certainly not from a six-year-old. Estela caught her breath. I have to laugh! The expression on her face when Frida said those words.

A ripple of disbelief washed through the yard. The girls giggled. Did you hear what Frida said? they whispered. She said f——! She said whore! Even the peasants didn’t use those expressions. The peasants were reserved, dignified. Only lowlifes spoke like that. Frida was breaking all the rules, and that took daring! I was proud of her.

The children looked from Frida to Estela. Their faces were anxious, expectant. Some of them were nodding and smiling at Frida. They seemed to be on the verge of going over to her side. Estela had to regain the upper hand, which clearly she had lost to this dirtymouthed little brat.

Your father worked for the Díaz government. My mother says—

Your mother’s full of shit! Your mother’s so mean she’s got spiders coming out of her cunt!

FRIDA KAHLO!

The teacher’s bellow cut the air like a thunderclap. The children scattered as if repelled by some powerful magnetic force. In an instant, Miss Caballero swooped down on that precious, foul-tongued little girl, my sister, grabbed her by the ear and pulled her out of the patio.

What kind of language is that? Who ever heard of a decent little girl using such language? It’s disgusting!

Frida wriggled loose, but the teacher grabbed her by the ruffle of her pinafore and yanked her back.

You! She said it with revulsion. You, who look like God’s little angel! You have the mouth of a street cleaner! You talk as though you were being raised in the gutter instead of in a decent home by a respectable, devout Christian mother. You should be ashamed of yourself!

She was pulling Frida along the arcade toward the door that led to her classroom. I was scampering along behind.

Suddenly, Miss Caballero turned.

And you! she said, pointing a sausagelike finger at me. You’re here too! Naturally. Wherever Frida goes, you go. You stick to her like a shadow. But you’d better be careful, Cristinita. She’s a troublemaker, and she’ll get you into trouble too. I stood there, looking up at the teacher. My legs were sticky, and my wet pants made my skin itch. I started to squirm. Miss Caballero took me by the hand, then sniffed. The urine was beginning to smell.

Oh no, not again, she moaned. Have you wet your pants again, Cristina? Both of you are repulsive little wretches!

That’s what she called us: repulsive little wretches.

She grabbed Frida by the ear and me by the arm and yanked us both into the classroom. Here, she said to me, take off those wet pants and give them to me. I’ll wrap them up in paper so your mother’s laundress can wash them. Now, come here and let me rinse you off.

Instead of taking off my underwear, I shrank back and squatted under a table. She lunged for me, trying to pull up my skirt.

I can do it myself, I whimpered. I didn’t want her to touch me. I especially didn’t want her to rinse me off and touch me … down there.

Don’t be silly, she snapped.

She clutched my arm and tried to drag me out, but I bit her thumb as hard as I could, then wriggled into a corner. She let out a sharp little yelp that communicated more surprise than pain.

I tried to twist out of my panties without lifting my skirt, so that Miss Caballero wouldn’t see my bottom. I had heard people make remarks about Miss Caballero, but I was too small to understand the innuendo. Even so, I knew from how they lowered their voices when they talked about her that she must be strange. Some of the comments had to do with her name—Caballero, man or gentleman. I thought maybe it was because her hands were so big. They looked like a man’s.

I don’t know exactly what Frida thought of her. I think she found her both repugnant and fascinating. She liked to play tricks on her, to put her to the test the way children do with a person in authority, but she also liked to hang around her, to watch her. She adored it when Miss Caballero paid attention to her, but then Frida always liked to be the center of everything.

The teacher was a fair-skinned mestizo with heavy features and a firm mouth that conveyed both resoluteness and frustration. Rumor had it that she wore a wig, although since none of us had ever seen her without the thick black braids that encircled her head, we couldn’t be sure. She always dressed in black, in outfits that looked as though they were reconstructed ball gowns left over from some bygone era. In spite of her rough demeanor, her body was round, soft, sensual. Her hands reminded me of bunches of ripe bananas, the plump red kind. I had the impression that Miss Caballero could be nice if she wanted to; she just didn’t want to. Even as a small child, I sensed that something was holding her back, preventing her from showing the affection she kept locked inside.

Miss Caballero finally pinned me between the table and the wall. She grabbed me and held me fast with one hand. With the other, she poured water into a basin. Then, with a wet cloth, she wiped my legs and buttocks.

Here, hike up your skirt, she ordered. I was afraid to disobey. I gathered up my pinafore and held it at the waist. I wanted to die.

Frida should have helped me. I mean, she could have screamed or thrown something at Miss Caballero. But maybe she didn’t because I hadn’t helped her out when Estela and the others were taunting her. Maybe her silence was some kind of revenge. Anyhow, she just stood there watching as the rag went up and down my thighs and in between my legs, up and down and in between, over and over again.

Come on, snapped Miss Caballero, open your legs so I can get you clean. I widened my stance and bent my knees. Miss Caballero continued her wiping. Frida just stared. That was one time when she should have opened her mouth, but she just stared.

When she was done, Miss Caballero rinsed the rag, then wrung it out.

Now, she said to Frida, you take off your panties and give them to Cristi.

Frida shot me a look of contempt. Why should I? she said.

Because I’m telling you to.

So? Why should I be the one to go home without underwear? She’s the one who wet her pants!

Because you’re older, snapped Miss Caballero. Frida considered this a moment, but didn’t grasp the logic.

What does being older have to do with it? She thrust out her jaw.

Do it! snapped Miss Caballero.

Slowly, Frida took down her bloomers and handed them to me. Stupid baby! she hissed.

Never mind! retorted Miss Caballero. She helped me with the underwear, then she went on, You think you’re so grown up, little Frida. Remember that time in science class? The time I was explaining how the universe worked?

Frida looked at her shoes.

Miss Caballero kept on talking. We turned out the lights, she said, and I held a candle in one hand and an orange in the other and I showed you how the Earth revolves around the sun and how the moon revolves around the Earth. Remember?

Yes, said Frida. She knew what was coming. She pursed her lips and waited for the teacher to humiliate her.

What happened that day, Frida?

Frida didn’t answer.

You got very excited, didn’t you?

Frida shot her a spiteful look, but said nothing.

Come on, you remember, don’t you, Frida?

Yes.

Yes, ma’am.

Yes, ma’am. Frida knew she was licked. Her face was turning red, and her jaw was tightening.

And what did you do, Frida?

I wet my pants.

That’s right. You wet your pants. Miss Caballero smiled, satisfied. She had won.

But on the day of the science lesson, it hadn’t been such a clear victory.

As soon as Estela had spied the little puddle under Frida’s chair, she began to chant: Frida wet her panties! Frida wet her panties! Soon the whole class was singing: Frida wet her panties!

A decent teacher would have hustled Frida out of the room and cleaned her up quietly. Instead, Miss Caballero dragged her up to the front of the room and tried to pull up her dress. But Frida was too wriggly for her, too wriggly and too quick. Miss Caballero tried to hold her in place with the sash of her dress, but Frida squirmed away. As she did, she elbowed the basin that the teacher had set out to wash her. Wash her in front of the whole class! The basin crashed to the floor. It sounded like cars colliding. Frida darted for the door, knocking slates and picture books to the ground. The noise must have dizzied her, because she tottered and hit the edge of the shelf where they kept mixed tempera. A bottle of red fell and shattered, spraying bloodlike droplets everywhere. She could have sprinted to safety, but she stood there, mesmerized by the patterns the paint was forming on the floor. Her ruffled white socks were drenched, and her legs were spattered.

Suddenly, she stooped and immersed her pudgy six-year-old hands in the paint.

Stop! shrieked Miss Caballero, but Frida was already rubbing paint on her dress, her arms, her face. Even her eyelids were dripping with the thick, red, gooey liquid. She had … how do you say it? Meta—metamorphosed into a ghoul. In my five-year-old mind, blood was trickling from her lips, and an otherworldly gleam was radiating from her eyes. The hazy beams streaming through the window seemed to transform her into something enormous and sinister.

Come get cleaned up this instant! commanded Miss Caballero. Frida snickered. She held up her hands and wiggled her fingers like the legs of a crab. It was grotesque. I was terrified, and I was so mad at Frida I wanted to pummel her.

At last Miss Caballero gave up. Frida went home that day covered in red.

Frida had humiliated Miss Caballero in front of the whole class, and so whenever she got the chance, the teacher started in about how my sister had once gotten so excited during a science class that she wet her pants. What Miss Caballero wanted was to cut Frida down, to make her feel like a fly on a piece of turd.

Let’s see, where was I? I’m so old now I can’t keep my mind on anything. Ah, yes, I was telling you how Frida always protected me. Well, I had put on my sister’s clean underwear. Frida held out her hand to me, and I took it and nestled my head against her shoulder.

The other children had lined up outside the classroom door and were waiting to come in. Stay here, said Miss Caballero. She straightened her skirt and walked to the door. At her signal, the girls began to file into the room and move toward their seats.

Come on, Cristi! whispered Frida. Let’s get out of here!

The building was a renovated Spanish-style house that had been transformed into a school. It was a two-story affair constructed in the form of a squared-off U with a patio in the center. On the ground floor, the sides of the U contained two classrooms, a storeroom, a small office, and a tiny chapel. Living quarters for the owner of the school and Miss Caballero were on the second floor. There were no hallways; all the first-floor rooms opened onto the courtyard and all of the second-floor rooms opened onto the balcony above the arcade. Each of the classrooms had two doors on the patio side. As Miss Caballero stood guiding the children through one door, Frida darted for the other, pulling me behind.

I was terrified. We can’t leave. Mami will kill us.

Mami won’t know!

Miss Caballero noticed us and took off in pursuit, but before she could catch up, we had reached the unlocked gate and slipped out into the street.

Frida and I knew every crook and cranny in Coyoacán. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, doctor, but it’s a picturesque colonial town about an hour to the south of Mexico City. Baroque churches, plazas, tianguis—that is, native markets. Hernán Cortés once lived there while he was fighting the Aztecs. Now it’s pretty built up. Tourists, of course. Tourists who come to see our house. Frida’s house, I mean. They come to see it because Frida lived there, not because I lived there. The town is still surrounded by open fields and ranches, but now it’s a suburb of Mexico City, that sprawling, ravenous monster. The capital is bustling and filthy and crazy, of course, just like any big city, but Coyoacán is still sort of old-fashioned. It has a kind of small-town warmth, a quaintness, a sense of history.

Anyhow, we darted down a cobblestone path, then cut onto an unpaved road leading to the Viveros de Coyoacán, a large, tree-filled park with a narrow, sleepy river winding through it. Street vendors were selling brightly colored toys made of wood, gourds, or papier-mâché, and I asked Frida to buy me a balero, a cup-and-ball gizmo that we used to play with when we were kids.

That would be just dandy, wouldn’t it, she snapped. "Mami would know the second we walked into the house with a balero that we’d been fooling around in the streets! Really, Cristi, you’re so dumb. She always used to say that to me: Really, Cristi, you’re so dumb."

Frida’s plan was a simple one. We would go to the park and play until it was time for Conchita, our nanny, to pick us up from school. Then we’d wait in the little stationery shop across from the school gate, far enough away to avoid Miss Caballero’s vulturine eyes but near enough to see Conchita coming up the street to get us. As soon as we saw the maid, we would run to meet her, then just go home with her as usual. Mami would never know the difference.

I wasn’t too convinced, but I trudged along behind Frida, dragging my feet in the dust. We passed a pulquería, a bar where they served pulque, a fermented milkish drink made from agave juice. In those days, the walls were all brightly painted with figures from Mexican folklore—a bandit-hero assaulting an emaciated landowner, a brassy whore counting her money. I wanted to get away from the place, but Frida was enthralled by the colors and by the obscene songs the rowdy construction workers were singing inside.

Frida took a coin out of her pinafore and bought me a quesadilla—a tortilla with cheese and chili sauce—from a street vendor. She didn’t know his name, but she considered him a friend because she had bought from him many times before.

Don’t get cheese on your pinafore, or Mami will know I bought you a quesadilla in the street, she said sharply. We’re playing hookey, she confided to the man. He smiled and held out another quesadilla for her.

I have only one centavo, she said.

It doesn’t matter, he answered. This is my gift to you.

We ran to the park and played for what seemed like a half hour or so. The whole time Frida nagged me about not dirtying my dress, not muddying my shoes, not getting grass stains on my socks, so that Mami wouldn’t know where we’d been.

Frida was watching the sun’s movement in the sky. When, according to her calculations, it was time to go, she led me back through the dusty streets to the school.

One look at the stationery shop and I felt my blood turn to sawdust. The store was closed for lunch. Since businesses usually shut their doors at two o’clock and didn’t reopen until five or six, that meant school had been dismissed long ago, hours ago. I looked down the street. The florist was closed as well, and so were the bakery and the tortillería. No children were waiting by the school gate. The streets were empty.

Let’s go! ordered Frida. They’ll be looking for us.

Now we’re really going to get it! I cried. And it’s all your fault.

Frida didn’t answer. She just grabbed my hand, and we bolted down the street toward home.

CHAPTER 2

Frida Dancing

IT’S ALWAYS SEEMED TO ME THAT THE REASON FRIDA WAS SO DAMNED patriotic, so more-Mexican-than-thou, was because of those experiences we had in school. To Frida the Mexican sky was the purest, most exquisite in the universe—even though the air above Mexico City is usually the color of filthy socks or shit-tinged urine. But you couldn’t say that to her. No. Otherwise, she’d accuse you of having sold out to the Yankees. She’d accuse you of being a capitalist pawn or of sucking the cock of the European intellectual elite. She had a mouth as foul as a drunkard’s piss. But I don’t need to tell you that. You know that already. She’d mow you down just for saying that the sky gleamed less brightly in Mexico than in, say, California. She was like that, you see. Fanatical about everything. For Frida the Mexican sky was blazing liquid amber, a turquoise jewel, a mantle of crushed sapphires. Not just a mass of grimy air. Not just what it was. To Frida, nothing was ever what it really was. She lived in her own imaginary world. Of course, he found that charming, but to tell you the truth, she could overdo it. She could get on your nerves. But maybe it wasn’t her fault, because when you’re endlessly being teased, endlessly being called a Jew and a foreigner, it’s easy to turn into a zealot. On the other hand, she provoked people. Sometimes she was so blunt and confrontational that she brought out the worst in everyone around her.

Or maybe not. After all, who am I to try to explain things? You figure out what was going on in her head, for God’s sake. You’re the doctor!

All I’m saying is, well, I think you know what I’m talking about because you’re a foreigner yourself. You know what it’s like to feel like an outsider, although you can’t begin to compare what we went through with the situation that exists now. Anyway, you’re a respected person, a psychiatrist. We were just impressionable little girls, and for us, always being called aliens, Hebrews, immigrants—all that took its toll. On Frida, especially, because she was the aggressive one, the one who was always in the middle of the fray. That’s something else that he loved about her, her feistiness, although sometimes I think she played that role just to keep his attention. I mean, she was feisty all right, feisty by nature, but later on, that feistiness got to be part of her act. And he was an actor too. The revolutionary. Muralist for the masses. It was all part of his persona.

For her, showing she was as Mexican as anybody and more Mexican than most became an obsession. You know, Frida was born in 1907, on July 6, to be exact, but she always said she was born in 1910, the year the Mexican Revolution started. She wanted to be a true daughter of the new Mexico, down to the date of her birth.

Sometimes she would close her eyes and proclaim, all exalted, I’m as Mexican as the eagle that spreads its wings of snow and ash and sails through the air, grazing the stratosphere with its powerful beak!

And dropping shit all over my murals! he would answer. And we’d laugh and laugh.

Those long Indian dresses she wore, people said they were to hide her crippled leg or to disguise her limp, but that was only part of it. She wanted to make a point of her mexicanidad—her solidarity with the common people of Mexico—even though we had as much Indian blood flowing in our veins as the ocean has honey. No, that’s not really true. Mami’s father was an Indian from Morelos. The point is, Frida wanted to be identified with the revolutionary cause, especially since he was so important in the movement. And the other thing is, she liked to stand out in a crowd.

What do you mean I’m digressing again?

Ah, yes, I was telling you the other day about how Frida always protected me. Always. Even when we were little. I was telling you about the day we ran away from school.

When we realized how late it was, we took off toward home, praying that Mami hadn’t heard what had happened and gone totally berserk. Unfortunately, Miss Caballero had sent an attendant home with the news that we had escaped. Attendant—that’s the name we used so we didn’t have to call them servants, so we could pretend we were democratic and respected everybody, so we could convince ourselves we didn’t consider them just Indians who jumped and hopped at our bidding. This attendant’s name was Arturo. Miss Caballero always said he had the face of a calf that just had its throat slit.

On the road, Arturo ran into Conchita, who was on her way to pick us up.

When Mami heard we had escaped from that hell they called a kindergarten, instead of thinking things through and just waiting for us to come back, she sent Manuel, the houseboy, all the way to Papá’s studio in Mexico City to give him the news.

I can just imagine Manuel, so ancient and gnarled, bursting into Papá’s darkroom and announcing, The children are missing!

I can imagine Papá, with that half-crazed look of his, staring at Manuel and trying to force the information into his brain. I can conjure up the scene as if I had been there. Papá is looking at Manuel with dazed eyes, trying to assimilate what he’s saying.

Señor! The little girls are missing! They left school, and no one knows where they are. Miss Caballero sent a messenger to the house. The señora is frantic!

Papá is mute.

Your daughters, Señor!

My daughters? Guillermo Kahlo begins to process the message. Diamonds of sweat form on his brow.

You have to understand that in those times, a missing child could be a dead child. We grew up during the dictatorship of Victoriano Huerta, who came to power in 1913. Huerta’s men were known to snatch little ones off the playground in order to coerce or punish their families. Zapata sympathizers, like our parents, were ready targets. The Huertista big shots made a show of their respectability—after all, they had wrenched power from the rebels and returned order to society, hadn’t they?—but they had goons to do their dirty work, and these men knew no mercy. They would just as soon slice the throat of a cherubic three-year-old as that of a goat. Children were easy pawns in the power game.

I’m sure that when Papá finally assimilated Manuel’s message, he dropped whatever pictures he was developing and ran out the door, probably leaving chemicals all over the counter and forgetting to put on his hat.

What kind of a father was he? What does that have to do with the story? What I’m trying to explain to you is how good Frida was to me, so you’ll quit implying that I—that I did what I did because I resented her … or hated her. I know that’s what you’re getting at.

What difference does it make about Papá?

All right, I’ll tell you about Papá. Let me think a minute. He was a strange man. As a father, he was detached, forbidding even. But deep in his heart, he loved us, especially Frida. For him, Frida was everything, maybe because she was like him, brilliant, driven, crazy. For him, Frida was the last hard-boiled egg at the picnic, the last aspirin in the medicine cabinet, the last pitcher of punch in the icebox. Frida the imp. Frida the troublemaker. Frida was the one who went with him on his walks. They would examine flowers or collect stones together, organizing them by size and color. Sometimes I’d tag along too, but I always felt out of place, like a chicken in the wrong coop. Papá hoped that Frida would be a scientist someday, or maybe a doctor. He would sit her on his knee and stare into space looking unhinged and otherworldly, like a saint witnessing the Resurrection.

As for me, he thought I’d become what I became: nothing.

So, I’m sure the thought of Frida in danger zapped him like a bolt of lightning, leaving his poor brain completely scrambled.

In the meantime, Frida and I were cautiously approaching the house, which looked, from a distance, like a gigantic cake smothered with blue icing. The beams and window frames were cinnamon sticks and chocolate candies. It was a sprawling house in the old Spanish colonial style with narrow shuttered windows that opened to the street. Inside, interconnecting rooms enclosed a large patio, where terra-cotta pots held geraniums and flowering cacti. A few years before Frida was born, Papá had the house built and painted it a deep royal. From as far back as I can remember, everyone called it the Casa Azul.

My sister had put up a brave front on the way home, but I could see now that she was really frightened.

Maybe we could sneak in and go to our room, she whispered to me, and pretend we were there all the time.

You think it would work?

Maybe. She tried to sound convincing, but we both knew that Mami had probably torn up the house looking for us. In my mind, I could see trinkets crashing against walls, while Mami cursed the Apostles, Miss Caballero, and especially the lunk of a husband that had given her such wayward children.

Let’s try to find Conchita first, suggested Frida.

We slipped around the side of the house and into the kitchen. Conchita wasn’t there, but Inocencia, the cook, was down on her knees praying to the Virgin of Guadalupe at the small altar by the pantry: "Poor children … villains … assassins … Virgen Madre … bring them home …"

This looks bad, whispered Frida.

I started to whimper softly. Frida brought her index finger to her lips, signaling me to be quiet. Chst! Shut up, you baby! she hissed.

The cook continued to pray, tears rolling down her heavy brown cheeks.

Frida snuck up behind her, then touched her gently on the shoulder. Inocencia! she said softly.

Startled, the cook recoiled, then opened her eyes wide. Fridita!

Frida giggled, and I smiled hesitantly. Inocencia, still on her knees, hugged us and began to wail: "¡Oh, gracias a Dios! Thank God! Oh, Holy Virgin, thank you!" She dragged her ungainly body to a standing position, then poured us some juice and put tortillas on a plate.

Where have you been? she pretended to scold. Your poor mami is crazy with worry. You have to go right now and tell her you’re safe.

I was wolfing down tortillas, but Frida just stood there, biting her lip.

Why don’t you just tell her we’ve been here with you all the time, she proposed after a while.

Ah, no. Doña Matilde would have my hide. Anyhow, she’d never believe it. They’ve searched the entire house, and your mami sent two of the boys to look for you in the streets. They even sent Manuel to town to get your papá.

They sent for Papá? Oh, no! wailed Frida. We should go throw ourselves in the river and let the boys find us. That way we could say we were drowning and thank God they saved us just in time. Mami would be so happy to have us back, she’d forget to scream.

Never mind, chided Inocencia with pretend gruffness. You’d better just go tell your mami you’re home safe and face the music.

Come on, Inocencia, said Frida, help us out. She cuddled up to the cook and kissed her on the cheek. Frida was good at sweet-talking people into doing what she wanted.

Let’s go, Cristi, she said, nudging me. We’re going back to the river.

But I was too engrossed in clumsily spreading avocado over a warm tortilla.

Come on, dummy! Will you stop eating? No wonder you’re such a tub!

I snatched a piece of avocado peel and threw it at her. Leave me alone! It’s your fault we’re in trouble. I’m going to Mami.

That really raised her hackles. I certainly wasn’t Mami’s favorite—she preferred the older girls, Matilde and Adriana—but she tolerated me better than she did Frida. If she had to choose one of us to believe, she’d opt for me over my cheeky sister.

So we’re in trouble, snapped Frida. So what? Lick your wounds and stop sniveling.

I was already tearing toward the door.

Stop, stupid! Think a minute. We can get ourselves out of this. We’ll just say we were kidnapped by one of those government guys they’re always talking about, the ones that snatch you up and carry you off in big black cars. Let’s see. They were tough … and mean. And they had guns as long as a bull’s prick. Only we managed to escape through the window. Boy, after a scare like that, Mami would be thrilled to have us back. Unless, of course, you ruin everything.

I started to howl. Mami! Here we are, Mami!

Mami was giving instructions to one of the servants in a different part of the house, and she wasn’t sure whether she had heard me cry or whether her imagination was playing tricks on her. Years later she told me that she had been hearing