That January, we three sisters went with our mother to spend her last weeks in Acapulco. Her worsening condition was a clear warning that it was time to take the trip without delay. Each of us arranged to get away from work and our families so we could parcel out the days in their solar cadence, which was precisely what would ultimately define our time together. We had asked to borrow the house with a view of La Roqueta from Aunt Clara, whom we hadn’t seen in a long time, ever since her husband, who was our father’s cousin, died years before. Fermina came up with the idea because Mamá no longer required the hustle and bustle of days at the beach. All she wanted was a little peace, a pretty view, and the physical well-being that comes with living at sea level. We thought the house might be a tad run-down, like many of the mansions in that area that had been so elegant back in the forties. But our aunt, delighted with our suggestion, insisted since the place was so rarely used now that all her children lived abroad. There were enough rooms for us, she said, all with en suite bathrooms, as well as chef, service, and maid staff. We’d be catered to like kings. Like queens, she corrected herself.
And just like little queens, we submitted to the dubious coexistence of three sisters for fifteen days in the company of our mother, who was hard of hearing and didn’t speak much, but smiled a lot, as if by simply exposing her teeth to the light, she could convey the pleasure this obligatory vacation inspired in her. The days were long and slow, each of us getting up at whatever time she felt like, except for the one whose turn it was to sleep with Mamá, help her with her bath, and have the first coffee of the day with her, at whatever time that happened to be. That’s why Mamá took the room with two big beds, which, although you had to use the funicular to get down there, was also the most comfortable, the closest to the pool, and the one with the best view.
Everything in that terraced house was downhill. Like the mansions on the adjoining properties, it had been built on a big rocky bluff that curved seaward and faced La Roqueta Island, a place frequented by tourists and which we knew as children back in the days when the drunken donkey was an awkward attraction, with his colorful serape and the beer they forced down his muzzle. We hadn’t cared much for that. But the virgin submerged in the sea, who could be observed from the glass-bottomed boat that sailed out to the island, was a revelation that gave us something both to dream about and fear. Nailed to the sea floor so she wouldn’t float to the surface like some drowning victim, her job was to watch over the fishermen, the boatman said. But she wasn’t protecting us from the jaws of time, which had been grinding us down to this moment when our family was being stalked by death: Mamá was on the cusp of her eighty-eighth year.
When we arrived, the four of us had nothing to say on the first terrace until we descended to the lower level of the house, where the sea unfolded before us as if we had just walked into a picture postcard that had been hidden by the facades on the street. We sat in the little funicular car secured to rails that traveled down the steep slope, and toured the different levels with bedrooms, a living and dining room, and a swimming pool, until we reached the lower level where we settled in Mamá and Fortunata, who had been the first in our lottery to draw the role of caretaker. During that slow and rather terrifying descent, you couldn’t help but think about what would happen if the steel cables of the old funicular were to snap, plunging all of us into the steel-blue Pacific Ocean.
The contrast between Aunt Clara’s well-kept home and the run-down house on its starboard side was striking. The metal cage of the cable car, which protected us while permitting a view of the landscape, let us peek over at the empty swimming pool, the cut masonry construction, the railings crowned with swan sculptures that encircled the terrace and the staircase that snaked down the cliff amid overgrown vegetation, and the faded walls of what were once bedrooms, living rooms, a dining room, and, as Fermina and I would later discover, a saltwater pool at the end of the funicular tracks. The hole where the sea must once have entered, so people could enjoy the salt water without being exposed to the rough surf pounding the rocks at the shoreline, was now blocked up with stones.
That first day, between the flight, the long trip from the airport to the house, getting settled in our rooms, familiarizing ourselves with the operation of the funicular, calling Silverio, meeting the cook to plan our future menus, and appreciating the beauty of the white and blue décor of the cool house with its bold architectural style, we didn’t register the significance of the house next door. That afternoon marked all the rest of our afternoons, when, still in our bathing suits and wrapped in colorful sarongs, no longer wearing our hats for protection from the scorching sun, and with Mamá sporting her long orange cover-up, we settled in to watch the sunset from the terrace around the pool where we had spent the day. We saw a number of speedboats whizzing by, heading toward the horizon to secure the best seats in the house, followed by a large yacht whose loudspeaker shattered our afternoon calm. We were alerted to our unique location when the voice announced: . . . And up there on the mountain stands the house of Dolores del Río. The tour guide went on to list the films in which the Mexican actress had starred during the golden age of our national cinema. We explained all this to Mamá, bending close to her good ear and speaking slowly so that she would understand why we were so amazed. Suddenly, the carved swans on the balustrades, the wild vegetation, and the crumbling swimming pools seemed to preen to show off their past glories: the women dressed in long, flowing palazzo pajamas, dark sunglasses, and tiny sandals with pink tassels, the champagne flutes filled with colored liqueurs on trays held by white-gloved hands, the songs of Agustín Lara and Nat King Cole, João Gilberto’s bossa nova, and a trio strumming the guests’ heartstrings and accompanying evening dips in a pool filled with water stolen from the sea.
Along with tourists on the vessel crowned with strings of little banners, we gazed raptly at the silent, deserted house and then back at the tangerine-colored sky, which turned purple and then faded to pink. We placed the pool chairs pointing in the same direction as the bow of the ship and only turned our heads again to look when night fell, and the hustle and bustle of the now brightly lit yacht jolted us out of our reverie. On its return voyage, the house next door was no longer news. Fueled by the sunset and the occasional drink, the passengers were dancing with each other. We envied their liveliness and festive atmosphere.
On the following afternoons, the same thing happened. Before we took our showers to rinse away the day’s heat and our sun lotion, we would prepare for the dinner that Silverio served us in the dining room, facing the bay’s lights on the other side of the cliff. During the day, we chatted freely about anything and everything, glossy magazines spread open on our legs, now and again attempting to lose ourselves in our books. Fortunata sunbathing heedlessly, Fermina always protected in the shade and covered up, me in the dappled shadows of the tree, and Mamá alternating between sun and shade, happy to slip into the sun-warm pool, smiling to be in the company of us three as she dissolved her more than eight decades of life in the sweet, soothing water. Then she would surprise us with the strength of her voice and memory, as if she were taking little sips from a fountain of youth that was inspiring her to tell us astonishing things. For example, a dream she had of a man who hugged her from behind and whose bulging penis she was alarmed to feel pressing up against her body. We looked at her, dumbfounded, thinking that maybe the story was from her salad days. But when did that happen, Mamá? Last night, she answered. We laughed, keen to hear more, but then she sank back into the silence that had become a hallmark of her physical decline, much like her unsteady gait and labored breathing.
When there was bad weather, we consoled each other about the care she no longer lavished on us, our incongruous role as our mother’s mothers, and we reminisced about the other Acapulcos. The little Boca Chica girls, the ones Mamá dressed in bathing suits from a store on the slope of La Quebrada; the girls who ate chocolate cake in the afternoon at the Mirador; the kids from Hornos Beach; the ones eating disgusting, raw oysters from La Condesa or having croquettes at the Elcano; the girls who stayed at home waiting for their parents, who had gone out to the Whisky a Go Go with their friends; the ones with air mattresses at Revolcadero Beach, who snuck onto the Acapulco Princess; the girls who were fitted with their very first tampons; the teenagers begging for permission to go to the Tiberios disco; and then all three of us coming back to Acapulco years later with our boyfriends, our husbands, and our children.
Emma, Fermina, do you remember Mamá’s bikini? It was in that photo where she’s hugging us; it was the green one with the high-cut panties and the underwire bra top. She wore her hair all done up and did the sidestroke in the pool, so her bouffant wouldn’t get flattened. Mamá. We were frightened to see her frailty, not only because it had once seemed so far off, but also because it might mirror our own destinies. She, who devoured books and had baptized us after characters in novels by Galdós, García Márquez, and Flaubert. Not even our father knew the provenance of our names. He let himself be swayed by the beauty of the sounds, by the double M in my name, and the originality of each of them. Over time, we discovered ourselves in the books we read. Fortunata felt beautified by the unbridled sensuality of her character, Fermina felt herself the object of impossible love, and I was both dreamy and apprehensive of the consequences of bearing the name of an unfaithful woman. Mamá’s eyes had exiled any books in which the conspiring letters piled up and jostled without order or harmony amongst each other. That’s why, now that beauty had set sail for the horizon, we anticipated our own sunsets like young ladies awaiting a serenade on the balcony.
On the third afternoon, Mamá asked for her makeup bag, and she applied some lipstick. Fermina put her hair up and donned the earrings she had taken off to swim. Fortunata placed a flower in her mahogany-colored mane. I tied my sarong around my neck in a halter-style, just as I had once done in the years of warm beaches and furtive loves. And, sitting in our pool chairs, we awaited the advent of the motorboats, like a flock of gulls defining the coastline, and after that, the party ship that rose into view between the island and the cliff where we were living.
Mamá smiled as the speaker blasted out the prelude to sunset. First call. When the yacht passed in front of us and we heard . . . And over there stands the house of Dolores del Río . . . we turned our heads to look at the derelict mansion and, along with the passengers, we rescued it in our imaginations from its lost grandeur. By the weekend, we were following the words on the loudspeaker with a playful choreography in which all four—because Mamá had begun to imitate us—spread out our arms in unison as if we were bowing, and then gestured toward the house next door. Certainly, by the time the sky was on fire, we were all tipsy, except for Mamá, who was not allowed to drink. So, by the time the yacht returned with its well-oiled party-guests, we were all dancing with each other on the terrace, and we lifted Mamá out of her chair so we could sway around with her, momentarily forgetting her infirmity and old age.
On the days that followed, at the mention of Dolores del Río, we would eagerly assume our roles as actors in the scenic tour, perhaps even in a lie, shouting like a bunch of wild women: She lived over there!
Those women you see there, now transformed into statues, were once merrymakers at the parties the actress gave at her home, accompanied by Rock Hudson, María Félix, and Elizabeth Taylor, announced Fermina. She was a professor of literature and, recalling the teenagers posing for the passengers at train windows in a short story by Cortázar, she asked us to assume poses and attitudes. Mamá loved the idea and, after hearing our hoots and hollers calling the passengers to look our way, she saw us freeze in extravagant positions, and, although she was in her chair, she followed suit, her lips orange and gleaming.
On our penultimate evening in Acapulco, Fortunata suggested we switch up our routine. We all protested, because no one wanted to have dinner early and miss the sunset. But she clarified her scheme: we should bathe before sunset and dress elegantly to live up to the parties Dolores del Río used to throw, thereby enhancing the spectacle for the passengers on the party yacht. Mamá enthusiastically agreed, and I, whose turn it was to care for her that night, attended to her attire and hairstyle, fastening a silver choker around her neck and slipping on her tinkling bracelets. We took the funicular one floor up to where my sisters were waiting for us, and Silverio served us glasses of sparkling wine, which, this time, Mamá did not refuse. We sat in our chairs looking out toward the horizon, where the line of boats and the bow of the yacht were moving out toward the dazzling colors of the dying sun. Cheers! we said and forgot all about the photo we had wanted to take, because every second seemed to count.
The boat ended its boring speech about La Roqueta and the opportunity to sample the catch of the day, and the people turned their gazes to the starboard side: And there stands the house of Dolores del Río, crowning glory of our national cinema! And we burst into histrionic cheers, beckoning to them with our gestures. Come one, come all, called Mamá. The party’s over here, Fermina shouted, and Fortunata displayed a bit more cleavage. We toasted, raising our glasses to the salmon-colored sky and the stunned silence of the ship, which, to our astonishment, came to a halt and turned toward the bluff and in our direction. We just stood there, stuffed like sausages into our evening attire from all the eating and drinking. Mamá kept saying a timid Cheers! without realizing what had happened. There was a dock no one had used for years. The ship turned its stern toward the colors of twilight, clad its hull in an orange glow, and headed in our direction. When we saw it kiss the edge of the cliff, we ran in panic upstairs to our bedrooms because the funicular, summoned by the new arrivals, was already on its way down the slope. Each of us thought the others had taken care of Mamá. And we forgot her.
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When I awoke with the soft light of dawn on my face, I saw the curtains had been left open, and my blue cocktail dress was twisted around my body. Startled, I looked over at the other bed. Mamá, in her white linen blouse, her bracelets still on her wrists, and her orange lipstick smudged, was sound asleep.