Becoming Marta by Canales Lorea

Author:Canales, Lorea [Canales, Lorea]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781503952614
Published: 2016-02-01T08:00:00+00:00

30

The Store

Following her banker’s suggestion, Marta stayed at the Mandarin Oriental in the Time Warner Center. She booked herself in one of the priciest rooms, while Mau reserved the cheapest. He made sure of this by asking three times if they could get him a cheaper room. After settling in, they met in the lobby to go shopping before heading to Adriana’s opening. Marta wanted to go to Bergdorf Goodman, and Mau coveted a pair of shoes from Tod’s. Marta turned into a voracious predator. She scoured the entire store, filling up an immense fitting room and trying on clothes for almost two hours. Mau waited patiently on a settee, venturing the occasional opinion. Marta bought so much stuff that they had the bags delivered directly to the hotel so they wouldn’t have to carry them.

It’s my life, thought Marta, mine and no one else’s. It’s my life until God or cancer or the fairies take it from me. Until then it’s my life, and I’ll make of it what I want.

The anxiety resurfaced as soon as she was done shopping. Marta craved something else—no, she was dying for—a snort, a blunt, a drink, a cigarette, anything to calm her, anything to extinguish the anxiety poking at her like a thousand pinpricks all over her body.

“Mau, you got anything on you?” she asked, feeling pallid.

“No. You want some coffee?”

“Fucking coffee? Can’t you come up with something better?”

“How about a drink?”

“Yes.”

“At the Four Seasons?”

“Let’s go.”

They walked along Fifty-Eighth Street to the hotel. Its scale made them feel grand and small at the same time. They sat on the bar’s comfortable red leather seats. Marta asked for a martini and then another. She started feeling better. She’d tried on everything that caught her eye and bought half of what she modeled in front of the mirror. Four or five pairs of pants, three or four dresses. How many pairs of shoes? She’d lost count. She had wanted everything. She would’ve sworn that she needed everything. Her mammoth hunger seemed to capsize onto the store. Yet she felt incredibly empty. Shopping had always been a ritual she’d shared with her mother. Well, with her or against her but always alongside her. They’d agree on outfits, admire each other, and share tips while shopping. Marta knew exactly how her mother liked her to dress: black made her look pale; navy blue was elegant; mustard yellow didn’t work on her in bright light; gabardine made her eyes stand out. Of course, white always looked good on her. Red required judicious use—never red on the lips; that was only for whores. Clothes had to look polished without advertising their cost. Brands had to be worn inside because it was in bad taste to serve as a designer’s billboard. Marta also knew what her mother didn’t like. “Don’t look men in the eyes . . . You’re too old for miniskirts and you should learn to close your legs . . . You look like a punk, like a puta, like you’re crazy.

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