Dulce's Bust

It was in Chihuahua that I first became acquainted with the cruelties that can be wrought by fame, fortune, and beauty, for it was there that I met a woman who had been marred by all three since birth.  Her name was Dulce-- the Spanish word for ''sweet''-- and already in her teens she had been christened by society as ''the legend of Chihuahua.''  It seems fitting then, given the incessant worship she received, that I should meet her at a party thrown in her honor, for I was at Dulce's house to celebrate her 30th birthday.

From the moment my friend Abiel and I arrived, I began to see how Dulce's life was ordered.  The house itself was huge, placed firmly in the most exclusive gated community in Chihuahua.  From the outside one saw the ornate windows and the attractive, well-kept façade.  Inside one was met with spacious rooms, vaulted ceilings, and hand-carved wooden tables gilded with solid gold.  Beautiful Egyptian-made chairs with intricate designs further added to the awesome display of wealth.  Yet as I admired the furniture, I couldn't help but notice the otherwise empty, white-walled rooms.  There were no pictures, no books, no plants or paintings or signs of any life.  It was as if wealth had been simply dumped into the cold, hollow rooms to try to fill them up, like money stuffed in a hole to plug a leak.

When I finally met Dulce she was sitting upon a leather couch, watching a monstrougly large television that, along with the couch, herself, and a bust, almost fully described the items in the room.  At first I didn't even notice the bust, so transfixed was I by the strange and indifferent expression on Dulce's face; she showed no interest at all in the show she was watching.  And while the bust had momentarily escaped my attention, it was soon reverently introduced to me by the friend with whom I'd arrived.  It was a life-size mold of a human body-- Dulce's-- from shoulder down to mid-thigh.  Cast in a ghastaly green glass, the mold had been taken naked, unabashedly exposing each rich curve for the viewer to admire.

Yet as I turned to compliment Dulce on the bust, a compliment which was clearly expected by all present, I was suddenly struck by the contrast between her past and current glory.  She'd lost a lot of weight; she'd later tell me she had been having trouble sleeping and was on anti-depressants.  Her long, once-blond hair looked brittle and grayed, like dried straw turning to dust.  Her skin was pallid; her fingers long, narrow tendrils which only added to the look of emaciation so strongly hinted at by her tall, thin form.  She was still called beautiful, and in truth there was a beauty to her face when she smiled, but like the smiles themselves it was a rare and transitory thing.

At first glance the bust had seemed to me an expression of vanity, but looking at Dulce I saw it now in a different light: it was a sad monument to the sun-lit pinnacle of her life, and with every passing year it became an ever-deeper testament to the tragedy of her fading youth.  It was a melancholy anchor, and looking at Dulce now I felt myself grow sad.

We went to the store-- her, Abiel, and me-- to buy food for the party.  With frozen pizza and uncooked pasta we returned to Dulce's home to find she was out of gas.  We couldn't cook anything.  I remember thinking how odd it was that one of the richest women in Chihuahua should run out of gas, but also thinking about what a poignant metaphor it was.  For all the luxury and presentation, she was out of gas.  There was nothing left.

So we went to her sister's, who has four children and plans to start a business.  There was gas there and we cooked the food.  I was in charge of the pizzas, but the oven had only one rack, and so could only fit one pizza at a time.  And by the time the second pizza was done, the first was cold again.  The pasta kept boiling and boiling but it seemed like it would never get done.  Meanwhile I kept switching the pizzas out-- being unsure when the pasta would be ready-- but no matter what I did it seemed like one pizza was always cold.  I remember staring down at one of the cold pizzas lying there on the counter, so cold and miserable, and for some reason thinking of the bust in Dulce's living room and wishing I could just keep this pizza warm, like that would mean something.  But I couldn't.

Back at the party, eating pasta alfredo and lukewarm pizza, we celebrated Dulce's birthday party.  The image of the bust was still stuck in my head, so I asked Dulce if it'd be ok to take a picture of it, thinking maybe that would help.  A rare smile crossed her lips and she said of course.  ''It's very interesting,'' I added, trying perhaps to justify myself.  She laughed, flattered, and added coquettishly, ''well, it's me!''  And, in a wave of sudden pity, all I could think was, ''no, it was.''