14 September

Today General Wrong Turn got lost on the way to the house in Coyoacán where he lived for forty-one years. The errand was the usual, taking food to Señor Kahlo. When César first began driving Guillermo Kahlo around for making his photographs, it was in a carriage. Not a motor coach in all Mexico City, he says, and those were the good days. It’s true that horses have certain advantages: namely, knowing the way home.

It’s strange every time, returning to the Allende Street house where Señora Frida marched home from the Melchor market that birthday long ago, a stranger, with a shy boy carrying her bags because Every Man has the Right to make a Kite from his Pants. And in the courtyard inside, the Painter sat under the trees reading his newspaper, waiting to be found, all on a chance. How strange that a boy could make a kite of his pants, fly them around the world, and somehow arrive back at the house where everything began.

1 October

A tiresome day. Being the Painter’s typist is harder than mixing his plaster. The worst of it isn’t the typing but his interrogations. He says cleverness in a servant is not always a good thing. Candelaria, for example, could straighten all the papers on his desk and come away with no more idea of what’s written there than Fulang Chang the monkey. And the master doesn’t hold Fulang Chang entirely above suspicion. Only the illiterate, wide-eyed Candelaria. “How about you?” he needled. “What did you see just now, while you were typing the invoice letters?”

“Nothing, Señor Rivera.”

“Nothing, including the official letterhead of the President of the Republic? You didn’t notice a letter from Cárdenas?”

“Señor, I have to admit, that did catch my eye. The seals are outstanding. But you’re an important person. Commissions from the government are nothing exceptional. I didn’t care enough to read the letter, that’s the truth. I’m uncurious about politics.”

He closed his newspaper, took the glasses off his nose, and stared across the room from the armchair where he likes to sit while reading and dictating. “Uncurious?”

“Señor Rivera, you stand for the people, anyone can see the good of that. But leaders all seem the same, no matter what they promise. In the end they’ll let the poor people go to the dogs.”

“A cynic! A rarity, in revolutionary Mexico. In your age group, anyway.”

“I didn’t go to university. Perhaps that’s helped me maintain my position.”

“A severe young man. You allow for no exceptions?”

“Exceptions haven’t presented themselves. I read the newspapers a little. Which I take from your studio when you’re finished, señor. I offer that confession.”

“Here, take this one too, it’s nothing but junk.” He folded it and tossed it at the desk. “Did you ever hear of a man named Trotsky?”

“No, sir. Is he a Pole?”

“A Russian. There’s a letter from him over there as well. In the same stack with the president’s.”

“That one I did not see, Señor Rivera. I swear it’s the truth.”

“I’m not accusing. The point I want to make is that you’re wrong, idealism does exist. Have you heard of the Russian Revolution at least?”

“Yes, sir. Lenin. He got you in trouble with the gringos on your mural.”

“That one. Leader of the Bolsheviks. He sent the monarchs packing, along with all the rich bloodsuckers living off the workers and peasants. He put the workers and peasants in charge. What do you say about that?”

“With no disrespect, señor, I would say, how long did he last?”

“Through the revolution and seven years after. He did what was best for his people, until death. All the while living in a rather cold little apartment in Moscow.”

“It’s admirable, señor. And then he was murdered?”

“He died of a stroke. With two men poised to succeed him: one with scruples, the other with cunning. I suppose you’ll say it’s predictable, the cunning one took power.”

“Did he?”

“He did. Stalin. A selfish, power-mad bureaucrat, everything you seem to require in a leader of men.”

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s not that I want to be right about this.”

“But I contend you are not. The other one, with scruples, could just as easily be in charge now. He was Lenin’s right hand and best friend. Elected president of the Petrograd Soviet, a populist, certain to succeed Lenin. Different in every way from Stalin, who was infatuated with party bureaucracy. How could the people fail to support the populist over the bureaucrat?”

“And yet they failed to do so?”

“Only thanks to an accident of history.”

“Ah. The populist with scruples was murdered.”

“No, to Stalin’s frustration, he remains alive in exile. Writing strategic theory, organizing support for a democratic People’s Republic. And avoiding Stalin’s ant colony of assassins, who are crawling over the earth right now looking for him.”

“It’s a good story, señor. Strictly from the point of view of plot. May I ask, what was the accident of history?”

“You can ask the man himself. He’ll be here in a few months.”

“Here?”

“Here. It’s the Trotsky I mentioned, the letter lying over there on the desk under Cárdenas. I’ve asked the president to grant him political asylum under my custody.”

So. For this, all the questions and mystery. The Painter stood grinning, his hair in an unruly halo around his head, or perhaps it was a devil’s horns. His smile underlined by double chins. “Well, my young friend. Do you remain uncurious?”

“Señor, I confess, I maintain that position with increasing difficulty.”

8 October

Sometimes when the Painter is reading over the day’s typing, there’s time to look at the books in his library. The whole wall is shelves. On the bottom are Frida’s wooden-spined box folders where she files the household papers. Each one she has identified with a picture drawn on its spine: a naked woman, for Diego’s personal letters. The Evil Eye, for hers. The one for accounting has only a dollar sign.

The rest is books, a wall of them about everything: political theory, mathematical theory, European art, Hinduism. One shelf the length of the room is devoted to Mexico’s ancient people: archaeology, mythology. Scientific journals on the antiquities, which look tedious. But others are fascinating. The Painter took one down to show it off: a codex. Made a hundred years ago by monks, who labored to make exact replicas of the ancient books the Mexica people made on thick tree-bark paper. It didn’t have pages exactly, but was one long folded panel like an accordion. The ancient language is pictures, little figures. Here, a man cut in half. There, men standing in boats, rowing.