The Memories of Ana Calderón (30 page)

She kept quiet because she was picturing herself on her knees. “When I was a little girl, my aunt took me to the Shrine of Guadalupe in Mexico City where I saw a woman on her knees. She was crying and her puffed eyes told me that she had been sobbing for days, maybe even weeks. My aunt told me that the woman had surely committed a grave sin and was now penitent. The image of that woman has stayed with me ever since.”

Ezra shifted his bulky body in the chair to get a better look at Ana. The left side of his face seemed to sag more than ever, and the reflection from the fireplace accentuated the deep cracks that rimmed his lips. He sighed deeply. “I wish that I were a religious man, but I'm not. I know the words
sin
and
penitent
, but I don't understand them. I just know one thing. I don't want you to go on hurting. Let go of it, please. I mean, let go of the pain and the hate.”

I didn't let go of the pain or the hate because I had already wrapped myself inside of those feelings, as if they had been hardened skin that nothing could scratch, much less penetrate. I felt alone, even in the company of others, and although I tried to awaken the attraction for men that I had once felt for Octavio, I couldn't. I was empty and dry. It was as if I had become sexless. No one, nothing aroused me.

When Ezra asked me to take responsibility for the accounts of the business, overlooking its cash flow and expansion plans, I was happy to plunge into the Fuermann business, working intently, hoping to forget the dryness inside of me.

As the years passed, my position in Ezra's business expanded and I gradually became wealthy. I liked it very much because I discovered that having money helped me forget what I had lost. I bought a town house in the Fairfax
District and moved out of the small room I used to rent. I was glad about that, too, because it took me far away from the barrio that brought me bad memories. Nevertheless, I often thought of the palapa where I was born and of my mother's soapy arms as she stuck the chocolate-colored nipple of her breast into a baby's mouth. And no matter how much money I made, the image of my mother's open legs and a tiny head appearing from between them hardly ever left me.

No one knew these things about me. No one imagined where I had come from or that I had been a prison inmate just a few years before or that I had been forced to struggle for a living on a bleak chicken ranch. No one dreamed that I had a son who had been taken from me.

But when I looked in the mirror, I knew who I was, and hardly a day passed that I didn't remember the details of my life. If I abandoned myself to the agitated business of work, it was only to still those memories. Whenever I sat in conference or interviewed an employee or traveled to other parts of the world, it was to fill the emptiness inside of me. The desire for fashionable clothing, jewelry, and fine surroundings—a feeling that intensified in me with each year—was just another thing that helped me forget the bitterness that welled up inside me, especially at night.

The fifties crept by and disappeared. Ezra continued living, and now that I look back, I'm convinced that it was because of me. He hoped, I think, to live to see me happy. But he died in 1962, leaving me with the memory of being loved by him. He also left me his enterprise and estate.

By 1965, Ana had become very wealthy; her friends and associates suspected that her fortune measured in the millions. Calderón Enterprises, as her corporation was now called, had tripled in size and output since the days of Ezra Fuermann. The company now included high fashion in both men's and women's apparel, and new plants were set up on the East Coast as well as in Chicago, New Orleans, Houston and San Francisco. This growth culminated in the erection of a twelve-story building located on Wilshire Boulevard. It
became the corporate headquarters for the business.

Although she surrounded herself with energetic professionals who could have run the enterprise for her, Ana managed her affairs directly, and she seemed inexhaustible as she dealt with one task after the other. She kept personal control of the finances of the corporation as well as the hiring and firing of upper management. Friday morning was the center of the business week for Calderón Enterprises because, beginning at 7 a.m., Ana held private sessions during which her managers reported to her. They presented themselves in groups. First Personnel and Resources, followed by Communications and Transportation. After these came Finances and Marketing.

She had made a singular reputation for herself among her staff members. On the one hand, Ana was perceived as willing to help and always open to suggestions; on the other, it was known that if contradicted or dissatisfied, she was prone to harshness. It was common knowledge that she demanded directness, honesty and promptness. If she asked for a report and gave a time and date for its presentation, she expected her request to be honored exactly. When someone hedged or sidestepped one of her questions or doubts, she cut him or her off curtly. She often said that she had no patience for pussyfooting.

Her associates and employees had a high regard for her but they realized that they knew little about her and that she was for the most part enshrouded in mystery. No one knew of her beginnings or of her family. It was known that she was unmarried, and curiosity was common regarding her past and whether or not she had ever had a husband or children. Everyone around her knew that she was intensely reserved and they could only guess at what she thought. One thing was certain: no employee had ever been taken into her confidence or into the inner aspects of her life.

To all appearances, Ana lead a sumptuous existence, and her personal attire was the first proof of this. She was forty-five years old, yet she had retained a youthful, slim figure and her face had become more beautiful. To match her looks, she wore clothing exclusively made by leading fashion designers; her suits and dresses were always fabricated of imported silks and linens. Her love of quality jewelry intensified, prompting the secretaries surrounding her to remark among
themselves that if what she wore sparkled, it was a true diamond; if it glittered, it was solid gold.

Another sign of the elegance of Ana's life was the mansion she had recently constructed on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was a sprawling, white stucco Spanish-style house which had large plate glass windows as its mark of distinction. There was hardly any area in the place from which the ocean could not be seen. Behind the building Ana had a small stable where she kept horses, because riding had become her favorite pastime over the years.

Ana now owned a limousine and a Rolls Royce, and each automobile had its assigned driver. For cross-country trips, she had a private plane accommodated with conference, dining, sleeping, and dressing areas, and it was aboard this plane that she conducted much of her business. Both at home and at travel, she had a private secretary, a woman, who accompanied her and was at her service any time of day or night.

This was Ana Calderón, the successful business woman everyone saw; the one admired and respected by most people, envied and hated by a few. The private Ana, however, was unchanged from her early beginnings. At night she still wrestled with her memories of poverty and hatred, and during the day, whenever she was alone, she turned inwardly, scrutinizing the steps that had brought her to the present.

What gnawed at Ana stubbornly was her failure to find Ismael. For years she had poured money into private investigations, individual detectives and sometimes even entire agencies in the hope of tracking down her son. Each time the answer had been the same: the files were sealed and inaccessible. Every lead had failed; each clue had turned up empty. She often thought of finding Octavio to question him, but the idea of even knowing of his whereabouts sickened her.

Ismael had vanished from the world, her world, but even after years of searching and probing, Ana still harbored a secret hope that she would one day locate him. The thought that he was now a grown man filled her with greater anxiety because she wanted to see him and be part of his life.

One day, Ana was absorbed in these thoughts as the elevator silently ascended to the executive suite. It was a crisp, autumn morning and she was scheduled to meet with Larry Whiting, the Communications Officer. After that she had
appointments, a luncheon, and finally a fund-raising dinner at the Biltmore Hotel. When she stepped out of the elevator, a secretary met her with the usual list of obligations.

Ana listened as she walked toward her private office; she was removing her coat and dark glasses. The young woman recited the time and item to be dealt with beginning at ten that morning.

“…Eleven thirty: interview candidate for accounting position. After that, lunch…”

Ana stopped abruptly and looked at the secretary with a questioning expression on her face. “Accounting position? Which one?”

“Oscar Rubalcaba's position. Remember? You fired him last week, and we're searching for a replacement.”

“Oh, I forgot. Hmm… Eleven-thirty. Will I have enough time to make it over to lunch? Maybe we ought to cancel…no…better not. We need someone to fill that slot soon. Do we have more than one applicant?”

“There are three others, but I've scheduled them over the next few days instead of all at once. We don't want you to get too tired.”

Ana caught the humorous sarcasm in the secretary's voice and responded, “You got that one right, Sandra. Tell the applicant to be patient if I get tied up with Whiting. Sometimes he talks too much.”

At eleven-fifteen the intercom on the secretary's desk sounded. “Sandra, I'm finished with Whiting. Is the applicant in?”

“Yes, Miss Calderón. You'll find his file on your work table. Let me know when you're ready to receive him.”

Ana went to the table and found several neat stacks of file folders, each clearly designated. Under a note indicating the accountants' applications, she took the top one and returned to her desk. She put on her reading glasses, opened the file and scanned the front page. BA in economics, Stanford. MBA, Northwestern. Experience, six months at State Industries Corp. Age: 25. She picked up the receiver and pressed the button, “Show him in, Sandra.”

Experience had taught Ana that she had to interview every applicant carefully before making her final choice, because even after scrutiny, sometimes the person employed turned out to be inadequate. She leaned back in the
high-backed leather chair as she swiveled it around to face the window. It was a clear day; she could make out San Pedro and the bridge that now connected the mainland to Terminal Island. When she heard the secretary clearing her throat, Ana spun the chair around to its original position. “Miss Calderón, this is our applicant, Mr. Terrance Wren.”

The man was obviously nervous and he awkwardly reached over the desk in an effort to shake Ana's hand. She glared at him, not knowing exactly why, and it took her a few seconds before she lifted her hand to return the gesture. She felt his hand clammy against hers. “Thank you, Sandra.” As the secretary turned to leave, Ana spoke out to her, “Will you please let me know when the car comes by? I don't want to be late for the luncheon. Please, Mr. Rye, take a seat.”

“Wren, ma'am. Wren.”

Ana took several moments as she stared at the young man. He was tall; over six feet. His skin was white and healthy looking, and his hair was the color of chestnuts. He had a broad forehead and eyes that were large and brown. His nose was regular, not long, not short, and his lips had a tiny upward curve at either side. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie; his shirt was a pale blue.

Terrance Wren returned Ana's gaze frankly, innocently. His nervousness continued and it showed in his hands, which he clenched and unclenched. She looked down at the file and began to speak. “I see here that you have all the necessary credentials, Mr. Wren, but very little experience. What makes you think you can cope with a highly demanding job, such as this one?”