One of those many days, I was out with the Smiths, taking them on a tour of everything that had something to do with Frida Kahlo—one of the most iconic Mexican figures. Mrs. Smith had read about her and was curious to learn more about this extraordinary woman who was born and lived amid chaos: she came into the world in 1907, just three years before the outbreak of the Mexican Revolution, and left it before reaching fifty, after a life as intense as it was short.
The Smiths had quite a few surprises waiting for them that day, all tied to this powerful figure. We visited the Dolores Olmedo Museum in Xochimilco, which houses some of her works; then we headed to San Ángel, to the Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo Studio Museum; and finally, we landed at the museum that bears her name, also known as La Casa Azul (The Blue House), located in Coyoacán. It once belonged to the Kahlo family and was home to Frida and her Diego from 1929 to 1954. It became a museum in 1958. Throughout the day, we saw everything from handwoven garments and bags with Frida’s face to breathtaking exhibits of her artwork.
As we left La Casa Azul—converted into a museum under the guidance of poet and museographer Carlos Pellicer at Diego Rivera’s request—the evening was beginning to fall. I was getting ready to say goodbye to the lovely foreign couple, completely unaware that the biggest surprise of the day was actually waiting for me.
“So, Mrs. Smith, what did you think of today’s tour?” I asked.
“Extraordinary, Mr. Mirón! You always make our stay so pleasant. I was amazed, among many things, by the nearly two thousand books in La Casa Azul’s library—titles in all kinds of languages and about nearly every topic, many of them signed by hand, proof of the friendships Frida and Diego had with prominent figures of their time. I also loved their collection of pre-Columbian and folk art. And, well, I could go on and on about everything that breathed life into me—especially the still life of watermelons with the words ‘Viva la vida.’”
“Oh yes, the one Rivera painted in Frida’s honor after she passed in 1954, at just 47 years old.”
“Another note for the memory vault! Anyway, Mr. Smith and I are so thankful for your warm hospitality and the knowledge you’ve shared with us about this beautiful country.”
Mr. Smith looked tenderly at his wife, gently held her hand, kissed it, and said, “It’s getting late, my dear. I think it’s time we head back and get some rest.”
After their affectionate farewell, I said to myself that no one would ever fully uncover the mystery that is Frida. Even after all my research into her life and art, I still had questions. As I walked away from La Casa Azul, I suddenly thought I saw someone familiar. The night was calm, and the streets were nearly empty. A woman was walking toward me, wearing a polka-dot blouse with a yoke, a flowing skirt, and large earrings. Her lips were red, and her eyebrows, thick and joined. No doubt—it was Frida!
True to my last name, I just stood there staring, frozen in place at the sight of someone who died in 1954.
“It’s a lovely night, Mr. Mirón, wouldn’t you agree?” she said.
I stayed quiet for a moment—it was pretty surreal to have this icon standing in front of me. But the soft night air and Frida’s gentle voice calmed me.
“Yes… it is. But it’s incredible to see you here,” I whispered.
“Not so incredible,” she replied. “I loved this city and this country deeply, despite my German roots. As you may know, my father was the German photographer Guillermo Kahlo Kaufmann, who moved to Mexico in 1891, escaping the cruelty of his stepmother. I was born and died right here in Coyoacán, and I still wander this beautiful city. Not everyone can see me, but they can feel me—I live in the hearts of the Mexican people. So go ahead, ask me what you want to know.”
“Oh! You read minds?”
“Of course, even when I was alive—especially my cheating husband’s! No, no—just kidding! I simply read people. Anyone who looks at my work or the objects I used in life gets curious. I see them walking through the museums, wondering about my paintings, my life, and about Diego.”
“Well, that makes sense… So, what do you say we talk about your passing, and all those rumors—about what happened or didn’t happen? Like… the infidelities you just mentioned. But you weren’t exactly a saint either.”
She burst out laughing, and then turned a little more serious.
“Look, some things are best left as they are—they only lead to gossip. And some things, well, they’ve got a little bit of magic to them. What I can tell you is that I enjoyed my last day. I ate what I wanted and, my dear friend, I even celebrated my birthday. That’s right—don’t make that face. The day I came into this world was almost the same day I left it.”
“You were born and died in the same house. You divorced and remarried the same man, Diego! That’s more than mystical—it’s poetic! But what about that phrase in your diary: ‘I hope the exit is joyful—and I hope never to return’?”
“Well, my body hasn’t returned, if that’s what you mean.”
“Exactly… And speaking of your body—your ashes are still in that same Blue House…”
“Yes, my poor body, so battered in this life. I suppose you’re referring to yet another coincidence tied to my earthly mobility. Ah, sad reality… First came polio, which, if anything, brought me closer to my father. Then came the streetcar accident that crushed the bus I was in on my way home from school, leaving my spine broken in three places.”
“And finally, your life was short…”
“But it was full, Mr. Mirón. Very full.”
“Of course, ma’am. So much so that without you, Mexico wouldn’t be the Mexico we know today.”
“Thank you for your words, Mr. Mirón. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
“That would be an honor—especially to uncover more mysteries of your magical time in this world, and your work.”
She didn’t say anything else. She simply vanished into the night air. And yet, her presence remained as real and solid as the Blue House that slowly disappeared behind me.
