Signal to Noise (12 page)

She did not feel like sorting his records. She was tired of looking at album covers and decided to put some of his other things in boxes. The typewriter, to begin with.

It was impossible to believe a man would continue to use a typewriter well into this decade, but he had. It was a heavy beast, many keys worn with the passage of time. Meche set it in the box, then began to gather his manuscript pages. There was, literally, a pile of them and many more scattered all over the house.

While looking for more pages, she found a dozen shoeboxes under the bed. Each box was packed with tiny little notebooks, inscribed with her father’s spidery handwriting. Most of the notebooks contained songs. Songs he’d written. A few things for the book, but it was mostly his songs and his random thoughts.

Meche had never seen any of her father’s songs. She knew he’d written them and she knew he’d stopped. But he hadn’t stopped. There were notebooks from the 70s, but others were labelled from the 80s and 90s, and as recently as a few months before. She pulled out a bunch of yellowed letters and discovered these were the love letters he had written to her mother years before, when he was courting her. He had written lyrics in the margins.

Secretly, under his bed, Vicente Vega had collected decades worth of lyrics and of his life.

Meche grabbed one notebook from 1973 and opened it, turning the pages curiously, looking at the careful, small letters, the tiny script with almost no spaces in between words.

Natalia and I agreed that if we have a boy, she’ll pick the name, and if it’s a girl, I get to pick. I know we are going to have a girl. I know she will have my eyes. I have been thinking of a proper name for her. There are many pretty names from songs which she could have. At first I thought maybe Emily because of the song For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her, but then I changed my mind. I thought about Julia because of The Beatles’ song from
The White Album
. Then I figured maybe I should name her after a singer instead of a song, and oh boy, anyone who knows me knows my first choice was Janice. But yesterday I was listening to Mercedes Sosa singing Gracias a la Vida by Violeta Parra and I think I will call her Mercedes Violeta, in honour of two great Latin American writers. Life has not given me many things, but it will give me the most important thing I can ever have: my very own Mercedes.

Meche looked around the house and found the record she was looking for easily. It had been in the stack next to her father’s bed: Mercedes Sosa singing Gracias a la Vida. She put the record on and sat on the floor in her father’s bedroom, looking at the painted palm trees.

Meche took out the picture of her in her father’s arms and she wondered about this man she did not know, this stranger who had passed away and left nothing but papers, records and songs.

Mexico City, 1988

S
EBASTIAN AND
M
ECHE
were both sitting on the floor and leaning over the book, carefully absorbing every word. Daniela, meanwhile, sulked in a corner. She had videotaped some episodes of
El Extraño Retorno de Diana Salazar
—the soap opera starring Lucía Méndez about a woman from 16th century colonial Mexico with psychic powers who reincarnates in modern Mexico—and had intended to watch them that afternoon. Meche had invented a mathematics study session, pulled her out of her home and dragged her to the factory. What they were studying was magic and Daniela was not willing to help with their research, preferring to sit on the couch and immerse herself in a bodice ripper with a sexy pirate on the cover.

“But here, what about this part?” Sebastian asked. “An amulet. An object of power.”

“What does it mean?”

“Like witches with wands. Only not that stupid, I guess.”

“Art-ha-me,” Meche said, turning the page of the book. “Dani, aren’t you even going to look at it?”

“Not if it has demons in it.”

Sebastian had found a used book about witchcraft with plenty of extracts from
The Key of Solomon
. It mentioned a bevy of demons and the garish cover with a bug-eyed woman had scared Daniela away. She insisted she was not going to read it, study it or anything of the sort.

“It’s not Hollywood demons,” Meche said.

Daniela shook her head and Meche rolled her eyes.

“Okay, so objects of power. We can’t be carrying staffs around Mexico City. What can we keep to be our object?”

“I don’t know,” Sebastian said with a shrug. “Couldn’t we keep whatever we want? Whatever matters to us?”

“That’s fine with me. We should keep it a secret. Never tell anyone. Not even each other.”

“Why would we keep secrets from each other?” Sebastian asked, frowning.

“Ugh. Don’t you listen when you speak out loud? Didn’t you just tell us about Merlin and that chick Vivi?”

“Vivien.”

“That one. She figured Merlin’s weakness, tricked him and made him sleep forever.”

“But we wouldn’t trick each other.”

“Yeah, but it feels kind of personal.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll write this thing about objects of power in the
grimoire
,” Meche said taking her pen and opening the notebook. “Did you hear about objects of power?”

“I heard,” Daniela said.

Meche began writing, neatly labelling the entry with the date and a heading. Sebastian stretched his feet and reached for the large bag of chips Meche had brought. There were also a couple of sodas and some chocolate. He munched the chips loudly and wondered what object he might pick. A book. Would that be too obvious? Where would he put it? He shared his room with Romualdo and that didn’t leave many chances for privacy. There was a loose tile in the kitchen which could be loosened a bit more. Or perhaps he should just tuck it at the back of his closet. Under the bed.

“We still don’t have the money,” Sebastian reminded Meche.

She held the pen between her teeth and nodded.

“Maybe it takes longer to take effect when it’s cash,” Daniela suggested.

“Well, we’re going to need it if we want to buy new clothes and stuff,” Sebastian said. “Are your parents even going to let you go, Dani?”

“Yeah. My mom thinks it’ll be good if I go. As long as I’m back early, by ten. She can pick us up and drop us off.”

“Wanna hitch a ride with Dani?” Sebastian asked.

“I want to stay late,” Meche said. “Can’t we take a cab?”

Sebastian considered his reduced finances. Bagging groceries was not a lucrative operation and a
cerillo
had no regular wage or contract, just the tips he could gather. On top of that, it was near the end of the month and that meant money was short. He didn’t have cash to splurge on a cab and since their spell hadn’t actually worked yet, he was reluctant to promise a taxi, even if they split it.

“We can take my motorcycle or the bus,” he proposed.

“I don’t want to mess my hair and clothes on the bus,” Meche said.

“We could walk...”

“All the way to Isadora’s house?”

Sebastian did not want to sound like he was cheap. He hated putting his situation into words, so he simply sat on the couch, picking up a couple of records and examining them, hoping Meche might drop the point for now.

Meche went back to her
grimoire
. After a while she sighed and sat between Daniela and Sebastian.

“Rodriguez is so going to fail me,” she said.

“Why?” Daniela asked.

“Because he’s a freak. Didn’t you see him in class today, ‘Miss Vega, can you tell us one of the important symbols in
Anna Karenina
and then he kept drilling me and drilling me, like it was the Spanish Inquisition. I did the reading and he still told me he’s giving me a bad mark.”

“I’m not doing too great either,” Daniela said.

“What are you talking about? You always get an 8.”

“Yeah, but my dad doesn’t like me getting anything but 10s,” Daniela said. “And I’m seriously studying hard.”

“Isadora is passing with flying colours,” Meche said. “Maybe I need to flash my panties at the creep more often.”

Sebastian gave Meche an irritated, sideways glance, his jaw growing tense at the mention of the girl he liked.

“She does not flash her panties at anyone.”

“Oh, hoho. With that short skirt?” Meche said, snorting. “She flashes plenty. And her squeaky little voice. ‘Mr. Rodriguez, I don’t understand why Anna Karenina throws herself in front of the train.’ Newsflash: because it’s fucking foreshadowed like pages before. Even
I
got that.”

“If you’re going to be a bitch why don’t you do it alone?” Sebastian said, grabbing his backpack.

“Where are you going?” Meche asked.

“I’ve got a shift at the supermarket.”

“At
six
?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll leave early.”

“Ugh, Sebos, don’t be a dick.”

“Bye,” he muttered.

N
INE O’CLOCK AND
two more hours until he could take off his vest and roll into bed. Sebastian bagged groceries robotically, tossing onions and avocados and potatoes together, stretching out his hand and waiting for the clock to advance another minute.

He felt the headphones pressing against his ears as Meche stood behind him, standing on her tiptoes. He turned around and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to borrow my Walkman so you could listen to music at work tonight,” she said.

“You didn’t have to...”

“It’s got The Who on there. Which is probably like giving pearls to a pig, but knock yourself out with it.”

Sebastian shook his head. Even when Meche was trying to apologize in her own Meche-way, she had a way of insulting you once again. And yet, looking down at the girl with her oversized green jacket, the sleeves covering her fingers, the collar of her shirt sticking out at an odd angle, he thought she was the only person who ever got him.

“You shouldn’t talk shit about other people,” he said.

“That’s what they do. What do you think they say about us?”

“Yeah, well. We’ve got to be the better persons and all. I suppose.”

“Says who?”

“I dunno. But I don’t like gossipy people.”

Meche snorted, shuffling her feet.

“Fine. I won’t talk crap about Isadora if you don’t want me to.”

“Thanks.”

Meche saluted, a mock-serious expression on her face. She stepped back and started walking away.

“Thanks. I’ll get it back to you later,” he called after her.

Sebastian pressed Play and the drums began to roll as The Who proclaimed this was their generation. Sebastian bagged his groceries to the rhythm, bobbing his head up and down.

W
ALKING HOME THAT
night Sebastian decided to cut his way through the neglected, concrete wasteland of the park. It was arranged in the shape of a large rectangle with four paths leading to the centre, where the hobos and the hoodlums tended to gather. Sad trees and ugly bushes looked at the large cement benches. The northeast corner was an impromptu waste disposal facility: people who missed or did not care to wait for the morning garbage truck dumped their supermarket plastic bags filled with garbage there, attracting many stray dogs looking for a meal.

As he walked by a cement bench he noticed a wallet on the ground and picked it up. It had no identifications inside, only bills. Lots of bills. Sebastian looked around, checked nobody was watching him, and tucked it in his trousers.

T
HREE TIMES A
week Vicente Vega stopped by a little travel agency and met with Azucena Bernal for an hour of sex. He could not say it had started innocently but he had never intended for it to become what it had become. Unlike many other Mexican men—fixated with the idea of being macho, with a desire for a
casa chica
, for a mistress and its ensuing complications—Vicente had never seriously considered establishing ties with another woman.

Yet there he was, with Azucena. Three times a week and just as many phone calls when they did not meet. They were into the fourth week of their relationship and it showed no signs of stopping or ceasing in intensity. Meanwhile, Natalia stared at him across the table at nights, ate him alive with her words, piled indifference and scorn upon his shoulders. Azucena, as plain as his wife was beautiful, was sweeter, more understanding, did not yell at him demanding he turn off the reading light or ask him to explain why he was still working on that worthless book. Vicente was seriously considering moving out. If he had a little money he would definitely do it. They could move to Puerto Vallarta and he would play his records until late at night with no one to tell him to turn the music down.

Vicente looked at the brochures he’d picked from Azucena’s office: beaches, happy couples holding hands. And he, still young, not yet old, trapped in the middle of his life with a woman who resented him, growing greyer and fatter by the day. To escape... to start anew...

If only he could finish his book. Vicente had thought that by now he’d have it all edited and proofed. Then he could sell it. He might not make a fortune, but enough to ditch Natalia.

Natalia who had never allowed him to go to Puerto Vallarta because the sun was bad for her skin even when, back then, her father had agreed to pay for the trip. Instead, they went to Cuernavaca on their honeymoon and Natalia spent the money her dad had reserved for the trip on a new wardrobe. When her father passed away, leaving Natalia a bit of money, she refused to take a vacation in Cancún. She had bought herself a new car—not
their
car, because he was not allowed to drive it—and some jewellery.

There was still enough money left from that time to go on vacation—at least a little one, at least Puerto Vallarta—but it was all in the family savings fund. Money which one day would go to Meche for university. Not a penny could be touched. Vicente didn’t have a say in the matter. Vicente didn’t have a say in anything.

Smoking his cigarettes in a corner of the apartment and nursing real and imaginary wounds with a few drinks, Vicente felt himself growing old.