Signal to Noise

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “Did it work?”

  “It did. He was married within a month’s time.”

  “Then it did solve his problems.”

  Mama Dolores cut a lemon in half and carefully sprinkled a bit of sugar on it.

  “No. Because one year later she ran away with another man.”

  “That’s a bad story.”

  “Blame the magic, not the story.”

  Mama Dolores bit into her lemon.

  “But you also told me witches fly through the night, they turn into animals, they put curses on you—”

  “True. They do all that.”

  “But then?”

  “Nothing, that. But a man may turn into a coyote as many times as he wants and may steal chickens from the farm, but the chickens won’t be his and they will still be stolen. And the coyote will still be nothing but a large, ugly dog.”

  Meche sighed, staring into the contents of her bowl of soup. She didn’t understand what her grandmother meant.

  “If I was a witch—”

  “Ugh, it’s pouring outside. You could not believe the rain,” Meche’s mother said, shaking her umbrella out as she entered.

  Even soaked and with her mascara running, she looked very beautiful. Meche’s mother had once held aspirations to become an actress, make it big in the movies or maybe a soap. Natalia certainly had the looks. She only lacked the talent. She had given up on her dreams several years before and had gone to work at a department store. Now it was the pharmacy, where she worked as a cashier and part-time model: her photos adorned some of the flyers advertising the pharmacy. This was not as much an achievement as a form of charity because the owner of the pharmacy, Don Fernando, was Natalia’s godfather.

  “What did you make?” Natalia asked.

  “Chicken soup,” Meche’s grandmother said.

  “Did you take off the skin from my piece of chicken? You know I can’t eat chicken with the skin on.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I don’t want a lot of rice in my bowl. No potatoes either.”

  “You have to have one potato.”

  “It’s too starchy. Is it warm? I have to go back to the drugstore for the rest of my shift. Leona is sick again this week.”

  Natalia sat across from Meche. Meche looked at her mother, waiting for her to say something to her. Eventually, possibly because Meche just kept staring at her, Natalia spoke.

  “How was school?”

  “Alright.”

  “Do you have a lot of homework?”

  “Some.”

  There was a systematic indifference to Natalia’s voice. It was a chore doing this, playing the mother-daughter bond. Meche saw her fret in discomfort. Normally she would have simply stepped away, back to her room, and let her mother eat in peace. She did not feel charitable that evening, so she stayed put.

  “I saw you walking with that boy yesterday.”

  “Sebastian?”

  “Yes.”

  Meche did not remember if they had gone by the drugstore. Possibly. Their path had zigzagged through the whole neighbourhood as they chased stars which could not be seen in the night sky, hearts filled with promise. A promise which now lay squashed beneath the soles of their feet.

  “You say his name like you don’t know him,” Meche muttered.

  “Meche, he’s here all the time. Or you’re somewhere with him. You act like you are Siamese twins. It’s not healthy.”

  “Daniela is also with us.”

  “Yes, that chubby little girl is also not a good role model. Plus, I don’t want you catching something from her.”

  “You can’t catch lupus.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “It’s not scientifically possible,” Meche said.

  “Never mind. Meche, running around the block with a boy was OK when you were a little girl. You’re fifteen now.”

  “And?”

  Mama Dolores held up the cloth with the tortillas, but Natalia shook her head.

  “I don’t eat tortillas, you know that.”

  Mama Dolores set the tortillas down. Meche grabbed the saltshaker and began salting her broth. Her mother shook her head.

  “Salt will bloat you.”

  “It needs salt.”

  “Too much salt is not good for you.”

  Meche kept slowly salting her soup, even though she knew now it would be too salty. She felt like making a point.

  “What I’m trying to say—and perhaps I’m failing to express myself clearly here, Meche—is that it doesn’t look right to be with a boy so much.”

  “It doesn’t look right to whom?”

  “Well, Catalina Coronado was telling me she saw you going into the abandoned factory with him the other morning.”

  Of course. Catalina Coronado. The neighbourhood gossip, with her sharp, hawk-eyed gaze and her forked tongue. Ready to spill bad news at a moment’s notice and spit venom in your face. She had probably relished the opportunity to tattle on Meche.

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “She was at the drugstore today, buying some cough drops, and she told me she happened to see you. Meche, you do know what teenagers do in that factory, don’t you?”

  They had sex, drank booze, and smoked dope. Meche, feigning stupidity, stared at her mother.

  “No, please tell me what they do.”

  Natalia did not reply. She stirred her soup with her spoon, carefully inspecting each chunk of vegetable, each scrap of chicken.

  “Please, tell me,” Meche insisted.

  “You are not a child.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t understand why that means I can’t hang out with Sebastian like I always do. Because Catalina Coronado doesn’t like him?”

  “Sebastian’s brother just got his girlfriend pregnant and I do not want a similar surprise, alright?”

  Meche did not know that. How had her mother found out? She supposed that was one of the benefits of working at the drugstore, all the little crumbs of information that fell into your lap. But it didn’t matter. His brother had nothing to do with her.

  “He’s my best friend,” Meche said. “Grandma, can I finish my food later? I think I am coming down with a cold.”

  Meche drifted towards the doorway. She glanced back at her mother. Natalia rolled out a magazine, already busy looking at the ‘10 Beauty Tips of the Week’ and the ‘Most Flattering Skirts of the Season.’ Meche returned to her room and the company of her records.

  SEBASTIAN TRIED TO catch up with Meche. She lost him at an intersection, disappearing behind a row of food stands. He did not understand what was wrong with her, why she had not waited for him.

  He gave up on finding his friend and continued on his way home, observing the sky and wondering if it would start raining before he got to his apartment. Too late he noticed Isadora and her friends hanging out near a little corner store, drinking soda pop, and immediately felt the desire to dash in the opposite direction. However, they had already seen him, and completely turning around would be too conspicuous. He forced himself to keep on walking, eyes straight ahead.

  He already knew what was coming.

  The boys immediately perked up when they saw him, the girls looked at him curiously.

  “Look! It’s the faggot! What ya’up to, faggot?” one of them asked.

  Sebastian wished he had a Walkman like Meche. Then he might have put on the headphones and completely ignored their taunts, protected by the music. He did not have a Walkman, so he had to listen to the insults.

  “Do you thinks he fucks men or he lets them fuck him up the ass?”

  “I think he lets them fuck him.”

  “He’s going to get butt cancer.”

  Sebastian jammed his hands into his trousers, his chin up, shoulders tense. He was taller than the whole lot, but there were four boys and he was alone. He wouldn’t put it past them to try and hit him. They hadn’t done it before, limiting themselves to tossing garbage in his direction—empty bottles o
f Frutsi, and on one memorable occasion a whole hotdog—but you never knew. They might feel adventurous that afternoon.

  “He’s so gay.”

  Sebastian walked by, his eyes flitting over Isadora. For a brief moment, Isadora looked back at him, seeming a little pained. Like she was sorry he had to endure this treatment. Then she looked away and he looked away too. Before he reached the corner, Sebastian felt something hit him in the back. The raucous laughter of the boys was now joined by a chorus of giggling girls. Was Isadora laughing, too? He did not dare to look back. He turned the corner.

  When Sebastian arrived home, the whole apartment was pitch black. He flicked on the lights and wandered into the kitchen, looking for something to eat. His mother did not have the time nor the inclination to cook and his brother, Romualdo—who was supposed to cook for himself and Sebastian—had barely done so when he was in high school. Now that he was in university, he did not bother.

  Sebastian cut a piece of cheese and rolled it into a slice of ham. He ate standing up in the kitchen, glancing at the dirty dishes piling up in the sink. Those were also his brother’s responsibility, while Sebastian was in charge of the laundry. Unlike most Mexican families who could pay a maid— they came cheap in this country—no matter how lowly their social class, Sebastian’s mother could not afford any help. Sebastian and Romualdo were supposed to divide all the chores equally, solving this issue, but Romualdo, full of misplaced machismo, refused to do girls’ chores. Washing dishes was beneath him. In a few days, their mother would scream at Romualdo and force him to scrub the pots but until then they would sit there, ignored.

  The cat meowed at Sebastian and he checked its dish. He filled it with cat food, then cleaned the water dish and filled it too. This was supposed to also be his brother’s responsibility, but if it were not for Sebastian the cat would starve.

  Sebastian went to his bedroom. It was a small apartment and a small bedroom, and he had to share it with Romualdo. His brother’s side of the room was plastered with posters of women, some in bikinis, some completely naked; stacks of magazines full of girlie pictures, bare flesh spread all over the bed. Sebastian’s side was papered with maps and pictures of Europe, many of which had come from his grandfather, who had lived in Barcelona until his late teens. Europe. That’s where Sebastian was going to go one day, to write great stories in a Parisian café. Or, perhaps, he’d venture to Italy, where he could order an espresso and pretend he was in a Fellini movie, which grandpa had loved. He didn’t have girlie magazines. Instead, Sebastian’s books were all neatly sitting on a shelf. The Ambassadors, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Hopscotch.

  He supposed that’s why the boys at school said he was gay. Because he didn’t have big-tittie posters. Because he spent all his spare time reading. Because he drew stars on his tennis shoes with a black marker. Sebastian would have loved to have been normal. He realized his predilection for novels instead of soccer had distanced him from his father, even before the old man and his mother divorced, but he could not help it.

  Or maybe his father hated him because he was a measured, quiet little bag boy, packing groceries three afternoons a week, saying “yes miss” and “no miss”, his sneakers squeaking over the floor as he moved to put the plastic bags in the shopping cart. He certainly knew that the boys and girls at school made fun of him because of that, giggling whenever they were in the checkout line with their parents; lofty because they didn’t have to scramble for a few pesos, stretch their hands like urchins, make their money from tips in dirty change. He was a cerillo, a nothing, a thin kid wearing a black vest and a tie as he packed and packed groceries and dreamed of Europe.

  Sebastian lay on his bed and stretched his arms, staring at the ceiling, the acid memory of the taunts the boys had yelled at him still fresh, still ringing in his ears. He felt his muscles relaxing in the pleasant darkness, his eyelids fluttering close to sleep.

  Romualdo walked in and turned on the light. He was tall, just like Sebastian, but his brother seemed better proportioned, better looking, better prepared overall. He gave Sebastian an indifferent glance.

  “I need to phone Margarita, asshole.”

  That was his girlfriend. She was pretty and nice enough, but Sebastian didn’t like it when she came around because Romualdo kicked him out of the bedroom so he could have sex with her. Sebastian then had to wander around the block or take a ride on the motorcycle, and sometimes he really didn’t want to go out but there was no reasoning with Romualdo.

  Or, just like now, Romualdo would phone Margarita and that also meant Sebastian needed to step out because he wanted some privacy. Funny how Romualdo had the right to privacy, but Sebastian didn’t have the right to anything.

  “Phone her.”

  “Go to the living room.”

  Sebastian grabbed his backpack and shuffled out of the room. Romualdo closed the door.

  Sebastian tried to read, then gave up and turned on the television. He rested his chin against the arm of the couch and watched a Timbiriche music video. They were singing Tu Y Yo Somos Uno Mismo. The lyrics and the images were incredibly corny: a man and a woman running together on the beach, a tear slipping down the woman’s cheek, the kiss and the catchy, pop tune. Meche would have hated it.

  But Sebastian wanted it. He wanted that corny, fabricated music video universe in which a couple could pop up from under the waves, water dripping from their bodies, embracing each other.

  He had nothing of that. Just the book in his lap, the ratty couch and the cat which now drifted next to him, rubbing against his leg.

  He supposed he never would, now that Meche’s spell had failed.

  Sebastian turned off the TV set.

  Mexico City, 2009

  IT WASN’T THAT Meche hated Lorenzo. She just had never taken to him. After her parents’ divorce, her mother’s swift remarriage had left her a little breathless and Meche had never felt quite at home after he moved in. It wasn’t anything that he did or said, but she knew she was an intruder whenever she visited. Two brief Christmas vacations in Mexico City had convinced Meche there was no reason for her to ever set foot in that apartment again. The third Christmas, when she asked if her mother could fly to Monterrey instead, Lorenzo happily paid for the plane ticket. After graduation, when she secured a job in Europe, Lorenzo had also been instrumental in soothing any fears of distances and dangers. Meche knew that, as far as Lorenzo was concerned, the less he saw of Natalia’s taciturn daughter, the better.

  “Did you make much progress today?” Lorenzo asked, trying to make polite conversation.

  “My father had a lot of things,” she said. “It’s hard going through all of it.”

  “How many records did he have?” Jimena asked, grabbing another piece of sweet bread from the centre basket.

  “Thousands.”

  “Is that all he had?”

  The question was crass, but then again so was Jimena with her bright red nails and her bright red smile. Since when had she become so cozy with her mother? Meche supposed it was to be expected. Natalia had a tendency to replace people. First her father, now Meche. She didn’t blame her on the part about Vicente. Natalia had taken too long to divorce him. It should have happened years before.

  Meche shook her head.

  “He didn’t collect CDs, only vinyl.”

  Meche knew Jimena had not been wondering about records. She was asking if he had anything valuable. Meche doubted he did, but discussing the amount of pesos they might make from the sale of her father’s collection was very inappropriate.

  “What will you do with them?”

  “Ship some back to Oslo,” Meche said, shrugging. “Throw away the rest. I can’t carry too many things but I could buy a suitcase and pack it with the ones I want to keep. I might also take the typewriter and his manuscript.”

  “The manuscript,” Natalia said, as she shook her head. “He was always going to finish it next summer.”

  Her mother smiled, gently, and for once in a long ti
me Meche thought she glimpsed a certain tenderness towards the old man. She sounded almost fond of him.

  “Ay, we need to serve the coffee. Where’s my head?” Natalia asked, blinking and heading towards the kitchen. “Everyone is having coffee, right?”

  “I’d like some tea with milk, please,” Meche said.

  In Norway Meche drank her tea from a glass, with lots of milk, a custom acquired after living in London. An unusual gesture now in Mexico where she might be expected to ask for atole or coffee.

  “We’re out of milk,” Lorenzo told her.

  “I can go buy some.”

  “I’ll go,” Lorenzo said.

  “No. I’ll just head to the corner store.”

  Jimena and Lorenzo looked at her, doubtful. Meche chuckled.

  She knew they were worried about her. She had not cried during the funeral. She just stood under her umbrella, eyeing the casket with scepticism, thinking that Vicente Vega would have been shocked and outraged by the whole spectacle. He certainly would have said a few words about the cross sitting atop him, considering he had been a staunch atheist.

  “It’s still in the same place, right?”

  “Sure,” Lorenzo said.

  “Then I’ll be right back.”

  Stepping out into the street was a blessing. The apartment felt stuffy and her family were very noisy. Of course, Meche was accustomed to living by herself, not having cousins and aunts rolling in and out of an apartment in preparation for her father’s prayers, which began that night with a late mass and finger foods after going to church. Nine nights of prayer, to ensure the dead man’s soul would reach his final destination. Nine whole nights she had to remain here. Meche had already tried talking about the necessity of flying back to Europe, but her mother had blocked any plans of an early flight.

  Meche walked into the corner store, which was not really at the corner but that was what everyone called them in Mexico. It wasn’t really a proper store either, but the first floor of someone’s house, arranged to store foods and beverages, with the owners living on the top. In her time, the owner had been Don Chemo, the surly old man who always looked carefully at the kids, making sure they didn’t steal candy.