“I didn’t think he really wanted to dance,” Meche protested.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s the dance that’s bothering him... he told me you went to see him and called him a loser.”
“What a tattletale! That’s why he can’t get a girlfriend.”
Meche opened the faucet, pumped some soap onto the coat, and began scrubbing it vigorously.
“I’m not apologizing,” Meche said firmly.
That was the thing about Meche and Sebastian. Both were too proud and too damn stubborn to simply make up.
Meche put on the coat, which was soaking wet. Instead of a red stain she now had a pink stain. It still looked terrible.
“I wonder if I can turn it inside out?” she muttered.
“I think Costa’s going to deduct points no matter what you do. We’ve got to go or we’ll be late.”
“Fine. Worst day ever,” Meche muttered. “Constantino didn’t even look at me today. It’s like he noticed me once and now I’m back to being invisible.”
“You’re not invisible,” Daniela said.
Meche said something about boys, but Daniela was already flying away into her daydream. Pirates and South Seas and a dashing admiral saving her life.
THREE KNOCKS. MECHE, of course. Sebastian could ignore her. But he knew how persistent she could be. If she was back after what happened two days before, that meant she was back with a vengeance. He opened the door a crack.
“We need to talk,” Meche said. “And spare me the dirty look.”
“We do?” Sebastian said, raising an arm and resting it against the door frame.
“Don’t...”
“No, you don’t,” he replied.
“You are such a baby,” Meche whispered and held out a piece of paper. “Here. Take it.”
Sebastian looked at the paper warily. She kept waving it in front of his face so he grabbed and unfolded it. It was a rail map of Europe. He looked carefully at the jumble of colours, the red and yellow and blue lines, and back at Meche.
“It’s for the wall. For your collection,” she said.
Sebastian was quiet. Meche sighed.
“I’m trying to apologize to you,” she whispered.
He did not budge. It had come to this. She had to use her trump card. Meche didn’t want to. He could tell.
She gave in.
“My object of power is the Duncan Dhu record,” she told him. “The one we played that time in the factory. I selected it after we were done. I keep it my room in a box with some toys.”
“You’re not lying?”
“What do you think?”
Sebastian opened the door wider, letting her in. Meche walked in and they looked at each other.
“Um... I’m sorry too,” he admitted. “I made a big deal out of nothing. Do you want... I can put the map up right now and we can go for a ride afterwards.”
“Sure.”
Sebastian made his way around a mound of dirty clothes Romualdo had piled up near the entrance to their room. He found the box with the thumbtacks and put the map right above the one of France, where he could look at them before going to sleep at night.
“It’s really awesome. Thanks,” he told her.
“Sure.”
“I’m going to spend a whole year in Europe after high school. I’ll travel all the countries and see all the major cities. All the way up north, so I can see the midnight sun.”
He knew he’d talked about this a million times before, but he liked to hear himself say it. It sounded more real when there was somebody listening to him. Like it could really happen; that these were not the ramblings of a kid. He had the guidebooks; he had the maps; all he needed was a bit of money.
“Cool.”
“You should come with me,” he said.
Meche sat on the floor of his bedroom, stretching her legs and smiling.
“All the way to Europe?”
“All the way. We can run away together.”
“I think we tried that three years ago.”
“We went to Coyoacán without permission. Daniela forced us to turn back and kept bawling her eyes out because she was afraid her dad would find out she had skipped class.”
“It was pretty silly.”
“No, but we should do it. This time for real.”
“What the hell would I do in Europe?”
“What wouldn’t you do?” he said, sliding down next to her. “It’s not like we’ve got it super amazing here in Mexico City.”
Really, what was there for them? For him? This miserable apartment. The school where nobody liked him. Isadora, who didn’t even know he existed. The accumulated tedium of hundreds of days piling on top of each other.
“Yeah, but going looking for the midnight sun sounds...”
“... crazier than casting spells with records?” he asked. “I don’t think so.”
“It sounds cold.”
“We’ll buy parkas. Blankets. What do people wear in Norway?”
“Bear furs, probably. What do people eat in Norway?”
“Bears.”
Sebastian laid down on the floor, his hands behind his head. Meche also lay back, her hands folded over her chest.
“People don’t eat bears,” Meche said.
“They do. But you shouldn’t eat polar bear liver.”
“Why not?”
“It’ll make you sick. Too much vitamin A.”
“You’re making it up.”
“I am not. I read it somewhere.”
“There’s a song by Ella Fitzgerald called Midnight Sun,” Meche said.
“Everything is a song with you.”
“At least it’s not bear meat.”
Sebastian felt himself getting sleepy. This was their usual banter. This was their usual selves. He could relax now. He could be happy. The pain gnawing him all day long would subside.
“How does the song go?”
“Mmm... let me see,” Meche said. “There’s a meadow in December, ice and oh darling... something about lips close by. People kissing basically...”
Meche coughed.
“Of course, she sings it much better than I do,” she concluded.
“You’ll have to play it for me sometime.”
“But jazz is boooring,” she said, imitating him.
Sebastian let out a loud hmpf and turned his head to look at her. They were side by side, but Meche’s legs were pointed in the opposite direction and she was tapping her foot to the beat of an imaginary tune. Probably Fitzgerald’s song. She was staring at the ceiling.
He pictured Meche walking down a long hallway, towards an airplane. She was ahead of him by a long stretch. With every step he took the distance between them seemed to grow until Meche was just a tiny little smudge against a bright opening. Then she was gone.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“What?”
“Something serious.”
“Then definitely not.”
Meche glanced at him. When he didn’t laugh, she turned her body completely towards him, leaning against her elbow and looking down at him.
“What?”
“Promise you’ll never leave.”
“Leave where?”
“Anywhere,” he said. “Without me, that is.”
“Gee. Should we stitch our sides together like artificial Siamese twins? Hey, isn’t there an episode of the Twilight Zone where that happens? Or is that the one of the guy with two heads?”
“I’m not kidding.”
Sebastian sat and looked down at her sternly. Meche looked like she was about to laugh. But then she nodded instead of chuckling.
“Alright.”
“Never go.”
“I won’t.”
Sebastian hugged her and did not understand why he suddenly felt so sad. He closed his eyes.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
He thought he could hear the chords of a song. Fitzgerald’s song as he imagined it with
out his ever having heard it. Slow and lovely and somewhat painful.
“There is a Twilight Zone episode called Midnight Sun,” he said as he stood up, offering Meche his hand.
“What’s it about?”
“Earth has moved from its orbit and is heading into the Sun. Everyone will be cooked alive.”
“Creepy.”
He pulled her up and Meche smiled.
“Let’s go for a ride,” he said.
They trotted downstairs and grabbed the motorcycle. Meche jumped behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders, then rested them on his waist.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yep.”
They roared away together, through the darkened streets of the city.
Mexico City, 2009
JIMENA HAD A placid smile on her face. A smile Meche knew well. The smile said I know something you don’t. Meche drank a cup of atole and ate a piece of tamal, trying to ignore the smile. It had never boded well in her youth and she did not think it could bode well now. There were sweet tamales and salty ones, some filled with chicken and others with pineapple. There were even tamales chiapanecos, wrapped in a banana leaf and stuffed with pork.
All this business of eating and praying was having a narcotic effect on Meche. When her mother came to her side and spoke she did not hear her. On a shelf, a photograph of her father looking younger than he had ever been presided over the dinner. He stared at Meche with a sad, startled expression.
“Huh?” she asked.
“Are you going to put on another record?” her mother said again.
Meche realized the turntable had gone quiet. Meche nodded. That was her job: keep the music going. Jimena was in charge of the food, her mother, the greeting of people, her stepfather seemed to be managing the distribution of the atole and the soft drinks. All Meche had to do was keep some soft, pleasant music playing. She had decided she could not stomach CDs. Her father would have hated that. So she had hooked up the old turntable.
Meche picked a collection of jazz songs. She started with Stormy Weather.
She mouthed the lyrics to the song and felt comforted by the familiar tune, the trumpet and the piano and Billie’s voice.
“Hey, Meche, come here.”
Meche raised her head and saw Jimena motioning to her, by the kitchen door.
“What?” she asked, wondering if she was going to have to distribute tamales. She didn’t want to. Meche was happy standing in her corner, blending in with the curtains and avoiding chatting with her relatives and former neighbours.
Jimena gestured more emphatically and Meche hurried to her side.
“What?” she muttered.
“Here she is,” Jimena said brightly. “Meche, your buddy is here.”
Jimena was grinning from ear to ear. Sebastian stood next to her, looking very sober, a cup of atole in his hands; well-dressed and well-groomed.
“Hi,” he said, stretching out his hand.
Meche shook it stiffly.
“Hello.”
“I’ve come to pay my respects to your mother,” he said, like a perfect gentleman.
“I can find her for you,” Meche offered.
“Oh, I’ll find her,” Jimena said. “I need to get this tray out, anyway. I’ll be back. Don’t you move.”
Jimena flashed a wide smile to Sebastian and shoved Meche, carrying her large tray with the tamales. Some things never changed. Jimena was still able to flirt with anything that had a pulse.
Sebastian looked at his cup.
“I thought I saw you the other night but I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“Then it probably was me,” Meche said.
“I would have said hi—”
“No worries,” Meche said brusquely. “Didn’t Daniela talk to you?”
“She phoned me promptly yesterday.”
“Then you still like being a dick.”
Sebastian looked up at her, lifting the corners of his mouth into a wry, small smile.
“Daniela’s coming tomorrow. We’re long past being teenagers and we’re not afraid of you. We have a right to say hi to your mom and pay our respects.”
“And I have every right to ignore you. Eat up, it’s all free.”
Meche pivoted on her heels, slowly walking out of the kitchen.
“Cry Me a River.”
“Excuse me?” she said, turning around and placing her hands on her hips.
“That’s what’s playing. Ella Fitzgerald is singing Cry Me A River.”
Meche realized he was right. The previous song had finished and Cry Me had started to play.
“Did you become a jazz fan at some point?” she asked, with that easy, snide tone she liked to employ with him from years and years back.
“No. But I do know my Ella.”
“Congratulations. Should I give you a medal?”
Sebastian chuckled. “Daniela was right. You’re exactly the same.”
Meche walked away.
“DID YOU KNOW he was coming?” Meche asked her cousin.
They were tidying up the apartment. Moving empty glasses to the kitchen, tossing any garbage which had found its way onto the floor into a bin, and trying to implement a degree of order. Meche had positioned herself behind the sink, dutifully scrubbing dishes, while Jimena brought her more dirty cups.
“No,” Jimena said.
“Are you sure?”
“I said no. What’s wrong? He’s cute, isn’t he? Why, if I could get my hands...”
“Aren’t you married?” Meche asked sharply.
“That doesn’t stop me from looking at the menu,” Jimena said with a shrug. “What about you? You’re single, no?”
Meche’s last serious relationship had taken place two years before and lasted eight months. She knew it caused her mother much anxiety to know she remained unmarried and childless. In Natalia’s eyes, Meche was a spinster, doomed to a life of unhappiness. She viewed her as dangerously contaminated by foreign traits. Marriage and motherhood were a woman’s ways. Anything else was an aberration stemming from too many imported shows. If Meche chanced to remind her mother that she herself had divorced her husband and was therefore not exactly a paragon of Catholic virtues, Natalia would deny any wrongdoing. Comically, Natalia had even asked Meche—in a quiet little voice—if she was a lesbian.
“I am single,” Meche said to her cousin. “I am also uninterested in Sebastian Soto.”
“And I thought you’d be glad to see him.”
“I haven’t talked to him since I was a teenager. Why would I be glad to see him now?”
“Well, seeing as you did like him back then...”
“I also painted my nails neon green one time. It doesn’t mean I’m rushing to buy puke-coloured nail polish this instant,” Meche muttered.
“Uh, you know who was hot?” Jimena asked. “That C kid... um, Constantino Dominguez.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s married now. He’s fat and married and balding,” Jimena said. “He’s got three kids and they’re all damn ugly. Who would have thought?”
“Does he still live around here?”
“No. I saw him at the mall a couple of times when I was working in a pet shop. He chatted with me for a little bit. At first I didn’t recognize him, but then when he began talking I remembered. Constantino Dominguez.”
“Do you remember a girl named Isadora?” Meche asked. “She was in my grade, so maybe you didn’t know her.”
“In the Queen? Before you went away?”
“Yeah. She was pretty. Skinny, tallish.”
Jimena snapped her fingers. “I remember her! She was Sebastian’s girlfriend, wasn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Meche said.
But Meche did know. Even though Meche did not speak a word to Sebastian after the spring of 1989, even though she moved to a different city that same summer, she was aware of it. It was hard not to be aware of it when she lived three blocks from him. Three blocks and three knocks. But those blo
cks stretched miles long, separated them as though they were oceans, and she did not take the path which led to his apartment building after that time at the factory.
That time...
“Well, she married him.”
“Isadora is married to Sebastian?”
“He’s not married,” Jimena said. “Weren’t you paying attention? I said he’s single.”
“Yeah, but...”
“They got married right out of high school. We all thought she was pregnant. It’s the same thing as with his brother, we thought, but no. It lasted maybe a year. Was it two? It wasn’t long. They divorced, she moved back in with her parents and he ended up moving away. You know, he was living in Monterrey in 1998. I thought for sure you guys had met up then.”
“I wasn’t living in Monterrey in 1998,” Meche said. “I had already moved to Europe.”
“Oh, well. Then you missed each other.”
“Probably.”
Meche squeezed some more liquid soap onto her sponge.
“He’s in marketing now,” Jimena said.
“I didn’t ask,” Meche replied.
“You were wondering about it,” Jimena said with all the aplomb of the neighbourhood gossip. “Same as you’re wondering if he’s seeing someone: I don’t think so.”
“Man, your mental powers suck, Kalimán,” Meche said.
“Well, then what are you thinking?” Jimena asked, giving Meche a little bump with her hip.
Meche frowned, looking at the murky, soapy water and the cup she was washing.
“I’m thinking about music,” she said.
Mexico City, 1988
DECEMBER BROUGHT THE Nativity play. Sebastian, Meche and Daniela had non-speaking roles, playing shepherds. Isadora, Constantino and their friends were the angels and the demons in the pastorela, as befitted their station.
Meche sat with her friends at the back of the room and watched her classmates rehearse their lines, her eyes fixed on Constantino. The handsome boy had not talked to her again. The party, the dance, remained a freak occurrence. Had the magic driven him to her? Had it been something else? She did not know.
Meche could not spin fantasies in her head like Daniela; she could not feed on phantom lovers. She wanted Constantino and she wanted him now. What to do? A love spell? Would the others agree to perform it with her? Meche felt too ashamed to tell them about it. She could imagine the face Sebastian would make. He would laugh. But there seemed no other way.
Signal to Noise Page 13
