“Just tell him it’ll be okay if he comes over.”
“I can give you his phone number. You can phone him yourself.”
“No, it’s fine. I have some stuff to do now. See you.”
Meche pressed her forehead against the table, slowly straightening up.
GENTRIFICATION HAD SWEPT through the colonia but it had left the factory intact. There was a sign announcing the upcoming construction of an apartment building in its place, but the factory still stood for now. Still ruinous, the outside now sprayed with all kinds of graffiti.
Meche looked at it, looming over her like a strange stone idol. Their usual entry point had been half-heartedly boarded up, and she pulled the plywood apart easily. She slid in, dragging the portable record player with her.
The interior of the factory—definitely no designer’s wet dream in her younger days—had become even more of an eyesore. Rusted pipes, peeling walls, debris, bits of glass, all these were familiar sights, but twenty years had made the decay more prominent.
Meche climbed the stairs, creating echoes as she moved.
The door to their room was open.
Meche paused before it, holding her breath, and walked in.
It was empty. Disappointment hit her like a wave. She did not know what she had expected to find, but it wasn’t there.
Someone had stolen the couch and the tables. All the posters—the great musical collage she had created—had been taken away.
She moved towards the circular window and looked outside. The neighborhood had changed, but the light filtering through the window still had the same spectral quality and the view was hazy, as though the city were shrouded in mist.
Meche put the record player down in the centre of the room and walked back towards the door, closing it. She smirked, realizing that one poster had been left in place, taped onto the back of the door: Jim Morrison.
Meche took out the bottle of Coke and the records. She took a sip of the sugary soft drink, smacked her lips and placed Time After Time on the player, hesitating before letting the needle touch the vinyl.
She pulled out her dad’s manuscript and began reading the whole thing. Twenty years too late but better late than never.
THE AIR SMELLED of rain and thunder. Meche had no umbrella. She eyed the clouds with a quirked eyebrow, wondering if they were plotting to unleash a storm upon her. Her father’s restless spirit might be preparing to teach her a lesson. But if he had not haunted his apartment, he probably wouldn’t bother with the cemetery.
Meche looked at the grave marker and the wilting flowers.
“Here you are,” she muttered. “You left your apartment and your life a mess, you know that?”
Meche turned her head and looked at the rows of tombstones, feeling a bit uncomfortable. She did not know exactly what she was doing there, with a record and a bunch of flowers under her arm. Maybe she was there because he hadn’t haunted his old place. Stumbling onto his semi-transparent figure might have connected the dots floating in her head. Her father’s book, his letters and records had taught her only one thing: she hadn’t known him very well. Hell, she’d had done such a good job of forgetting him, she scarcely remembered him.
“I was looking in the mirror the other day and I realized I look a lot like you. I think I am a lot like you. Which is very unsettling, to say the least.
“I’ve missed you. And... I’m in a bit of a pickle right now. It’s not the kind of stuff I can talk about with mom or Jimena, so, I suppose I’ll tell you.”
Meche smiled, her mouth trembling.
“There’s something incredibly stupid I want to do. The problem is... well, it’s stupid. I can imagine what you’d say about that, “Hey, just do it!” But it’s not that easy. What if...”
Meche trailed off. She cringed and shook her head.
“Anyway, I’ve... I’ve brought you something. Here are some flowers,” she said, putting the bouquet down. “And this is for you.”
She placed the record next to the flowers.
“Gracias a la Vida,” she said. “You never told me how you came up with my name. I should have figured it out.”
Meche leaned down, touching the gravestone with the tip of her fingers.
“Bye, dad.”
Mexico City, 1989
“I’M SO SORRY,” Isadora said.
They were back at the Pit. They had not exchanged a word in a couple of weeks, but she’d approached him after school that afternoon and he had followed her there.
Sebastian pushed an empty glass bottle with his foot. Back and forth. Back and forth until he gave it a good kick and it went rattling into some bushes.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it was. I... I’ve been asking you to hang out with me to piss Constantino off. It started at my birthday party. We were fighting and then he went to dance with your friend and I thought I’d get back at him by going to that posada, and then I’ve just...”
“Kept it up,” Sebastian said helpfully.
“Yeah,” Isadora admitted. “He says he wants to get back together with me but he goes after all these other girls... I just wanted to make him jealous. Give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“So are you?”
“Am I what?” Isadora asked.
“Getting back together with him.”
Isadora pulled out a cigarette and her lighter. She shook her head as she lit the cigarette.
“I’m not sure.”
“Pardon me if I say he’s an asshole.”
“I know,” Isadora muttered. “I know.”
“I suppose this means I won’t see much of you anymore.”
Isadora did not answer. Sebastian slid his hands into his pockets. Of course. What else could he have expected?
“I shouldn’t have asked you to go with me,” Isadora said.
“It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t know.”
“I still feel awful.”
“Water under the bridge,” he said. “I’d still like to show you the factory sometime.”
“The what?”
“It’s a place where we hang out. It’s no big deal if you don’t want to go. Or you, know, speak to me again.”
Sebastian bit his lip and stepped forward.
“If... if you still feel like talking to me and if you feel like it, maybe you can take a ride with me some time and we can go there. We’ve made it nice inside and... um... it’s just a good place. A safe place.”
“You’re very nice.”
“But?”
“But what?”
“There has to be a but.”
Isadora chuckled. “There is no but.”
SEBASTIAN AND MECHE sat in her dining room, doing their homework. The stereo played Botellita de Jerez as they scratched their answers across the notebook. He tapped his foot to the music. Fast, fast, fast.
“You know what the problem is?” she asked.
Sebastian paused mid-equation and looked at Meche.
“We’re trying to copy people we don’t know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The glamour.”
Sebastian, caught off-guard, simply blinked at her. Meche sighed.
“I’m talking about the spells. I think we are failing because we are picking people out of magazines instead of real people.”
“I thought we were doing homework.”
“Do you think the Mulata de Cordoba went, ‘Oh, it’s homework time now, I can’t think about spells?’”
“The Mulata lived in a time when there was no homework,” Sebastian replied. “Besides, she was caught by the Spanish Inquisition. Have you actually been reading history books?”
“Myths and legends,” Meche corrected him. “I’m reading everything I can about magic. Someone needs to be the research and development arm of this corporation. Anyway, what we need is to copy a real person. Once we’ve mastered that we can probably try some sympathetic magic, steal a bit of hair and all.”
/> “Hair? OK, Jesus, can I finish this homework before we start talking about this stuff? It’s due tomorrow.”
“Okay, look. I’ve been toying with something,” Meche said.
She stood up, found a record and put it on. Sebastian was not familiar with the song. Something smooth and jazzy. The singer crooned, “I’m a fool to want you,” and Meche sat down again.
She reached across the table and placed a hand on top of his own, then placed the other against her face, covering her features. She slid her fingers down revealing a pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth—a face that was not her own.
It was a crude copy, to be sure. It looked like a rubber mask and it did not resemble Isadora as much as caricaturize her, but there was some clear effort and talent put into it.
“Make it go away,” he said.
“Wait,” Meche said, her hand upon his own, concentrating.
The mask seemed to grow snugger. It fit better. It lost most of its rubbery quality and the skin now had pores. The eyes were the right colour instead of an unusual, artificial shade. Eyelashes grew where there had been none and the lips moistened.
She was close now. Very close.
Isadora smiled.
Sebastian jumped up in his seat.
“Stop it,” he said.
“It’s good, isn’t it? I think we can do much better.”
“Stop.”
She shrugged and shook her head. Isadora’s face chipped and cracked and fell, revealing Meche’s real features.
“Why did you do that?” he asked. “Why did you have to imitate her?”
“Why not?”
“You are cruel,” he said.
He gathered his notebook, his pencils and pens. Meche watched as he tossed the stuff in his bag.
“You’re going?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m going,” he said. “You think I should stay and let you torture me a little longer?”
“I thought you’d appreciate it. Maybe laugh.”
“It’s not funny.”’
“Aw. Come on. You’re not in loooove with her are you?” Meche asked in her patented mocking tone.
Sebastian did not bother answering. Any answer he gave would be the subject of much snickering. He did not have the stomach for Meche’s japes that afternoon.
“You’re not serious about her, are you?” Meche asked dryly.
“What does it matter?” he replied.
“I’m just asking.”
“She’s nice, alright?”
Sebastian zipped his bag closed.
“You go with her to the movies a lot.”
“We’ve gone a few times. And the last time was a disaster.”
“You don’t ask me and Daniela to the movies anymore.”
“Do you want to go see a movie with me? Damn it, I’ll take you next weekend.”
“Forget it.”
“No, I mean it. You wanted to look at some records, no? We’ll watch a movie after that, you and me.”
“I’m not your fucking charity case. Piss off.”
She headed to her room, abandoning him in the middle of the dining room. Sebastian cursed in Catalán and followed her.
It was always like this with Meche. She was like a cat, sometimes purring and letting herself be petted, the next showing her claws and biting your hand. She could never, ever, make it easy for anyone. Sebastian did not understand why everything had to be a battlefield with her, but it was.
“I didn’t say you were. What’s your problem?” he asked, holding the door when she tried to slam it shut.
Meche sat on her bed, crossing her arms and staring at a poster of Blondie.
“If you have better things to do, go and do them,” she said.
“I have nothing better to do,” he replied.
“Yeah, well it seems—”
He sat next to Meche and held her hand. They laced their fingers together and looked at the poster.
“Movie, then?” he asked.
“Records Saturday. Movie Sunday.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“You annoy me.”
“Same.”
Meche rested her chin against his shoulder with a sigh.
MECHE DID NOT know what to think about Sebastian lately. She watched him as they rode the subway, on the way to the record store where they would meet Daniela, and thought he was turning into a stranger. He was just not himself. With Isadora this and Isadora that. He never seemed interested in the magic anymore and he sure as hell did not seem interested in spending time with them as much as he did before. He was drifting away from her.
You did this, said a nagging little voice inside Meche’s head. You hurt him and it’s not the same.
Well, she couldn’t possibly have run away with him. That would have been idiotic. Who did that kind of thing?
Clearly he did. And clearly she was too chicken to follow him.
She did not want to think about it and, so, pumped up the Walkman’s volume, drowning her thoughts with the voice of Joan Manuel Serrat, singing about a man who falls in love with a store mannequin.
They arrived at quarter to eleven, a little after they had agreed. Daniela was already there and greeted them with a big smile, a Timbiriche album under her arm, constant reminder of her lack of musical taste.
It was a small store. The walls were adorned with albums and the ceiling was plastered with posters advertising a number of music acts. The back wall was dominated by a huge, floor-to-ceiling image of Jimi Hendrix.
While Sebastian and Daniela riffled through the cassettes and records at the front, she felt herself drawn to the back, as though she were following an invisible trail.
“Hey Meche, what do you say...”
She ignored Daniela. Meche walked with sure footsteps. Her hands tingled, growing warmer. When she reached the back of the store they were sweating. She drifted towards the third bin to the left. Her fingers danced over the record sleeves, brushing them aside until she touched one which burned like a coal.
She held it up, her mouth opening a little.
Her hands trembled. It was A Whiter Shade of Pale.
“Hey, you found it!” Daniela chirped behind her, looking over her shoulder.
“Found what?” Sebastian asked.
Meche pressed the record against her chest.
Nothing, she was going to say.
“The record for the spell,” Daniela said.
Meche closed her eyes, mouthing a curse. Daniela! She couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
“What?”
“Just an experiment I’m running. I mentioned it before.”
Meche turned around and faked a bored look at Sebastian, trying to downplay the importance of her discovery.
“Like?” Sebastian asked cautiously.
“I think I can use this record to cast a special spell. Of course, it’s far-fetched, but—”
“Let me see.”
His finger fell upon the record sleeve. Meche pulled it back, frowning.
“What? I can’t look at it?”
“Look at it all you want,” Meche said, holding it up, “just don’t get your dirty fingers on it. I’m going to pay for this.”
MECHE WALKED TOWARDS the cash register. Sebastian watched her with narrowed eyes, irritated by her secrecy. What the hell? Now he couldn’t even touch the records?
“What does she want it for?” Sebastian asked gruffly.
Daniela shrugged. “Um... just a spell. Like she said.”
“Yeah. For what?”
“She... I don’t think I’m supposed to say.”
“Spit it out. I’ll find out eventually.”
Daniela started chewing on a strand of hair, a sure sign she was about to buckle.
“I think it’s a love spell for Constantino,” she blurted.
Constantino. She wanted him to fall in love with her. He remembered Meche mentioning something about love spells back in December but he didn’t believe she’d seriously pursue
this, especially if it meant she was going for Constantino. The same Constantino who had beaten the hell out of Sebastian with the assistance of his clones. That piece of shit. Sebastian felt offended. He felt hurt. He felt fucking angry.
Meche marched back towards them, a plastic bag dangling from her fingers.
“I’m ready to go,” she said.
“I NEED TO borrow the record,” he said.
“No,” Meche replied.
The subway was crowded and there was no place to sit down. Meche and Sebastian occupied a narrow space between a street vendor carrying a huge bag packed with salted nuts and a mother with a small child. They were barely inches apart, sweating and uncomfortable. Three more stations to go and it seemed like it might take forever.
“Why not?” Sebastian asked.
“Because it’s mine.”
“Are you going to use it to get that asshole to pay attention to you?”
Meche chuckled. She lifted a lofty eyebrow. Her words were pure venom.
“Let me guess: you are going to try to get into that ditzy little thing’s pants?”
“She’s not a ditz.”
“And I’m Madonna.”
“I’m asking, as a favour—”
“And I’m saying no.”
The look she gave him was the exact same look she might use on a grubby beggar asking for a coin. It made his blood boil, to be viewed with such contempt. As though Meche were the queen and he was a serf, a nothing she could jostle around when it pleased her.
“It’s a very shitty thing to say, you realize that?”
“The record is mine.”
“Yeah, but—”
“You wouldn’t be able to use it. You suck as a warlock.”
“Yeah? I’m part of the circle, so whatever—”
“Not for long, I’ll bet.” She shoved him aside, his back colliding with the back of the street vendor. “Don’t stand so close to me. You’re sweaty and disgusting.”
Gingerly, she pulled out her headphones and put them on, switching on her Walkman. Though the subway car was packed to the brim, he felt absolutely alone.
SEBASTIAN SLAMMED HIS backpack against the bed. He slammed it again and again until he finally understood the futility of this and tossed it away. He slid onto the bed, seething.
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