Signal to Noise(20)

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 time 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.