Signal to Noise(21)

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.

The little store looked exactly as it had when she was a teenager. She was sure that even some of the ads on the walls behind the counter were the same, though the attendant behind the counter had changed. He did, however, bear an uncanny resemblance to Don Chemo. Meche wondered if this could be his grandson who would have been an annoying little kindergartener the last time she’d seen him.

Meche found the milk and riffled through the store, looking at the candy and chips. They had the regular tamarind Pelón Pelo Rico and a sour lime flavour she had never seen before, peanuts dipped in chilli, and chocolate Carlos V.

Meche took out a bill and placed it on the counter. Don Chemo’s grandson—he had to be, he had the same disposition—gave her her change and slowly placed the things she had bought in a plastic bag.

As soon as Meche stepped out it began to rain. A light drizzle which made her smile.

She loved the rain.

Meche reached into her pocket and turned on her iPod, picking a song from the playlist. For the sake of nostalgia she settled on Miguel Bosé. Nena, which was from ’86. The writhing of the handsome Bosé and a blonde woman in white all along the floor had sent her mother into a bizarre state of agitation the first time it aired on TV. Natalia had quickly changed the channel and railed against music videos, which exposed youth to so many nasty images.

But Meche liked Nena. There was something real about it. Not like some of the other videos which contaminated the airwaves. Certainly better than the chirpings of Thalía or—dear God— Lucerito. When Bosé sang about an impossible woman with an insatiable mouth and they fought—and rolled around the floor—it seemed gritty and true. A f*cked up relationship, but fascinating all the same.

Meche raised her head. The street was empty except for someone standing on the other side, holding an umbrella.

Meche looked down at her iPod again, pumping up the volume so she could hear nothing but the deep voice of Bosé.

When she looked up again the person with the umbrella was still in the same place.

It was a guy in a business suit and a long, black raincoat; a matching umbrella with a nice wooden handle.

He was staring at her.

It took longer than it should have for Meche to recognize him. But then she saw the resemblance. The very tall, thin frame—though now it was not cadaveric, he was lean without seeming unhealthily skinny—was the first thing to trigger her memory. Then the other pieces were all pulled together. Very black hair, cropped short in a fashionable style. A stern mouth which had grown sterner. A carefully trimmed goatee which had never been there before. The dark, dark eyes which resembled a pair of pebbles.

Sebastian Soto, in the flesh.

He looked so different. Only the eyes had remained the same.

She wondered what she must look like now, her long hair—it had reached her waist—cut short in a boyish style, the thick eyebrows plucked, her clothes actually fitting her.

He looked at her and Meche wanted to laugh. Not a good laugh. A bitter, angry laugh. She had been so fearful of meeting Sebastian again and she had found him, smack across the street.

Meche held the plastic bag with her purchases in one hand and jammed the other hand in the pocket of her jeans, tilting her head a little, daring him to cross the street and say hello.

He just looked at her, though by now she was sure he had identified her, and stood his ground. His gaze did not waver but he did not make any effort to move her way, wave hello or open his mouth.

Like two duelists at noon, about to draw their guns, they stood on their respective sides of the street. Finally he snapped, looking away from her and continuing along the path he had been following, keeping to his side. Meche also turned away, walking in the opposite direction.

The rain did not seem pleasant anymore. The dirty puddles reflected the street lights and the trash strewn on the ground was beginning to clog the drain. Later, the whole street would ooze and the water level would rise.

Mexico City was sinking. A city slowly descending into the muck from where it had come. The Spaniards had drained its Venice-like canals and filled them with earth, creating shaky foundations for their churches. Centuries later, their descendants paid for their folly with constant inundations which threatened to turn the whole metropolis into the lake it had been when the Aztecs made their way there. A fetid sea of sewage swamped the sidewalks every year.

In Mexico City everything returns. The rains and the past and everything in between.

Meche, upset by her encounter with Sebastian, gave in and went by the house owned by Daniela’s parents. They were happy to supply their daughter’s number.





Mexico City, 1988





IT WAS ANOTHER one of those days; it was always one of those days with Natalia. She flogged him with her tongue, excoriated him for real and imaginary flaws, drew blood. This time the fight had been over cigarettes. They were a needless expense. He should quit smoking. Not because of his health, no. Natalia could care less if he died of cancer. Her concern was the money. They could save so many pesos if he would only stop smoking.