Signal to Noise(28)

“Then put it on. Daniela, are you ready?”

“Yes.”

They gathered close to the record player, hands joined. The music began and Sebastian slowly moved his foot. Just a little bit, heel lifting and falling. Lifting and falling. Meche and Daniela’s feet followed his lead, raising and falling and then Billy screamed and he grabbed Daniela and they began to dance.

Daniela was a terrible dancer but she moved quite easily now, and despite her ridiculous pink dress she could have danced in Billy Idol’s music video. Sebastian felt a jolt of electricity when their palms touched and they laughed, jumped back and forward.

He turned around and grabbed Meche’s hand. He spun her, one, two, three times. Her long skirt, reaching beneath the knee, flared up, showing her legs for an instant, her knee-high stockings with the loose elastic pooling down by her ankles.

He spun her again and Meche stepped forward, her palms pressing against his chest for a moment.

Golden tendrils spilled from her fingers, curling up in the air. Sebastian raised his left arm and another golden tendril rose from his hand. He glanced at Daniela and she pointed at them, a gold ribbon extending and touching the two ribbons hovering near the ceiling. They knotted themselves together.

The room glowed golden for a second, as though a small sun had installed itself over their heads. Then little flecks of gold began to fall like snow. Their little sun was chipping away into nothingness.

The needle lifted itself and Sebastian brushed his hair from his face.

“We are going to tear the town up,” he muttered.

“What?” Meche said.

“We’re going to tear the town up, baby!” he yelled, grabbing Meche by the waist and lifting her up.

“Yeah, baby!”

Daniela giggled, jumping up and down. “How much money will we get? How will we get it?”

“Treasure. Hidden in some distant location and we’ll need a shovel to dig it out,” he told them, still holding Meche up. “Aye, aye, Jim Hawkins.”

“Jim, who?”

“Really, Meche?” he said, putting her down. “You don’t even open my birthday presents, do you?”

“Not if I have to read them.”

“You suck.”

“Sticks and stones, Sebastian Soto,” she said, standing on her tiptoes and jamming her finger against the hollow of his throat. “Let’s find that cash and spend it.”

They rushed down the stairs together, trying to see who made it out of the factory first.





Mexico City, 2009





MECHE FOUND THE old boxes where her mom said they would be and pulled them open. There were ancient textbooks there, old toys. A video game she had not played in years and years. Meche scooped them all out and set them on the floor.

She found Sebastian’s books at the bottom. Treasure Island. Shakespeare’s complete works. El Lazarillo de Tormes. Sebastian had definitely been an optimist, thinking one day she might develop a taste for reading.

The smallest of all the books was the last one he had ever given her: Auden.

She opened it to the first page and looked at the inscription, the letters crisp and very straight. Sebastian’s handwriting.





Suppose the lions all get up and go,

And all the brooks and soldiers run away?

Will Time say nothing but I told you so?

—Always and always your best friend. Sebos.





“Always and always,” she muttered.

Meche lifted the book and a picture fell out. She thought it might be another snapshot of her with Daniela and Sebastian. But the Polaroid was of her father, holding her as a toddler. He was helping her take an uncertain step.

Her mother had gotten rid of many of the photos of her dad. Meche disposed of the ones she had with indifference. This Polaroid had escaped the culling.

There had been no photos of Vicente in his apartment. Meche had only been able to picture him tenuously, like a jumble of half-remembered features. This picture brought his features into the light, sharpened him, made him real.

And damn it, she looked a lot like her father. She’d forgotten that.

Meche wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. She would have to go to her dad’s apartment again. There were so many things to sort out and another night of food and prayer to look forward to.

“Are you hungry?” her mother asked, wandering into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator.

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t had breakfast.”

“I never have breakfast.”

“That’s not good for you. I’ll make you some eggs.”

“Ma...”

“Just two eggs.”

Meche knew it was futile to fight back. She sat down at the kitchen table. The kettle whistled and her mother poured the boiling water into a cup, then handed it to her along with a little box full of tea bags.

“Did you ever feel sorry for dad?”

“Sorry about what?”

“In general.”

“Your father made his choices. No, I didn’t feel sorry for him.”

Her mother turned her back on her, her attention on the eggs she was frying. She grabbed a spatula and flipped them over.

“I have no idea what he was up to these last few years,” Meche said.