Signal to Noise(53)

“Can I come in?” Sebastian asked.

“How did you find me?”

“Daniela and I paid a visit to your mom this morning. We gave her our condolences and chatted for a bit. She suggested I come over because you need to lug some heavy boxes.”

“Aren’t you the thoughtful, kind moving man?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you the other night.”

“Nah, of course not,” she said, smiling with her sharpest smile.

“We just wanted to pay our condolences.”

“And help me carry boxes.”

“Heavy ones.”

Meche opened the door wide, banging the wall in the process. She spread her arms open.

“Hey, walk right in. I mean, what the f*ck, you’re already here. Might as well be useful.”

Meche should have offered to put his coat away. She didn’t and hoped it got wrinkled. She headed to the kitchen and filled the kettle with hot water. He didn’t follow her into the kitchen and she was grateful for that because as soon as she stood in front of the stove she felt the desire to yell and break into a fit of giggles, all at the same time. Meche stared at the kettle, crossing her arms, wondering if she shouldn’t have told him to get out of the building.

Shoulda, woulda.

The kettle screamed and Meche poured two cups of tea.

Tea, after all.

Habits die hard.

She headed into the living room and placed his cup on top of a Bee Gees record, sitting herself on the floor because the couch was buried beneath piles of records. Sebastian grabbed the cup and also sat on the floor, carefully folding his long legs. He’d always been more legs than anything. This thin scarecrow of a boy.

“How many records do you think your dad had?” he asked.

“Thousands,” Meche said, tired of the question. “It’ll take forever to go through it all but I only have until next week.”

“Are you leaving after the novena is over?”

“As soon as I can book the flight.”

“To Oslo?”

“That’s home,” Meche said, sipping her tea. There was no milk and no sugar and she made a face when she tasted the chamomile.

“Your dad was always nice to us. Daniela and me... we just felt we should visit.”

“He’s dead. Saying a couple of prayers is not going to get him out of hell and it’s not earning you brownie points.”

“All the same, Daniela and I would like to pray with your family tonight or tomorrow.”

“With my mother and my cousin,” Meche said. “I don’t pray. My father was an atheist. He would be offended if I started with the Hail Marys. Hey, maybe I should pray after all.”

Meche smiled and took a big gulp of tea, downing the hot drink. She would get something else later. Maybe some food.

“What did you have for breakfast?” Sebastian asked, as if reading her mind.

“I don’t have breakfast.”

“That’s not good for you.”

“Says who?”

“Let’s go have lunch. I can put those boxes in my car later.”

“Don’t you have stuff to do?”

“Yes—I have lunch with you.”

He sounded like when they were teenagers and he wanted to skip school. And she knew he’d won this round already, probably from the moment she opened the door.

Meche thought of tossing the remains of her tea in his face, watch it stain his nice, crisp shirt and equally nice tie. But she was tired and she was hungry, and the desire for a fight was already dying back to a simmer.

“You’re buying,” she said.





EVEN THOUGH JIMENA had gushed about Sebastian’s new wheels, Meche didn’t really like the car. Frankly, she missed the motorcycle. It had been a piece of crap, ugly, worn and unreliable, but she liked sitting behind Sebastian, twining her arms around his waist and riding around the block on it.

Meche flicked on the stereo and Lena Horne started singing Stormy Weather. Meche raised her eyebrows and scoffed.

“Are you trying to impress me?” she asked.

“I like jazz.”

“What would you know about jazz?”

“Quite a bit, actually. I started with Fitzgerald.”

“Like I suggested.”

“Yeah.”

“Who wrote Stormy Weather?”

“Are you testing me, Meche?”

“Answer the question.”

“Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler. Ethel Waters first sang it at The Cotton Club.”

He gave her a smug sideways glance and Meche felt like pinching him. Where the hell was the restaurant? She was starting to get impatient and shifted in her seat, wiggling her toes inside her shoes. Traffic in Mexico City. Dear God. It was murder. They should have walked somewhere nearby instead of jumping in his fancy vehicle.

“Well, if you really like jazz you should take some of my dad’s records. You play vinyl, right?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Then you’re not a real aficionado,” she said, feeling like she had the upper hand again. “You can’t compare an MP3 to vinyl.”

“I don’t like vinyl.”

“You shouldn’t believe the crap they say about sound fidelity and CDs. Vinyl is not inferior to your digital files.”