Signal to Noise(69)

Meche knelt down and placed the record on the turntable, dropping the needle. The man’s voice was spectacular and it seemed to tickle something in his brain.

“Isn’t it from a TV commercial?”

“It’s Unforgettable,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The day you learn anything about jazz I’ll know you’ve lost it.”

“Maybe I will one day. To keep up with you,” he said kneeling next to her.

“Start with Fitzgerald.”

“Who?”

“Ella Fitzgerald. And then maybe Louis Armstrong. Thelonious Monk. Chet Baker. There are like dozens and dozens of people—”

“It’s romantic. This song.”

“It was written by Irving Gordon. The arrangement is by Nelson Riddle... you have no idea who I’m talking about.”

“No.”

“I can put something else on.”

“I like it,” he whispered.

Nevertheless, she heard him, her head turning slightly towards him. Meche’s hands were resting on her lap and he stretched his fingers to clutch one of them. Meche let him hold it for maybe a second before she scooted forward and pulled the needle up.

“I don’t think it’s a day for Mr. Cole,” she said very seriously.





VICENTE VEGA HAD f*cked up again. With the profits from his investment, Vicente had planned to quit his job at the radio station and dedicate himself full-time to his book, which was bound to become a bestseller once he could find the right publisher.

Now he was back to square one. In truth, he had never even left square one.

He smoked his cigarette and sat in the bar, nursing a double scotch, with his notebook in front of him. He’d been writing song lyrics but they wouldn’t come right, so he’d decided to have one drink. That had turned into two and now he was on the sixth.

A couple more and he’d be ready to shuffle back to his apartment. A couple more and he could start smiling at the songs playing inside the joint. A couple more and he could whistle a tune as he walked out.

It was going to be better. One day. Soon.





Mexico City, 2009





MECHE BLINKED AND raised her hand. Sunlight slipped through the curtains, sneaking through her parted fingers as she shielded her face. She turned around and frowned. It was a narrow bed and long-limbed Sebastian was taking up most of the space.

She slipped on her t-shirt, running quickly towards the kitchen. She decided to make tea.

The kettle whistled and Meche poured the hot water into a cup. She sat on the counter and tilted her head, looking at the cheap calendar on the wall, the kind one gets from a grocer every year. It read May 2009 and had a sappy picture of puppies. Her father had forgotten to change the month—or had not been bothered enough to do it.

What would Mr. Vega have said about this development? He would have laughed, no doubt. Her father had a sick sense of humour and he would have found some pleasure in her embarrassment. He might even have pointed out that they shared a genetic code and thus a proclivity to make really bad choices; to f*ck people they shouldn’t f*ck, and f*ck themselves into a corner.

She had always considered herself a bit more level-headed, at least since she’d grown up.

Turns out she was wrong.

“Awesome,” Meche muttered.

She wish she had music. Her iPod was in the bedroom but she was reluctant to fetch it. She decided to think about songs, go over lyrics in her head. Love Will Tear Us Apart was the first thing she could conjure. No, not that. Jazz, that old friend, would do. Sebastian interrupted her before she had even reached the third line of “How High The Moon.”

“You always get up so early?”

Meche did not look at him, finding the puppies a good focal point.

“I usually get up around noon,” she said. “I code at nights and wake up late.”

“And then you don’t have breakfast.”

“Breakfast in Norway is pickled beets and sweet pickles and Gammelost. Maybe f?rep?lse. I’ve never been able to get into it.”

He stood in front of her, shirtless, and Meche blushed even though she was far too old to be blushing.

“I can’t believe how short your hair is,” he said, raising a hand to touch it.

“I’m sorry, this is too weird,” she said, jumping down from the counter and evading his touch.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen you naked.”

“You have now.”

“That is not... yeah, that’s why it’s weird. We never had a thing. It wasn’t like that.”

“Of course not. I was too dumb. I barely even kissed you that one time.”

“Sorry. I can’t talk without my trousers,” Meche said. “It’s freaking me out.”

She marched back into the bedroom and scooped up her jeans, buttoning them and wondering if she shouldn’t have just run out of the apartment when she woke up. It might have avoided this very awkward conversation.

“Shoes,” she whispered, looking under the bed. Where the hell had they gone? “Okay, yeah, explain that to me.”

Meche knelt next to the bed and set her hands upon the sheets, frowning and looking in Sebastian’s direction.

“Why are you suddenly developing this bizarre passion for me?” she asked. “You were not even into me.”