Signal to Noise(89)

The slow rhythm of the danzón—music fit only for prostitutes in the early 20th century—soothed him He turned off the lights, sitting in the dark.





LOVE DIES IN different ways. For most, it is a slow, agonizing death. Meche, however, cut her love the same way the executioner might chop a head: with a single, accurate swing.

She never saw her father after that day.

She did not speak to Daniela and Sebastian either.





Mexico City, 2009





MECHE’S MOTHER WAS boiling hibiscus flowers for the jamaica water and the whole apartment had a sweet, pleasant smell.

“Your cousin was looking for you,” her mother said, wiping her hands against her apron. “She wanted to know if you need a ride to the airport tomorrow.”

“I could use a ride from Jimena. But I’m leaving early. I don’t know if she wants to get up at four a.m.”

“You can ask.”

“Sure.”

She leaned over her mother’s shoulder to look at the big, boiling pot of water. The water was blooming into a nice shade of red.

“You know, jamaica water is essentially tea, but cooled down.”

“I know that,” Meche said.

“You should take a few bags of it and make it at home.”

Meche nodded. Her mother stirred the pot with a wooden spoon.

“I’m getting rid of most of dad’s records.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said firmly and paused before speaking again. “I read his book.”

“Was it any good?”

“It was. A bit jumbled. It needs some editing... but it was good.”

It felt odd admitting it. And it was sad. Sad to know her dad could have done something else with his life. He’d wasted away in that little apartment, with his notes and his records, so close to finishing his big project and yet so far.

“I salvaged something for you. Wait a second.”

Meche returned to the kitchen with a small box and set it on the table. Her mother peeked inside.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling out an envelope.

“Dad was obsessive about keeping everything he wrote. These are letters he sent to you. Remember?”

“Letters?”

“Yeah. When he was trying to get you to go out with him.”

“Oh, my,” her mother whispered, unfolding one. “I remember. I didn’t know he kept them.”

“I thought you might want them.”

“I do.”

Her mother pulled out another letter and shook her head, chuckling.

“He could write, couldn’t he? He wrote on anything. Bits of napkins and the backs of receipts. That was Vicente.”

Her mother put the letters back in the box. She closed the lid and looked at Meche.

“I wish you could have talked to him before he died,” her mother said.

“Whenever we talked he was drunk and sad,” Meche said. “But I wish I’d talked to him.”

“Well, are you going to need help packing? Do you need—”

“I could use a hug.”

Meche placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. Her mother smiled.





ASSORTED EMPANADAS CONSTITUTED the dish for the last day of the novena. There were spicy tuna ones and sweet ones filled with pineapple jam.

Meche played tangos. Her father said tango was a music for mending or breaking hearts. Rhythms for close embraces and invitations to dance telegraphed with the eyes and a tilt of the head.

She saw Daniela and waved to her. The woman approached her, a broad smile painting her face.

“Hey,” Meche said. “How... um... how’s your day been?”

“Long. I’ve been up since six and have not stopped. Two kids and a full-time job,” she said. “They’re six and ten.”

“Seriously? You have a ten-year old child? That’s impossible.”

“Not that impossible. It’s been a while.”

“No kidding. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a cook.”

“That seems strangely appropriate.”

“Well, I did go crazy with that Easy-Bake oven.”

“Sebos ate everything you made. Even when it sucked.”

“My cooking has improved.”

Meche smiled. She felt strangely sheepish, her hands dipping into her pockets as she looked down.

“You’re wondering if he’s coming after all,” Daniela said.

Meche opened her mouth to protest, raising her hand.

“Don’t deny it.”

“How do you—”

“It’s all over your face.”

Meche huffed. Daniela placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it a little.

“He’s coming. He’s probably delayed by traffic.”

“Has he been talking to you?” Meche asked, wondering if he had spilled the beans about their tryst. Now that would be embarrassing.

“No more than a few words. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I mean, I figured it out, even back then.”

“What?”

“That you were head-over-heels in love with him. I told you so. But you wouldn’t listen.”