Ghost Radio (8 page)

Finding Alondra
completely changed my life. I met her at a party thrown by some acquaintances who created underground comics. I was sleep-deprived and unenthusiastic at the thought of going out. Every time I went to one of these things, I'd ask myself the same question: Why bother? Usually I returned home bearing the same answer: Next time, don't bother. Friends I hadn't seen in months would greet me from the bottom of bottles and roach ends of joints. I'd see desirable women on the arms of total jerks, stave off hunger by eating potato chips and drinking liquor so noxious I could feel my liver corroding before it even reached my stomach.

On this particular occasion, I found a chair in a corner of the kitchen, next to an artist who wrote and drew a comic about a zombie superhero. I pretended to be interested.

“Zombo is like a classic superhero, with foibles, anxieties, and problems. You know the whole Stan Lee thing,” he told me.

“What are his superpowers?” I asked.

“Well, he's immortal because he's already dead. He lives in a grave and only comes out at night. He defends democracy and he protects his girl.”

“Why would a zombie care about democracy?”

“Because he's a modern vigilante.”

“Oh, of course,” I said, suppressing a laugh.

A woman dressed head to toe in black, with full lips painted the same color, approached.

“So what's Zombo up to these days?” she asked with a smile. She had a subtle accent I couldn't place.

“Defending the world from injustice.”

“And protecting democracy from its enemies?” she added, giving me what seemed like a conspiratorial look.

“Have you met Joaquin? He's a disc jockey.”

“A disc jockey?” she asked, considering me coolly.

I let the question go unanswered. I didn't want to talk about my job.

“I knew a disc jockey once. Killed himself by jumping in front of a train,” Alondra said.

I didn't know what to make of this comment. Hostility? Ridicule? I wasn't sure.

Unable to think of a rejoinder, I asked her name.

“Alondra,” she said. It sounded like a challenge.

“Are you also an expert on zombies?” I asked, hoping to sound witty.

“I'm an expert on a lot of things. But zombies aren't a favorite.”

Zombo's creator grasped Alondra's sarcasm and his face fell. I seized the moment.

“Frankly, my main problem with Zombo is that he has a really stupid name,” I ventured.

He stared at me in confusion; he was obviously trying to hold in the anger that would make him look like what he was: a ridiculous, easily offended cartoonist. He decided to laugh instead.

“It's meant to be stupid,” he said limply.

“His name's the least of his worries. Believe me. I've read most of his adventures,” Alondra said, moving closer to me.

“Well, it's a work in progress.”

“Progressively decomposing. But for a zombie, that might be a good thing.”

Crestfallen, the artist got up and limped away.

I already liked everything about Alondra: her face, the black dress she wore trimmed with antique lace, her hair, her hands; the accent that seemed ripped from the soundtrack of an old Superman cartoon.

“So, what do you do?” I asked.

“Guess,” she said, a hint of playfulness dancing in her eyes.

“Well, you dress like you're in a Goth band, which means you're not.”

“Good.”

“Too sarcastic for an actress.”

“Much too sarcastic.”

“Too independent to have come here on someone's arm.”

“Yes, my arms are free.”

“And since this is a party for underground-comics people, you must be one of them.”

“Nice deduction, Sherlock.”

I gave her a courtly bow.

“The guest list kind of tipped my hand.”

I nodded.

“What might you have guessed without that?”

“Serial killer?” I blurted out.

She laughed and some of her armor slipped away.

The conversation shifted, becoming easier, looser.

We talked about comic books and hip-hop, politics and food, Web sites and the crime rate in Mexico City. She told me a little about the trajectory that had carried her to the Federal District.

“You hungry?” she wanted to know.

“Hardly at all now. I ruined my appetite with a rancid bag of something I found lying around here,” I answered.

“Let's go eat something more substantial.”

Without another word, she headed for the apartment door. I followed. Just as we were crossing the threshold, Alberto came up to us.

“Where you going?” he asked Alondra.

“I'm having dinner with my friend Joaquin here.”

I'd known Alberto for some time. In fact, I'd invited him onto my program, back when it followed the conventional cultural broadcasting model. He was upset, but keeping his cool. Barely.

At the time, Alondra's bluntness, while refreshing, seemed a little
cruel to me. I couldn't help identifying with poor Alberto. I'd been “that guy” more than once. Hell, we all have.

“You want me to come along?” he asked feebly.

“You should stay with your guests,” Alondra said, but in a tone that made it sound more like “fuck off.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not sure. I'll have to come back eventually, my stuff is here. Don't wait up.”

I said good-bye, but Alberto didn't answer. We left silently, not speaking until we climbed into my car.

“What was that? It seemed like you were a little mean.”

“I behaved impeccably,” Alondra responded. “Where are we going?”

I took her to Charco de las Ranas for tacos. It wasn't easy for us to pick up the conversation again, which was mostly my fault; I kept expecting an explanation.

For a while I feigned interest, but I couldn't focus on what Alondra was telling me about popular myths and traditions in Papua, and eventually I interrupted:

“It seemed like something serious happened with Alberto back there. Do you have any idea what it might have been? He acted jealous.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Does he have any reason to be?”

“People have reasons for a lot of stupid shit,” she answered.

“I guess it might be because you've been with him and his group for a while. He must feel a certain attachment or affection for you. Maybe he was disappointed that you left in the middle of his party,” I said, choosing my words carefully so they wouldn't sound like an accusation.

“Maybe.”

“But you don't think so.”

She shook her head.

“What do you think it is?”

“I fucked him a few times,” she said, biting into her beefsteak taco.

I nearly choked on my glass of horchata.

“Pardon?”

“I thought you knew. But don't worry, it's meaningless.”

“Where I come from, doing something like that to another man can end up costing you your life,” I said, although inwardly I doubted that this would be the case with Alberto and me.

“Don't be dramatic. That's the way it goes. I'm crashing at his place. I got bored. It happens.”

“But still…”

“I'm not cheating on anyone, Joaquin. Eat your tacos.”

I didn't have an answer for this woman, who seemed more attractive, fascinating, and dangerous with each passing moment.

At this point, Alondra changed the subject. Clearly she wasn't interested in talking about Alberto anymore. And, I have to admit, I was grateful. We finished eating, and on the way to the car, she asked me where I wanted to go. I suggested a bar, and she agreed, so I decided to take her to a hole in the wall over on Medellín Avenue: a ruined garage where musicians, artists, gang members, politicians, and other bums came to drink and dance until dawn. The noise was overwhelming but the ambience was worth it; Alondra seemed to enjoy herself.

It was hot in the club, so I took off the jacket I'd been wearing all night. Alondra noticed my forearm. I have an odd tattoo that often raises an eyebrow or two, but nothing prepared me for Alondra's reaction.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me into a corner of the club where the lighting was better. She studied the tattoo; a look of concern, even fear, marked her face.

“You don't like it?” I asked feebly.

“What does it mean?” she said, her eyes wide and her lips trembling.

“Would you believe me if I told you I don't know?”

“How can that be?”

“I used to raise quite a bit of hell. After one of those hell-raising nights, I woke up with this on my arm.”

Alondra looked deep in my eyes. And after what seemed like an eternity, she said:

“Do you believe in premonitions?”

“I don't know, maybe.”

“Well, I didn't. But I do now,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek.

All this because of my crazy tattoo? I looked down at it, wondering what it could possible mean to this girl. It meant nothing to me, just an odd collections of letters:

 

E

N

I

T N U J A A

B

N

 

Around four in the morning, we left. I didn't have to say a word. We climbed into the car and drove toward the National University campus sculpture garden, where we waited for the sunrise, telling each other our dreams and nightmares.

At eight in the morning, I took her back, having done nothing more than talk to her. Well, I did get that one kiss on the cheek. I doubt Alberto slept that night.

In the following days, I saw Alondra several more times. We visited all the little-known spots in the city that interested her: temples and ruins, old cantinas and dilapidated stores.

We spent our second afternoon together in my bed, and after that, we found several cheap hotels and motels in different parts of the city. We could have gone to my apartment, but the hotels fit well on the list of urban attractions Alondra wanted to explore.

Every day, I tried to convince her to come live with me, to leave Alberto's house once and for all. It wasn't long before it felt like Alberto and I had traded places. Now that she was with me, I was the one suf
fering anguish and nightmares about the two of them together. Alondra was still sleeping under his roof, and although I believed there was nothing between them, there was always a nagging uncertainty. Alondra told me living with him was convenient because they were collaborating on a comic book, but eventually she finally had enough of Alberto's tearful pleading.

One morning, after we returned from a trip, she showed up at my apartment with her two suitcases. We took a quick shower together. I couldn't believe my luck, but a voice inside my head kept saying, “Be careful.” Alondra didn't make any promises, but she delivered no warnings either. Our relationship was nonjudgmental, but also noncommittal. I told myself I was content, but really I wanted more. My night shift was wonderfully convenient for both of us, and she continued to be active in the underground-comic scene, where she created, edited, and published various books.

I'd told Alondra about my job in general terms, about my program and the unexpected turn it had taken. I explained how my vocation as a professional broadcaster was thanks, in large part, to my nighttime callers, who contributed the material we discussed every evening. By then, I trusted Alondra enough to start telling her how, sometimes, the stories I heard on the show resonated strangely with my personal life. How, in a way, I didn't believe it was sheer coincidence the program had taken this course.

I know that in the beginning Alondra thought I had a screw loose, or, more likely, was inventing macabre stories in hopes of appealing to that little necrophile all Goth women carry within them. However, her aesthetic tastes didn't translate into an interest in ghost stories or supernatural phenomena. As for myself, convincing anyone of the importance or veracity of the stories I heard each day was not a priority. In the beginning, it didn't seem relevant to me whether what callers said was true or not; finding rational explanations or dissecting their errors of perception and judgment was beside the point. The interesting thing was unraveling the worries, fears, and ambitions these tales embodied. Sometimes,
the stories were of a purely social or economic nature; others were flagrantly oedipal. Of course, I had learned to weed out the pranksters, and each night, there were a few disturbed individuals who injected their own insanity into the show. Something that could be both entertaining and exasperating.

The real problems I ran up against, though, were my own; I had trouble identifying them largely because I didn't understand them well enough to articulate what they were. It may sound pretentious but I've always been courted by death.

One might think
the coincidence of the tattoo would have scared me. I've never been a fan of fate. And this felt like fate. No, it was more like: Destiny. But for some reason I wasn't afraid.

Joaquin seemed intelligent, laid back, and unconventional, a combination I've always found attractive. And there was the destiny angle, which made him seem dangerous. No woman, whatever crap they tell you, can resist that. But despite all of this, I wasn't anticipating a long relationship. I planned to continue traveling across Mexico and I wanted to do it alone. I had no intention of bringing anyone with me, and I wasn't going to modify my itinerary. I certainly didn't want commitment, or anything else to distract me from my goals. So, when I told him I was going to Oaxaca to see Monte Albán, Mitla, and Zaachila, to interview artist Francisco Toledo and maybe work in his studio, I was caustic, almost abusive. Joaquin seemed to get it at first. But his silence didn't last long. Even now I'm not sure how he did it, but he convinced me that we could travel together without getting in each other's way, with the understanding that I could split from him at any time without explanation or drama. Ultimately, our journey extended far beyond Oaxaca. We continued traveling cross-country and went to Chiapas, across the border into Guatemala and Belize, and back to Mexico through Quintana Roo. After a few days in Mérida we went into Campeche and finally Veracruz.

Joaquin was taking time off from his radio show, which had just won some prize and was, unexpectedly, developing a following, both on the Web and the conventional airwaves. I made no secret of the fact that the premise seemed absurdly old-fashioned to me. Was there still an audience
out there interested in listening to ghost stories? Especially in an era so predisposed toward the visual, the spectacle, special effects, it seemed bizarre that anyone would have the patience and—I don't know—the naïveté to respond to them.

Of course, who was I to talk? Comics were also hopelessly retrograde. But comics possessed a charm, while radio just seemed tawdry. Or so I thought.

I was wrong, both about Joaquin and about his program. I enjoyed his company during the trip; I fulfilled all my research goals while discovering many aspects of Mexico I'd never known. Meanwhile, I found myself becoming fond of even Joaquin's weirdest habits.

The odd way he coughed when nervous. The adamant way he argued when drunk. I even succumbed to the gooey-eyed way he looked at me. I missed him when he wasn't around. Yup, I was in love. Wholly and completely. Though I hated myself a little for it.

When we got back, I didn't pause for even a moment to consider whether it was time to move in or not. I leaped in headfirst. Going back to his apartment to stay seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

During the trip we talked a lot about the show. He told me how it had evolved and transformed.

“But why would people listen to ghost stories over and over again?” I asked him.

“You have great eyes,” he replied.

“Frankly, I don't get it. They're all the same.”

“Like a tiger's.”

“You'd think they'd get bored.”

“Shining in the jungle.”

“I'm trying to talk about your show.”

“My subject is more interesting,” he said, raising his eyebrows flirtatiously.

An hour later, our clothes strewn across the floor, I got him to talk about the show.

“Our interests are similar. What you're looking for in comic books isn't
so different from what I'm trying to do with radio. They're both examples of low tech that's seductive. And speaking of seduction, I think—”

“C'mon, I really want to hear your take.”

“Okay, okay, I think of what I'm doing as a sort of confessional, or, if you prefer a less religious metaphor, a psychoanalyst's couch. People call in to talk about their fears and phobias, things they've imagined or that have really happened to them, things they wish had happened. If the story's good, we all enjoy it. If not, at least the caller is getting it off his chest. And our listeners are looking for that element of surprise—the power of spontaneity, the unexpected, the limitless possibilities offered by other people's secrets.”

“I don't want to disappoint you, but that sounds like the same logic that Dr. Phil uses to justify his brainless talk show. Is that what you're after?” Part of me was just trying to provoke him, but I was also authentically curious.

“Oh, you want to argue. I say we settle it with a wrestling match.”

“Joaquin.”

“Best two out of three falls wins.”

“Answer my question.”

“Of course the loser wins too,” he said, his eyes doing that gooey thing.

“How about some verbal wrestling?”

“Mine sounds better.”

I got up off the floor, and slipped back into my clothes.

“Now she's getting dressed.”

“Might be talked out of them.”

Joaquin smiled.

“Okay, I'll answer your question,” he said, then laughing: “What was it again?”

Some days and orgasms later, I finally got an answer.

“Generally, I'm just letting people talk; it's great if it helps people resolve their issues. But I think I'm a lot like the audience, I like to listen to them.”

“But you told me that sometimes the callers make a sport of tearing
everything apart—mistrusting, mocking, even outright insulting those who share their deepest intimacies and fears. How do you expect to resolve a conflict in the midst of so much animosity?”

“I don't, that's up to the callers themselves. Most of the listeners know what they're getting into. I can't do anything other than ask for a certain level of respect and do my best to filter the nastier calls. In the end, if confrontations arise, that's part of the package. I doubt anyone is so naive that they would tell their story on air and not expect some criticism.”

I questioned Joaquin aggressively for several days, between bouts of equally aggressive sex. I wasn't trying to convince him that the show was immoral, exploitive, or inconsequential, nor did I really question his convictions. Curiosity drove me, and he disarmed me through simple logic and an implacable sincerity. And that damn gooey-eyed look. He had it all clear in his head and his own brushes with death had bolstered his determination. Even if he was often skeptical about the stories he heard, he obviously felt a kind of respect for those who called in.

“Whether
I
believe them or not is what matters,” he'd always say.

In our talks, Joaquin never missed a chance to point out the parallels between his work and the underground comics that obsessed me. Both forms of media were opening up new channels of expression, and each spoke its own language, an argot that was at once popular, spontaneous, vibrant, and raw. Each was an irreverent take on an old genre, each could be provocative, and both used shock as a means of communication.

Little by little, almost without realizing it, I settled in Mexico permanently. I'd traveled a lot, but this was the first time I'd chosen a home of my own volition, not because it was imposed on me or for practical reasons. After a few interviews I was hired by the political-science department of a private university. It wasn't a spectacular position and it didn't pay much, but I didn't care. I still worked with several comic-book artists, including Alberto. Because he had been my lover, he thought he deserved certain privileges, which annoyed me and drove Joaquin crazy.

I hate jealousy. Never understood it. But Joaquin even made that charming. His eyes found a new shade of gooey.

Love and her odd magic.

Yes, we were in love. But how do you talk about it? All those terrible clichés.

There's something indecent about talking or writing about love. It cheapens the feeling. And it's an emotion that none of us understand, even when we think we do.

If, in a moment of intimacy, someone asks if I love him, I find myself overwhelmed; I feel as embarrassed as I would publicly debating my innermost feelings in an auditorium full of strangers.

But I promised myself I'd try. Here. In this composition book. But I still can't. So I'll return to facts.

But, wait; I think there may be one word that describes my feelings for Joaquin:

Tattooed.

I'd been drawn in by a tattoo, then tattooed by love.

Okay, that's enough; if I write any more about it, this will take a hard turn toward cliché land. Back to the facts, I'm always better with facts.

Our daily life was unorthodox. Joaquin would return from the radio program at dawn. He almost always woke me up, and we would be together. Together in every sense of the word. And after an hour or more of that we'd have breakfast and sleep until noon. Then I'd head for the university, and when I got back, we'd be together until he went to the radio station around 10
P.M.
Then I'd work on my projects, see my friends, and do the other things my life demanded.

We were perfectly synchronized, but one day Joaquin proposed that we make a change: He wanted me to start working with him on the show. I thought it was a rotten idea. We had something good. Why spoil it?

“I need you here,” he told me. “You could make a huge contribution to the show. It's got nothing to do with spending time together. Your knowledge and skepticism, your perspective and humor—they would really enrich the program. Right now incredible things are happening; there's more and more interest, more sponsors, more money.”

“Let's not ruin what we have.”

I was sure he'd never convince me, and I pumped up the volume of “Deadship, Darkship,” by Sorry About Dresden.

We went back and forth, back and forth. The more he asked, the more I fought it. And one night he became adamant, and I became cruel.

“You're just jealous of me having any life that excludes you.”

And with that, I stormed out of the apartment.

But it was all an act. Earlier that day I had decided to say yes. I just wanted to make him suffer a little bit.

At first I thought
Ghost Radio
would be an interesting experience, a diversion from my work on comic books. I didn't realize then what had happened to Joaquin, what was still happening to him. To me, the program was just a job. It wasn't long before I discovered that, for him, it was more. Much more.