Signal to Noise (20 page)

Meche opened her mouth, no doubt to insult him, but all this did was deepen the kiss.

Sebastian knew he probably wasn’t doing it right because the only time he had kissed another girl before had been in sixth grade, when he’d been invited to a dreadful game of Spin the Bottle and ended up locking lips with a classmate who seemed utterly grossed out by the fact that it was Sebastian instead of the boy sitting next to him.

Meche’s sharp intake of breath made him pause and he drew back, just staring at her in utter confusion.

Meche looked like she had been run over by a truck, her eyes all big and wide.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.” He paused and added, “Are we cool?”

“Jesus,” Meche said, reaching behind the couch and grabbing her jacket.

“Meche...”

“My backpack. Where is it?”

She looked around the couch, finding the backpack on the floor and quickly zipping it closed.

“Why are you mad?”

“Because you’re right. You didn’t mean it,” she said.

Sebastian raised his hands, unable to articulate a proper response. She slammed the door shut on her way out.

M
ECHE DID NOT
understand. The room was dark, the apartment was quiet. She had her Walkman by the pillow, the cassette tape turning, playing Leonard Cohen. This was a quick recipe for sleep but sleep did not come.

She got up and brushed past her poster of The Police, her hands dancing over her records, the familiar shapes of the action figures sitting on the shelves.

She peeked out the window and tried to find the moon but she did not see it and sat back on her bed, wondering if Sebastian was also awake.

Meche did not understand what happened. Had Sebastian gone mad? Why had he done a thing like that? And then, he had been sorry... obviously.

She pressed a finger against her lips and opened the window.

V
ICENTE SAT LISTENING
to his wife and his daughter. It was like tuning into one of the old radio dramas on XEW. All it lacked was the appropriate, tear-jerker music. He wasn’t in the mood for dramas and every word was like a nail into his skull. He wanted to tell them to fight outside.

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know,” Meche replied, ignoring Natalia and opening the refrigerator door.

“I said I don’t want you to spend so much time with that boy. Catalina Coronado saw you together.”

“Oh my God. Is that woman with the Federal Police or something? Can I go work on my computer now?”

“It’s not funny. Catalina happens to be a good friend—”

“She’s a nosy bitch,” Vicente said, folding his newspaper. “Go work.”

Meche huffed and stomped towards her room. Natalia gifted him with one of her deadly stares.

“Thank you. Now she’ll never get the point.”

“The point being, what?” Vicente asked.

He was playing a record by Joaquín Sabina and did not want to get into an argument, but Natalia’s tone and the way she was shaking her head at him irked him to the core.

“If she keeps hanging out with teenage boys she’ll wind up sleeping with them.”

“Don’t teenagers generally sleep with each other? Or are we selling her off to some feudal lord?”

“Watch her get pregnant.”

“Get her condoms, for God’s sake. You work at a pharmacy.”

“She’ll pick the wrong kid and ruin her life.”

Natalia didn’t say “just like me,” but she did not have to. Vicente burst out laughing. He could not help it.

“You are useless,” Natalia muttered.

Vicente just kept laughing. He clutched the record’s liner notes and sank into his chair, feeling all the misery of his marriage dripping down his shoulders and pooling at his feet.

S
EBASTIAN FELT LIKE
he was reading a map which had all the street names erased. Lost, confused and surprised, he replayed the events of the night with Meche in his head. He had offended her, he understood that much. He also understood he must fix it.

Sebastian could think of only one way to make amends with Meche. He walked the three blocks from his building to her apartment, listening to the sound of fireworks going off in the streets.

He pressed her buzzer, was given access and climbed the stairs, taking care to light the sparkler before he reached her door.

“Happy New Year!” he said, waving the sparkler before her face.

Meche rested her head against the door frame. “It’s not New Year’s yet.”

“Well, it will be in two hours.”

“I’m supposed to be putting away the ham.”

“You had ham?” Sebastian asked.

“What do you want?”

“I want to take you for a ride around the block.”

“I want to put away the ham.”

“Look, I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“You didn’t... ugh,” Meche slid out and closed the door, resting her back against it. “You didn’t offend me. But it’s not nice... look, I don’t like being the leftover turkey sandwich you feel obliged to eat after Christmas.”

“You’re not a sandwich. Come on.”

“Do you
really
think I’m pretty?”

No,
he thought. That was his natural reaction. A box he had long ticked off.

But he looked at her and she
was
kind of pretty. Not like Isadora, not like the other girls. When you looked at Meche the first impression was that she was going to punch you in the face; she was made of such strong angles. However, if you looked long enough there was a delicate softness beneath her which manifested in the very long neck, the graceful fingers which were meant to play instruments, the petite frame. She was a knot of contradictions and these, thrown together, created an interesting composition. When she grew up, he thought, people would see it more clearly.

“Yeah,” he said faintly and then growing more self-assured, he nodded. “Yeah, you are.”

Meche smiled a little. She turned her face and tried to cover it by pretending to cough, but he saw her smile and it made him smile too.

“Can you go with me for a ride?”

“Yes,” she said.

They rushed downstairs, the sparkler still in his hands.

H
ALF AN HOUR
later Sebastian parked the bike in front of Meche’s building. He searched in his pockets and found the cassette he had neatly labelled that morning.

“I made a mix-tape for you, for Epiphany. I also got you a book, but I can give you that tomorrow.”

“Books,” Meche muttered, opening the cassette and reading the song list. “Forever Young.”

“It’s like a soundtrack for us. The soundtrack of our lives.”

“And Alphaville will be singing on our soundtrack?”

“Among others.”

She reached for her Walkman—always tucked inside her jacket, always there—and put the cassette inside, pressing play. She put on the headphones and nodded, tapping her foot.

Meche reached up and hugged him. For three minutes he danced with her to music he could not hear, a song which rang only in her ears.

T
WO DAYS LATER
Meche pinned the pictures from the photo booth against the factory wall, right beside the cover of Dylan’s
The Freewheelin.

It was a declaration of some sort, although she did not understand what she was declaring. Just that she needed to tell Sebastian something and since she could not write it down she tried putting it the only way she could: in shorthand.

Mexico City, 2009

M
ECHE WOKE UP
early and stopped at the corner store to buy a small bag of peanuts. The shopkeeper stared at her, just like his grandfather had, as though she were a kid trying to steal merchandise. Of course, she
had
stolen merchandise back in the day but it was not like she was going to run out without paying now that she was a grown woman. Meche placed the money on the counter, the shopkeeper counted every coin and then handed her a receipt, still frowning.

Meche hopped on a bus. It was safer than taking a taxi and she didn’t mind being squeezed into a tight corner. But she was lucky: the bus was half empty and she had a chance to sit in the back, listening to her music.

Meche kept an optimistic outlook for the first couple of hours as she classified records and moved around her father’s apartment. It looked completely doable. She could tidy everything up in a day. Another hour later and Meche had despaired. Reality kicked in. It was impossible to go through all of her father’s stuff in just a few hours. He had too much crap and frankly, she was tired of the whole thing, bled dry and exhausted as she tossed another record onto a pile and tried to remember what was the purpose of this. Meche lay down on the floor, in the middle of the living room, knowing she should make herself some coffee because she needed it. Maybe she also needed an injection of sugar.

Someone knocked three times and for a moment she had a sense of displacement, because that knock should have come at her mother’s apartment, like it always did when Daniela or Sebastian visited.

Meche opened the door and he was there, wearing a long, dark coat and looking very proper with a tie and all.

“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 fuck, 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.

E
VEN THOUGH
J
IMENA
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.”