II. The Words I Spoke Became Song
This episode was revealed to me one day while I studied. Only the words to the music were included. I could not hear the music proper.Ā
āā¦as a melody thrills us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister;ā -George Eliot
Miguel hadnāt always been so sure that he made it to Coco in time. The first seedlings of doubt had begun to sprout within him that fateful day in late August. The boy would relive it again and again: he walked into her bedroom, in one hand his guitar, in the other a tangerine. He sat down by her side, kissed her cheek and placed the family guitar on his lap.
āAbuelita Ā told me I could go check up on you after my chores were done.ā
Coco didnāt respond and her face didnāt lose its slack expression. After pressing the tangerine in her hand, the boy began with some scales, arpeggios. Slowly, by quarter notes, then in triplets, and in doing this he led into singing āUn poco locoā. Ā After a few minutes of playing, strangely, there manifested no discernible change. Ā Maybe sheās dozing, thought Miguel hopefully. Sometimes it took a second for her to pipe up in response.
So he tried āRemember Meā. That one always worked. Even if Coco didnāt sing along with him, she always smiled at hearing the song. Sometimes she would repeat a well-known anecdote about HĆ©ctor, her eyes shimmering with nostalgia. Miguelās favorite story probably had to be the time where HĆ©ctor had tried juggling baseballs, but one flew out of his hand and into Imeldaās plate, sending young Coco into a fit of laughter. This time, however, she remained completely still, as if imprisoned in some sort of stasis. A jolt of fear electrified Miguelās body. Ā Is she - ?
āMamĆ” Coco? MamĆ” Coco, Ā me puedes oĆr? Ā ā Miguel began to shake her forearm. And the Ā pobrecito Ā would never forget what happened next Ā . Ā His Ā bisabuelaās Ā head fell back in her chair like that of a Ā muƱeca , mouth agape. Without any part of her moving a single inch, a high pitched squeal stumbled out from the back of her throat. The boy recoiled and covered his ears, wide-eyed as he began to tremble. He had never heard something more unseemly than this. Some seconds passed, and the formless shriek began to take shape as a disfigured melody. Miguel knew it immediately; it would have been absurd if he couldnāt recognize it even through this repulsive racket. It was his secret weapon to summon his Ā bisabuelaās Ā favorite anecdotes of HĆ©ctor, but at that moment he had no idea what demonic presence he may have unwittingly summoned Ā . Cocoās slack, corpse-like body rang and began to quiver with the century-old lullaby. The impression was as if the melody had trouble recalling its own contours. Then suddenly, the strings of the guitar, without the boy so much as laying a finger on it, began to vibrate with the noise. It took Miguel a second to register the haunt. A little yelp escaped his throat as the instrument slid off his lap and fell to the floor with a Ā clunk. It continued to repulsively resonate, now loosely keeping time with the shrieking.
The youth suddenly felt the room grow cooler by the second. He reactively wrapped his fingers around himself as his senses absorbed the terrible spell that had trapped his poor grandmother. He swore he was going deaf, as the cacophony kept growing louder, and louder, the guitar and the shriek delighting in their mutual bastard natures, until finally, with a loud inhale from Cocoās lungs, the shriek quieted as some invisible force re-tuned the guitar pegs back to a comfortable tonality. Her hand slacked and the tangerine slice slipped from her hand, landing on the floor with a soft thump; the ghostly melody sounded out again, now without any shriek to accompany it. As the guitar hung on the final D flat, Cocoās body suddenly deflated to half its original size, exhaling as it went, while a sourceless single phrase reverberated in the air and filled Miguelās ears: Ā Gracias.
Cocoās spirit had been confined deep within its torpid, corporeal prison, but, in a miracle invoked by the familiar sound of her fatherās enchanted guitar, she finally left the Land of the Living at the age of 103.
Miguel stumbled out of the room, disoriented and numb. Neither his tongue nor his hands could relate what he had seen to his family, but they recoiled upon seeing his distress. The Riveras soon-after found Cocoās corpse, and for another four hours he remained unusually mute, until finally he collapsed, struggling to breathe as he sobbed.
Miguel broke the little promise he made to himself, that at the very least he wouldnāt cry at his bisabuelaās funeral, that he would stay strong for his family. Seeing the humble casket descend into its final resting place proved too much and he gave voice to his stifled sobs, burying his face into TĆa Gloriaās chest as the rest of his family watched on. He, alone of all the people he knew, knew for certain what happened after a person died. He could console himself that she had been reunited with the rest of the Riveras, and that he would inevitably be in her presence again. Besides, just the next Sunday, Luisa bought him a crisp, pale blue guayabera and he went to church and held Socorro above the baptismal font while the priest doused her small head with water. Wave goodbye to one life, and greet another. Sorrow yesterday, joy tomorrow. AsĆ es la vida. Yet, Cocoās absence still stung. It felt like part of him left this earth with her.
Whatās more, an unseen, unspeakable spectre oppressed Miguelās spirit. With Cocoās death, the boy lost the only connection he had to his friend in the Land of the Dead. And without her, he couldnāt be so Ā sure that he pulled in for HĆ©ctor. While this spectre rarely externalized, and the Riveras (even the shrewd Elena) noted no drastic change in his disposition as they grieved, it would so occur, occasionally, that Miguel would be going about his normal business, doing his chores, making a sale, reading, practicing, or playing with the twins that suddenly that Ā thought Ā crept into his mind. He quickly became mindful of it and made sure to exterminate it at the source before it could take root. Ā Coco told so many stories of my Ā tĆ”tarabuelo Ā that itās impossible he isnāt alive. Itās ridiculous to think he faded away when we talk about him so much.
That said, no matter how much he buried it, Miguel couldnāt shake the feeling that he proved a failure to his ancestor. He had so much to say to him, but feared that his words would have no audience. His uneasiness only worsened as autumn approached, and with it, Ā DĆa de Muertos. If there was any way he could know definitively whether HĆ©ctor still lived, it would be then, when the corporeal and semi-corporeal worlds grew close.
The Riveras sensed that this yearās festivities would be challenging. Not only had a new death occurred for the first time in five years, they also had to figure out what food pleased HĆ©ctor the most in life. Imelda had effectively locked up any stories she had of her husband, wanting only for her memory of him to shrivel up and die. Coco, in her moments of lucidity, had been reliable for a fair deal of anecdotes surrounding the family patriarch, but even she professed to have no knowledge of his favorite food. No one could have predicted his rehabilitation on the ofrenda. An exhausted Elena resigned to cook some simple tamales for the spirit.
Suddenly, Miguel had an idea, which came to him as he whistled in the kitchen, struggling to piece together a song he heard in his dreams while helping his abuelita cook. He rushed into the workshop, saw Luisa breastfeeding Socorro, and asked his mother if she had a pen, an envelope and some paper.
āIām gonna write something. Itās for Day of the Dead.ā
She laughed then pursed her lips. āAy Miguel, you donāt exactly strike me as the writer type. Is it a song?ā
āWell, after youāre done, make sure to help the twins sprinkle the marigold petals to the ofrenda room.ā
She lent him the materials and he rushed outside, guitar in one hand and the writing materials in the other. He found Dante sniffing through a trash can, whistled at him, then the two ran to the side yard of the house. Miguel slid down the wall cross-legged, clicked out his pen, bit his lip in concentration, and wrote:
Ā Iām not even sure if this letterās gonna make it to you in time, or even make it crossing the barrier into your world. If it does, Dante will for sure know where to find you. I just hope he hasnāt slobbered too much on the envelope XD.
Ā First time crossing the bridge, eh? Excited? I know youāll make it across just fine. We have your photo up on the ofrenda, so thereās no need to worry about it giving out under ya. From what I remember, the bridge is really soft but also kind of firm. You might wanna take off your shoes as you cross to really feel it under you.
Ā MamĆ” Coco mightāve already told you this, but I played āRemember Meā for her soon as I got back, and thatās what probably saved you. Our family all saw it, and they all changed their mind, even MamĆ” Elena! They told me that as long as I always keep family first and help out with the family business that theyāll let me play music. I get to sing and tap my feet whenever I feel it, even when making shoes!
Ā Iāve got a mariachi costume all ready for tonight. Youāll see me wear it. Itās red and it has a little orange thing sticking out on the neck (donāt know what itās called but mariachis wear it). Youāre going to be so proud seeing all of your descendants, just like how Iām proud to know Iām HĆ©ctor Riveraās great-great-grandson.
Ā But you wouldnāt believe, I had this crazy dream last night, where we spoke with each other, but like we were singing our conversation. Weird, right? I canāt remember what it sounded like however. I remember thinking how beautiful it was. Iāve been trying to write it down and hereās what I have so far:
Here the boy crudely sketched out a treble clef, staff and half a little melody in F.
(oh I forgot Iām also in a band! My teacher, profesor Cavalli is teaching me how to read and write music! Iām still practicing tho. You might see him tonight.)
Ā You know, I have to thank you, ācause without your help, Iād still be stuck as a shoemaker. Now at least Iām a musical shoemaker! XD
Un abrazo fuerte, tu tĆ”taranieto, Ā Miguel Rivera
P.S. Ā MamĆ” Elena wants to know your favorite kind of food! For the ofrenda!
He folded the paper, put it in the envelope, licked it shut, wrote HĆ©ctorās name on the front and asked Dante āDo you know where to find HĆ©ctor?ā The dog barked the affirmative, whereupon Miguel patted the Xoloās head and gave him the envelope. āVete, Ā find him and give him this. Quick!ā
The dog dutifully took off into the setting sun, missive in his mouth. Miguel relaxed as he realized he could do nothing else but wait, and pray for his tatarabueloās soul.
Right before night had blanketed Santa Cecilia in cold darkness, before the warm candlelight had barely begun to caress the revelersā painted faces, Miguel received his answer. But it came in a way that he would have never expected.
He remembered sitting in the ofrenda room, leaning a bit against the left wall adjacent to the offering, letting the warmth of the candlesā glow bathe his face. He remembered the feel of his Ā great-great-grandfatherās guitar in his smallish hands. Up to that point, he hadnāt really created This day, upon Elenaās orders, was his only opportunity to use the instrument. All the other days of the year, the dreamy-eyed boy would have to leave it in the display outside with HĆ©ctorās letters. Miguel thought the guitar sounded way better than anything he could ever create. So much history had seeped within the aged woodwork of the instrument that it tinged itās sound with melancholy. It had so many tales to tell, of friendship and betrayal, of love and hatred, of comedy and tragedy.
He remembered trying and struggling to whittle away at the song he heard. Nothing he came up with sounded remotely like the ephemeral dream-music which made him quiver with delight the night before. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he set down his guitar and cast his gaze upon the ofrenda, letting his eyes climb up from Cocoās portrait all the way up, passing three generations, resting on the stern gaze of his Ā tatarabuela Ā and the contrasting grin of her husband. His breathing grew shallow. Ā Where is Dante? He thought. He feared the dog would come back empty-handedā¦or worse, with his original letter.
Suddenly, Miguel heard the light trot of a dog approach, and his eyes widened as he saw Danteā¦ with an envelope in his mouth. A strange looking cat sneaked followed Dante inside after the Xolo, stopping right at Miguelās side. The boy felt his heart skip a beat.
The alebrije dropped the dampened envelope on the floor before him and gave Miguel an excited lick on the cheek. Wide-eyed, the boy gingerly turned it over to find his name scrawled out on the front of the envelope. The handwritingā¦it looked like Hectorās!
He opened it, and the letter read:
Ā Yes, your letter came absolutely covered in drool. But itās pretty cool you figured out a way we can communicate. Youāre always so creative, so I shouldnāt be surprised, Miguel.
Ā My favorite food is anything having to do with chapulines. Itās been a long time since Iāve had them. They donāt have any in the Land of the Dead, which makes having them during DĆa de Muertos *that* more special. I hope by the time Dante reaches you, you will have enough time to prepare some. If not, donāt worry, thereās always next year, right?
Ā I donāt have a lot of time because as Iām writing this weāre getting cleared to cross the bridge, but youāll feel me come in, I hope. Little nervous, but your letter calmed my nerves a bit. Iāll follow your advice about walking across the bridge barefoot.
Un abrazo devuelto, PapĆ” HĆ©ctor
Ā P.S. that song seems pretty interesting. Maybe I can help you when I arrive?
Miguel read and reread the letter, fixating on some lines, skipping to others. Then a little gasp escaped his throat as he realized the handwriting was unmistakably HĆ©ctorās. The musician wrote just like he did a century ago in his letters to Miguelās bisabuela (he, out of all people should know. He had only read and reread those lyrics again and again). The boy looked at Dante and embraced him, kissing and thanking the Ā alebrije Ā profusely while the dog gave a few more sloppy licks to the boyās cheeks. The cat ambled over and rubbed herself against Miguelās side as he giggled, sharing the affection between the two animals. He skimmed the letter again. Ā Help me when he arrives? How does he figure he can do that?
A great and ponderous silence straightaway oppressed the room as the air grew thick and humid. A little wind stirred the trail of marigold petals that had otherwise sat fixed upon the ground, causing the cat to let out a meow. Absentmindedly slipping HĆ©ctorās letter into his right pocket, Miguel suddenly recognized the little creature. āPepita?ā The cat sat unmoved, looking through the door outside the ofrenda room. She seemed transfixed.
Dante let out a bark, drawing the boyās attention to the spot where the Xolo stared intently. He was looking at the trail, at the marigold petals which began to illuminate, shining bright orange with a light flicker. They lit up in little clusters, one by one, as if weighed by some footsteps that belonged to an invisible someone with a slight limp. With each loosely synchronized group of light, they closed the distance between them and the spot where Miguel sat. Soon he saw a cluster of petals linger with their radiant light, right in front of him, and Miguel stood up, fixed where he stood, tightly gripping HĆ©ctorās guitar. As he slowly angled his head upwards, he began to feel little pinpricks of energy tickle his skin, drawing out a great big blush on his face as he realized that he was standing in HĆ©ctor Riveraās presence. But as he opened his mouth to say his tĆ”tarabueloās name, his vocal chords sang it instead. He covered his mouth, reeling from shock. He tried to speak HĆ©ctorās name again, but instead he let out a two bar melisma, jubilant and proud. A wide grin spread across the boyās face, and a glimmering sensation of euphoria consumed his body and spirit. Tears spilled passed his eyelids as he instinctively shouldered the family guitar, his fingers almost mechanically finding the right notes. And in one attempt, Miguel Rivera remembered the song he heard in his dreams, singing:
Ā Say that Iām crazy, or call me a fool
Ā But last night, it seemed that I dreamed about you
Ā When I opened my mouth, what came out was a song
Ā And you knew every word, and we all sang alongā¦
Miguel didnāt have to hear HĆ©ctorās voice to Ā feel Ā it. His very being vibrated with the momentās pure spirituality.
The boy rushed outside singing as loudly as he could to this rediscovered melody. He couldnāt keep himself still as he began to dance and improvise to the once-forgotten music. Dante rushed out and barked, dancing around his feet. The Riveras rushed outside to see who was causing all the noise and they became transfixed at the wild spectacle. The song did not let one pair of eyes stay dry as Miguel guided them on a journey with his playing, leaping and twirling and laughing with Dante mirroring his movements. As soon as Miguel had finished, they all applauded.
āMiguel, that soundedā¦beautiful!ā Enrique admitted as he wiped his eyes. Even TĆo Berto wore a soft expression.
Miguel expected to sing his reply, but the euphoric sensation had already left his body. He trembled, as if he had just disembarked from the most thrilling rollercoaster ever created.
āHĆ©ctorās here! I felt him, heās here!ā These words he repeated, in more or less the same order.
Elena became instantly skeptical. āWhat? None of us even knew him! How can you be so sure itās him?ā
āI got a letter from him! He said his favorite food was chapulines!ā The boyās voice cracked with his excitement.
"Impossibleā¦ā Elena replied, shaking her head.
āNo, see, take a look!ā Miguel reached into his pocket to show them the letter, but his fingers grasped nothing. He turned his pocket inside out and checked the other one, which produced nothing as well. Ā Where - ?
āOh, Ā Miguelito, you donāt have to make up stories about any letter. But I believe you felt someone come in. Perhaps Julio?ā offered Elena.
Miguel almost glared at his grandmother, his brown irises sparkling with certainty. āNo, Iām not making anything up, abuelita. I received a letter from him. Itā¦was right in my pocket. He came in to the ofrenda room and I felt so overwhelmedā¦I began to sing and I couldnāt stop. And earlier I was all struggling with it!ā
āA miracle!ā interjected a convinced Luisa, to which the whole family agreed.
āWell, whatever it is,ā Elena said, dismissing the topic for the time-being, āwe now have a song for DĆa de Muertos, so letās really make things festive. Get your instruments, you two, and Miguel, get your costume on and help me set the table. Weāll be having guests soon.ā
Abel and Rosa dutifully went off, Dante following them in hopes of scoring some dinner before Elena shooed him away. As Miguel followed his cousins inside, he couldnāt help but absentmindedly strum the chords to his new creation, reliving its bold melodies, submerged in a mix of giddiness and confusion.
prguitarman
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
