Chapter 14
I HAVEN’T CONVINCED MYSELF TO TRY MOVING AGAIN WHEN I hear someone calling my name. “Dani!” James is jogging toward me. “René’s giving us an interview,” he explains when he’s close enough. “He suggested we do it in your room and I told him that’d be fine. I hope that’s okay.”
I register this, then dart out of the weeds, my hand framed over my knee for protection. Did René hear me talking to Maureen? Maybe he heard what happened to me on the waterslide and he feels sorry for me? Whatever the reason, I don’t care. This is it, we’re in. I could send Maureen a snippet of this interview right way and it’ll be like the past day and a half never happened.
“I need to jump in the shower,” I blurt out as James carries camera gear into my room.
“Sure, just let me know where you want to put him.” He surveys the room.
“What about over there?” I point to the far corner, near my bed, where the thatched ceiling comes down to the floor.
“That works.”
“Great.” I leave him to it, and study the contents of my closet. As much as I’d like to wear jeans, my knee will need something softer. Reluctantly, I pull out the lime green wraparound dress Meri packed for me.
I take the quickest shower of my life, skipping the hair since I won’t have time to blow-dry it. Meri’s dress fits like it was made for me. It hangs just above the knee and is made of a soft, sweater-like fabric that wraps around my body.
I let the bun down and it falls into big, pretty waves. I adjust a few loose strands, and they’re surprisingly compliant. Who knew sweat, lagoon water, and rain that’s been through sticky trees would make the perfect hair product?
I step out of the bathroom as James is finishing up. He places the camera on the tripod and snaps the viewfinder out for me. He’s lit the warm thatched texture in the background with an amber light, and framed the shot in a way so the white curtains from the sliding glass door are on the right, flowing with the breeze. It’s the perfect tropical vibe for the making of this album. And also resembles a photo shoot for a light beachy beer.
René must have known this room would be ideal for the interview. He could have toured all the rooms when they first arrived, or maybe the thatched walls and ceiling can be seen from below. As long as him wanting to come in my room has nothing to do with catching me taking pictures of myself in my underwear last night.
I find the questions I prepared back home for our first interview and tuck them into my clipboard. A wave of nervous energy courses through me as I review them and scribble down new questions at the bottom of the page. Avoiding a few that pop into my head. Did he really not see me? If he did, was he disappointed I wasn’t wearing a G-string?
René could arrive at any moment.
The problem is, I’m starving.
Someone brought in a tray of sandwiches while I was in the shower. James ate his, but I’m eyeing mine with distrust. I can’t imagine it will be easy to eat. It’s enormous, for one thing. Slices of juicy meat, lettuce, and tomatoes encased in two large pieces of fried plantains instead of bread. How can I eat this gracefully, without it falling apart in my hands? Maybe if I ditch the plantains and just have the rest with a fork and knife. Then again, it seems a travesty not to have it the way the chef intended. Wrapped in plantains crisped to perfection with all those crumbly salt flakes on top.
I’m standing by the door, sandwiched stuffed into my mouth, when René walks in with Camila.
“ Hola. ” He breezes in and introduces himself to James first, then turns around and straightens up at the sight of me.
I throw a finger in the air asking for a second while I break down the sandwich I practically had to dislocate my jaw to get my mouth around. I don’t regret it, it’s so good. But this is going to take a moment.
René takes a look around the room and our interview setup. “ No, no. Aquí no ,” he says, determined, and steps out onto the balcony. “I meant outside . It’s so much better out here for photography”—he eyes me knowingly.
I start coughing uncontrollably. When I recover, I follow him outside.
René sets his things on the floor, leans against the railing, and poses. He’s wearing a light pink terry cloth shirt and matching shorts with the designer’s logo sewn down the edges. The outfit, the dark sunglasses, the puckered lips. He couldn’t be flashier if he tried. And yet… the sun is low in the sky, bathing him in a warm glow, and the guy looks amazing.
“Sure, this is good.” I’m trying to keep up and seem flexible, but inside we would have had been able to control the lighting. Now, we’re in a time crunch with these dark clouds gathering and the setting sun.
James gives me a supportive thumbs-up, steps outside, and expertly slips a microphone inside René’s shirt. Camila squeezes out onto the balcony too, holding a shiny black display case lined with velvet and overflowing with colorful lacquered sunglasses. René tries out a few options for her.
“I like these.” Camila pulls out enormous red ones.
He checks out his reflection in the sliding glass door. He doesn’t seem sold, but he leaves them on.
“What do you think?” James has sprung into action and set up the camera beside me on the cramped balcony.
When I look through the viewfinder, René shifts his pose for me. Chin up, face tilted, hands in his pockets. It’s a great shot. His shirt is completely unbuttoned so the eye is drawn to his chest tattoos, and then his stepping-stone abs, which lead to the tight skin around his belly button. Then, I notice his rooftop garden directly behind him in the shot and instantly feel heat in my cheeks.
“Looks good, thanks.”
“Great, I’ll hit record and watch the monitor from inside, so you can stay out here.”
“I don’t know anyone that’s ever hurt themselves on those slides.” René pulls his glasses off to inspect the wound on my knee.
“Well, now you do.”
“What were you saying up there? I heard”—he motions to Camila inside—“you were talking to yourself before you went down.”
“I wasn’t talking to myself.” Was I? “Oh… I was just trying to remember the lyrics of a song.”
“Strange time to remember a song.” René’s eyes narrow with interest. “Which one?”
I let out a short exhale. “You wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me.”
“No, you couldn’t know it. It was a song my father wrote.”
“He’s a musician?” René using the present tense again is a jab to the throat.
I stare at him for a moment, unsure how to respond and whether now’s the time to clarify. “Yes.” I hear my voice drop.
“ Qué padre ,” he responds, impressed. I concentrate on how fitting the expression is. It means, “ That’s cool ,” but also technically, “ What a dad! ” “What’s the song about?”
I feel slightly disoriented. “I think we should get started before we lose the sun.” I check his image through the viewfinder one more time.
“Do you want me to look at the camera or you?” René slips his glasses back on.
“Me, please.” He tilts his head obediently. “And do you want to take your sunglasses off?” I press boldly. I don’t know why, but I get the impression he doesn’t actually want to wear them. “It’s easier for people to connect with you if they can look you in the eyes.”
René seems surprised; his eyebrows are peaking over his sunglasses.
“How about these?” Camila’s back, brandishing a pair of aviators clear enough to see through.
He drops his head, pulls his glasses down slowly with both hands, and passes them over to Camila. He slips on the new pair and looks right at me.
“Much better. Trust me.” And they really are better. His dark, bedroom eyes are also vulnerable. And somehow, knowing you can see them, has changed his demeanor. It’s as though a weight has been lifted. He’s still a Casanova reggaetonero, but now, he also seems gentler. And way less arrogant.
I can’t help but savor the victory. I’m here, I’m doing this. I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Let’s dive right into the album. How do you start such an undertaking? Lyrics or the music?”
He takes a beat, and adjusts himself on the railing. “It depends. Sometimes we have a beat we want to start with, sometimes I have a chorus we build on. It doesn’t matter where we start, though.” He shifts again.
Happy enough with his response, I glance back at my clipboard. I have pages of questions and I’d like to get in as many as I can.
“Why El Rico ? I know it’s common in reggaeton, but why have a nickname at all?”
He looks at me, his face stiff. “Why Dani, and not Daniela?”
I’m worried I may have struck a nerve. I don’t see why. He’s never explained where the name comes from before, but now should be different. He’s stepping out on his own; he should be able to explain something so fundamental.
A sigh escapes me. “I asked first, but okay”—I loosen my grip on the clipboard, and give in to his question—“it just never sounded right to me.”
“Why not?”
“Daniela’s too… something I’m not. Feminine or, I don’t know, effervescent.”
He cracks a smile. “ Okay. So, it’s along the same lines for me.”
“Well, that’s not an answer I can use,” I jab, trying to keep things light. Light yet professional. Exactly the type of creative marketing director I want to be known for being.
“El Rico does whatever he wants and says things René can’t,” he adds begrudgingly. “And just to clarify, it’s an alter ego, not a nickname.”
“So it’s El Rico who wants all the ladies to drop their panties on the dance floor? Not René?” I spit out, quoting lyrics from his songs.
His jaw shifts and he takes his hands from the railing and slips them into his pockets. I thought it was a clever follow-up, but he’s scowling. He seems uncomfortable, and possibly hurt. Okay, so maybe there was a hint of mockery in my voice, but I can’t help it if they really are ridiculous lyrics.
“Let’s just move on.” I glance at the list. “Any worries as you begin the recording process?”
“Of course.” He’s cold as ice. “But I try not to think about that. I get to make music with my friends for people to dance to. What on earth could be wrong with that?” It’s as though he’s defending himself.
I nod and glance back at the questions, feeling warm all over. I skip over the next two instinctively. Why do you think you’ve finally gotten your own record deal? Why haven’t you addressed what happened between you and Natalia? Both seem too hard-hitting for the moment. Even if the last one would significantly help his image.
“Do you think my music is shallow?”
I tense and look up to see René rub his hand against his buzz-cut hair.
“What? No.” I lower the clipboard.
I try to read his thoughts and they’re not good. So you didn’t know me, or my music, and now you don’t respect it. I scoff to myself, brushing off the list of offenses. I focus on the clipboard I’m squeezing with both hands. “Let’s talk about—” I’m about to ask him to share the story about coming by this house when he was little, when it starts to rain.
We both seem to have the exact same reaction. Stunned by the initial downpour and then amazed by the steady, warm shower. Our view is even more beautiful now that it’s draped by water falling through the late afternoon sun. We’re above the trees so we can see the rain moving in sheets over the ocean.
The overhang above the balcony covers us completely, so there’s no need to worry about the equipment getting wet. The rain loosens up the dynamic between us a bit. The earthy smell of cool rain on hot grass neutralizes things.
“René,” Camila calls out sternly from the bed. “Talk about the old track you want to remix.”
“We’re not doing that anymore,” René responds, looking off at the rain.
I catch a hint of offense in the way Camila is combing her fingers through her hair. Like heaven forbid he change his mind about something and not tell her.
Suddenly, René rises excitedly. I follow his gaze to a nearby branch. He takes his sunglasses off, picks up a small electronic device from the floor where he set his things down, and without any explanation, lifts both of his legs over the railing.