Chapter 10
W E CAN’T EVEN HEAR WHAT’S HAPPENING. T HE MICROPHONES on the cameras James set up around the room aren’t the best quality. Plus, they’re so far away from everyone, I don’t know if we’re listening to the beginnings of a bass line or the hum of an air conditioner.
I consider calling ángel or Maureen, but even if they did manage to convince René to let us in, it wouldn’t be the ideal situation. It would be better if René wanted us to be there. Camila did say, “Not today,” and that really could mean “tomorrow.” So I decide to hold off before calling for help. Still, there must be something we can do in the meantime.
“I can’t sit here all day,” I tell James, collecting my things. “Grab your gear.”
Together, we scope out the common rooms and find a lounge near the pool. I keep an eye out for Camila, while James drags the comfy, seventies-style couch into the center of the room, shuts the curtains, and lights up the space for interviews.
New plan. I’m going to wait outside the bathroom across from the studio. Eventually, someone will need to use the toilet or have a snack, and when they do, I’m going to ask them to pop into the lounge and give us a few minutes for a quick interview. As long as we avoid René and the studio, we’re not doing anything wrong is what I keep telling myself.
Three hours later, we’ve recorded our first interview. Sure, it was only with one of the studio technicians but anyone involved on the album is fair game. You never know who could have something interesting to say or shed some light on how things are going. Any light would be great. Maybe coming at it from different angles will help us weave together the tapestry that is René and his first solo album.
Unfortunately, Gustavo, a middle-aged man with a full beard and long hair that feathers back, only just met René this morning. Though he did work a festival last year where he performed. So while I still don’t know anything about the album or how René’s feeling today, we do know the following:
The exact kind of microphone René prefers onstage (Sennheiser SKM 2000)
Gustavo is big fan of the NY Yankees
Energy waning, I head out again and casually lean against a column near the studio. From where I’m standing, there’s a clear view of the yard straight through the common area. Everywhere there are walls missing, completely letting the outside in.
Outside, a woman nimbly climbs a ladder leaning against a tree. With a few twists, a plump papaya snaps free and she drops it down to an older woman waiting below. I go back to pretending to be reading something on my phone, in case Camila or René pops out of the studio.
A few minutes later, someone appears at the end of the hall and I snap to attention. I recognize him immediately from the platinum-dyed hair. He’s wearing black sweats and red leather high-top sneakers. Santiago. The relatively unknown producer René has chosen to work with.
He’s had some success with local artists, but this is the first time he’s worked on an entire album. He walks briskly toward me and I can’t help but feel a rush of optimism. If we can interview Santiago, the day will not be a total loss. In reggaeton, the producer is an integral part of the music. When they’re not reworking existing music, they’re composing original beats. Plus, Santiago and René are also friends. He’ll know things.
He walks into the kitchen, so I gather myself and walk toward the counter.
Keep on trucking. And put everyone in the truck with me.
“Hey, Santiago.” He stares at me, unblinking. “I’m Dani. I’m with the label.”
“Oh yeah, nice to meet you.” He shuts the fridge, walks over, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“I’d love to interview you for the behind-the-scenes, if you have a few minutes.”
“Sure, now’s good.” There’s an easy enthusiasm in his voice.
As I guide him to our interview room, I feel like I can breathe again.
“Have you been to Culebra before?” he asks as James sets him up with a microphone.
“No, this is my first time.” I try to sound bubbly and push down the lump forming in my throat.
“What?” He’s genuinely surprised. “We’ll have to show you around. We’re going on a hike tomorrow morning. You should come.” Santiago has a refreshingly down-to-earth and open demeanor. He’s also a little flirtatious.
“That sounds amazing, I’d love that.” This could be a great opportunity for us to bond. If by “we,” he means René will be coming, that’s even better. I can convince him to grant us access to the studio and let us stay in there for the next four weeks.
“Okay, we’re rolling,” James announces.
“So, Santiago, how’s the first day going?”
“Good. We’re just getting started. René has a lot of ideas and I’m showing him a few things I’ve been working on, you know.”
“How’s he feeling? Is he happy?”
Santiago considers this and shifts around in his seat. “This is a dream come true for René. A famous actor used to live here and made the recording studio, which we’ve obviously updated a bit, but René was telling me he used to ride his bike by here when he was a kid and look inside the windows.”
“That’s sweet,” I respond, moved. “I thought he grew up south of San Juan?”
“He did, but he spent a lot of summers here.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” There’s so little René has shared about his personal life, it’s nice to finally get some intel. I jot down a note to ask René about his summers on the island. It would be a great story to include in the making of the album.
“Yeah, he was always writing songs. Mostly rap when he was just starting out. But he was teased about it a lot at school. Even by his cousins.” Santiago shakes his head. “He’d spend the summers out here with his grandparents. Get away from it all, you know. He’d come to this house hoping to see the owner in here making music, but I guess the guy was never home.”
Poor kid. My feelings about René aside, it’s awful hearing he was treated this way when he was just trying to do his thing. I’m relieved he wasn’t dissuaded. You showed them.
“How do you think he’s feeling about recording his first solo album? After a career of guest appearances,” I add in my best professional interviewer voice.
“I don’t know.” He seems genuinely stumped by the question. “I think he’s been happy. He’s thrived. Reggaeton is layered, you know. You bring this, I’ll add that. It’s all about community. To be honest with you, I think he’s liked that it hasn’t just been about him. But you know what”—he sounds as though he’s just figuring something out—“ever since we started talking about this project, and today, in there”—Santiago points in the direction of the studio, his eyes narrowing—“I can see this fire inside. René’s always been fearless but I think he’s ready to see how far he can push things.”
Santiago leans farther back into the couch. “In fact, he had a plan, but he wants to throw it all out. Now that he’s here, he wants to experiment.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I know he wants to have some piano, some guitar. Not a lot of artists use real instruments in reggaeton. You can get away without them, but René can play both so well. He wants to do something different.”
While it’s great to learn so much about René, it’s unsettling there isn’t an actual plan for the album.
“It’s going to be huge,” Santiago continues, excited. I get the sense he’s noticed the look on my face and is trying to reassure me. “You know”—his tone shifts to something more somber—“René is loyal. I’ll never stop thanking him for bringing me on. But I think it’s because we’re both from here, had similar upbringings, same exposure to music. We grew up with the same music playing in our houses.” He chuckles and then pauses. “Still, I know what he’s gone through to get here. He could have worked with anyone. Someone who could, like, guarantee him some hits.”
I’m taken aback at his openness. “Are you scared of letting him down?”
He shakes his head. “He knows what I can do,” he says, scratching his chin. “When someone believes in you like that… I don’t know, it sets you free.” He pauses, then smiles. “You know what I mean?”
I smile back, feeling the lump in my throat return. I know exactly what he means.
Life. It’s all just a matter of perspective, isn’t it? Whether something is good or bad depends on how you look at it. Or what you might have had for dinner.
Take right now, for example.
The sun is setting, my first on the island, since it was already dark when I got in last night, my jeans are rolled up, toes in the warm sand, and I couldn’t possibly feel less relaxed. The beach on this side of the property is a long, narrow strip of pure white sand, with water so crystal clear, I can see a school of fish swimming near the shore. It’s all a little too perfect. I came out here needing some air, but it just isn’t working. There just isn’t enough air.
An hour ago, James and I were in the dining room of the main house. We each had a beer and he was being kind, congratulating me for pivoting to make the most of the day. And he’s right. The interview with Santiago was a step in the right direction.
And I’m going on this hike tomorrow. If René comes too, I can find a moment to talk to him. Explain my vision for the project. Then again, there’s always a chance Camila will come and not be too happy to see me. I could be making things worse, but I have to try.
Then the dinner buffet was set out, along with its mouthwatering aromas. I stared at the three perfect scoops on my plate and my breath slowed. Red beans, yellow rice, and mashed green plantains drenched in garlic and olive oil.
Last night we had pasta. Today we had omelets for breakfast, and burgers for lunch. This was our first authentic Puerto Rican meal.
The plantain mash was an explosion of flavor that melted in my mouth. Since my dad died, my mom laid to rest his cuisine too. Anything that reminded her of him was too painful. Our kitchen went back to being strictly Cuban, and Cubans do different things to their plantains. The flavors were so unbelievably delicious and familiar, they brought back a memory just as intense. It took shape before I had a chance to push it away.
Dad and I doing karaoke of his favorite La India song. Well, not so much karaoke, just us singing along to the song as it played on our TV in the living room. The Puerto Rican goddess’s powerful voice booming behind us.
We knew the words by heart about a woman whose man had just been stolen. The lyrics were kind of funny for a father and daughter to belt out so animatedly. Along the lines of: You can have him! He’s all yours! Don’t call me when he does the same to you!
Afterward, when we sat back at the dinner table, hoarse and spent from our performance, he said, “We should perform that on your wedding day. We’d take the house down.” Then, he quickly followed it with, “ Eso si te quieres casar. ” Letting me off the hook, in case marriage wasn’t for me.
The memory was so clear. And painful. It made me feel restless and slightly claustrophobic. Never mind that we were in a part of the house where all the walls were folded away like accordions.
Now I’m outside, but it’s not much better. It’s just all so absurdly spectacular. Deep blue sky, clouds dressed in pink. My throat feels dry. I don’t have time for this. It’s going to take all of me to get this job done. I need to be on my game. I can’t go falling apart every time they serve mashed plantains and beans. I can almost hear my dad clarifying, “ Habichuelas. ”
My breathing shallows and I leave the beach. Climbing the stairs two at a time, I focus on my feet and take deep breaths. The winding wooden-decked path guides me to the right, where it circles around the wide trunk of an enormous tree.
There’s an overlook, and beyond the deck, it’s a hilly slope down to another sliver of beach. There isn’t a banister by the edge, so I stick near the tree.
When I finally look up, I realize I’ve found an even more beautiful view. There’s an island directly ahead, covered in green mountains. It looks like it might be close enough to swim to. The sun is setting behind it, making the water shimmer. It’s so overwhelmingly beautiful, my eyes instantly water.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I blurt out, throwing my hands up.
A figure peers out from around the tree, making me jump.
I gasp and immediately start wiping the tears off my cheek.
“I’m sorry.” Sitting on the deck, legs dangling over the ledge, is René. Except he looks so very different. Though the only change I can gather after a quick scan is that he’s wearing reading glasses. “ ?Estas bien? ” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I step out from around the tree.
“Do you need to be alone? I can go.”
“Oh, no. You’re good.” I notice he’s been scribbling into a notebook. “I wasn’t crying crying.” I feel the need to clarify. Though there may be a ton of real tears waiting in line, that is not what just happened. I was just moved to tears by the natural beauty.
His eyes wander down to my bare feet, and a glint of curiosity washes across his face. I glance down, relieved I had a pedicure before I left, but then I find what his eyes must be lingering on. Toe rings! I’m wearing toe rings. Meri and I got matching ones on a whim at a little shop in Midtown a few months ago and I haven’t taken them off since. They’re dainty, whimsical silver things on my second and third toes. I wiggle them around self-consciously.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about crying, not with me.”
“Really, I’m not crying.” The shock of running into him is slowly wearing off. “I’m just”—I motion to the sunset—“I’m just overwhelmed.”
I haven’t seen him since the flight yesterday and I have no idea where we stand. Having been locked out of the studio today, I’d say we weren’t in a good place. But at the moment he seems unguarded. Maybe it’s just the reading glasses. He’s like a more down-to-earth version of himself. Apart from the glasses, he’s in a silky, striped fifties-style shirt and swim shorts.
I wipe away the last of the tears from my face. “Hasn’t that ever happened to you? Been moved to tears by something unexplainable?” He shakes his head. “It’s happened to me a few times. With music,” I add. “The first time I heard Radiohead’s ‘Creep.’ He hit that high note and it was like”—I bring my hand over my heart and squeeze my eyes shut as though in pain—“it hurt. It felt like the truth slicing through me. I think it’s because there’s no BS in something that clear, in that perfect pitch.”
“Radiohead, huh?” He sounds betrayed. I can’t tell if it’s because my music tastes are so far away from reggaeton or because he’s jealous that Thom Yorke’s had this effect on me.
“Yeah.” I smile, relieved that my breath has steadied. “This is the first time it happened with a place.”
“You said it’s happened a few times with music. What other artist has it happened with?” I pick up a hint of betrayal still there, and I feel warm all over. Mostly because you gotta love a man who listens.
“Okay.” I exhale. “But don’t laugh.”
His eyes widen with intrigue. “Okay.”
“It wasn’t a band or anything. It was”—I pause—“ The Lion King .”
René laughs. An endearing broken cackle. “Sorry, sorry.”
“It was the Broadway musical,” I defend. “It came to Miami, and I took my little sister, and right when it starts, you know, it’s that beautiful chant that starts with one high note, and well, I wasn’t expecting it. Has that really never happened to you?”
“No, but now I wish it would.” He’s so sincere. With just a few short words, he’s managed to make me feel special for having these experiences. “But I can see how it would happen. This place has an energy, I always feel so grounded here. No matter what situation I’m coming from, it pulls me in. You can’t fight it.”
“Yeah, you can’t fight it,” I repeat, except I say it like this is a bad thing.
His brow furrows, trying to understand.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” I gesture to his notebook.
“I heard you interviewed Santi.”
I freeze, feeling caught. My brain immediately floods with the fear that he’s going to make us delete the one good thing we captured today.
“Sit.” He taps the spot on the ledge next to him.
I have to chuckle at the way he’s said it, as if it were a command. “Is that an order?” I glance hesitatingly at the ledge. “Do people always do what you say?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he quips, making me stand even more rigidly in place. “I’m just kidding. Dani, would you like to sit down? You’re making my neck hurt.”
I exhale and take a seat closer to him, but still a safe distance from the ledge.
“So”—a tinge of concern on his face—“what did Santi have to say about me?”
“He said you spent a lot of time here growing up.” René nods slowly then looks off at the sunset. “How did you two meet?”
“At a party.” He pauses. “He’s good friends with my ex.”
The ex you seemed so happy with and then cheated on?
“And how did you meet Camila?”
“At a party, back in college. There was a telescope in that house and we spent the whole night outside looking at the stars.”
“So many parties. I guess away from the cameras, you’re secretly an extrovert,” I tease.
“Yeah, I’m an extrovert all right. I single out a person at a party, take them outside, and spend the rest of the night really getting to know them one on one.”
I’m so wrong, my face flushes. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Santiago also shared a few things”—I try to shimmy the conversation back to work—“about you being teased as a child.”
“Bullied, more like. Probably why ángel and Camila are closer than most of my family. They loved me when I was still figuring my shit out,” he says with a smile. It’s a big playful grin but it’s also vulnerable, and I can’t help imagining what it would be like to be on that short list. “It’s hard to trust people in this industry. The business side of it, reporters,” he adds, eyeing me. I nod as though I understand fully. As though I’m not on that list.
“What about your family?” he asks. “One of your parents is from Puerto Rico, right? Which one?”
My breath skips. “My dad.” I don’t bother correcting his tense. I look at the sunset I’ve been avoiding this whole time. The sun has slipped farther away, and the color of the water is now a golden rose that sparkles like glitter.
“Which part of Puerto Rico is he from?”
“Here, actually.”
“Really? Culebra?”
“Mm-hm.” My throat feels dry again. I’ve got to switch topics. Fast. “Listen, today was”—I weigh my words—“a good start, but I’d like to cover the process more… thoroughly. An interview would be great.” I power on, though René has pulled his cell out and is scrolling through a slew of messages. “We just need access. Right now, for example, you’re here writing lyrics, I guess? We need shots of that.”
He tucks his phone back and takes his glasses off. Sensitive, contemplative Rico evaporates before my eyes. “You can talk all that through with Camila.”
“Right, um.” I try to mask my disappointment. “But I think if I could just tell you about some of the ideas—”
“Actually, I need to get going.” He pushes back from the ledge.
“Oh, okay.”
“I hadn’t realized how late it was.” With that, he stands and walks away. “Talk to Camila,” he calls out behind him. He may as well have said, “Have your people talk to my people.” The phrase lands without even a smidge of commitment.