Chapter 20
A S THE SUN SETS, THE SKY SHIFTS THROUGH VIbrANT SHADES of sorbets. Dark grape, raspberry wisps, and then a deep orange. We still haven’t been allowed in the studio all day.
James and I have been banished to wait in the common room. At least it’s a beautiful space. An open-air room with a half-moon-shaped counter and barstools. There’s a large comfy couch along one wall with tons of throw pillows. A steady breeze drifts through the room, and bachata music spills out of the kitchen partially visible behind the bar.
I’ve had way too much time to think.
About, for example, other marketing ideas I wish I’d pitched instead of the one that’s landed me here. Anything would be better than promising an in-depth behind-the-scenes of an artist this difficult. I mean private.
My favorite idea was having other musicians who’ve worked with René come to his aid and help us promote him and his first album with their intimate stories. We could have called the campaign “Friend of a Friend,” and leaned into René’s mysteriousness. More importantly, I could be spending this month interviewing professionals. People who are accommodating and don’t answer questions with a question.
Instead, I’m here pacing this room, never venturing too far and holding my pee longer than I probably should.
I’ve also had too much time to worry about Meri. And how I can’t shake this feeling that she’s keeping something from me. I hate to think she’s going through something and doesn’t feel comfortable sharing it with me.
Sure, I’m keeping a few things from her at the moment. I haven’t told her about finding the waterfall in Dad’s song. Or about René possibly seeing me on the balcony in my underwear. I just don’t want her to get the wrong idea. Or make a fuss when I’m trying to forget it ever happened.
I glance at James, sitting across from me, ready to spring into action. A door opens and I straighten up. The chef walks in from the kitchen, her short hair in tiny pigtails. She smiles wide at James.
Earlier today, when she was setting up the lunch buffet, I took it upon myself to clear out some dirty bowls on the counter left over from breakfast. I was frustrated from having to wait around to get in the studio, and just needed to feel helpful.
A few minutes later, there was yelling in the kitchen over the missing raspita . It wasn’t my fault. I know the burned rice from the bottom of the pot is delicious, but I’d never seen it scraped out and served in its own bowl like that, like it was another side dish.
I check my work email again, but I’m all caught up. I can’t imagine what Maureen will do when she gets here and sees how little access we have to the studio.
Today has to be different. I need more time with René. I need him to trust me. I slip my hand in my right blazer pocket and feel my dad’s cassette tape. If I want René to give us more access, I’m going to have to go first. And this is as open as I can go.
He’s asked about the tape a few times. I imagine it must be a musician thing, always up for hearing something new. Especially, for René, from a fellow Puerto Rican. Or maybe because René loves this island, and he knows that’s what the song is about.
I hear the swoosh of the studio door gliding along the tile floor, and my pulse picks up.
“Now is a good time.” Camila has stepped out of the studio. She runs her hand through her hair, combing it with her fingers.
There’s incense burning, but otherwise the studio feels cold and dark.
René’s in the recording booth. He’s wearing a baby blue hoodie with white jeans, and at some point in the last twenty-four hours, he’s had a fresh buzz cut. It’s irritating how nice he looks.
“Is it true,” Camila asks as I make my way to our corner of the room, “did you throw away the raspita ?”
I force a laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that. Just trying to be helpful.”
“ No ayudes tanto ,” Camila says as she leaves the room. Don’t be so helpful. She’s only teasing, but her words hurt. I feel out of the loop as it is. Like when they use slang I’ve never heard before. Bregando, pichear, pavera, puneta. I love hearing my father’s accent, but it’s been frustrating to speak the same language, and still not be able to keep up at times.
I tap the cassette in my pocket and try to regain my composure. René and Santiago seem to be on a break, so I pull the tape out and wave it in the air at René like I’ve got the winning lotto ticket.
He pulls his sunglasses off as he steps out of the booth and, without saying a word, takes the tape gingerly from my hand and bows his head.
As he hands the tape to Santiago, I remember the first time my dad played this cassette for me in his work van. He was dropping me off at school. “Look, my song is on the radio!” he joked. He was in such a good mood afterward, and I remember how happy I was all day because of it.
Santiago pops the tape into the player, and it occurs to me that it may not even work. There’s a chance it’s warped due to time, humidity, or heat.
“I’ll be right back, if that’s okay.” James appears beside me.
“Sure.” I watch him head out and feel slightly relieved. I guess because the fewer people around for this, the better.
Santiago hits rewind and the tape whizzes noisily. It stops abruptly and my shoulders rattle. René leans against the console and I drop slowly down onto the leather couch.
Santiago hits play. At first, there’s only the low hiss of the tape. I’m hoping it works. And that I don’t burst hysterically into tears. I’m squeezing myself in so tight, I might look constipated. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, my father’s voice comes through the speakers.
The song has a slow start, like someone winding up a clock. Then it releases, and both Santiago and René move to the beat of my father’s conga.
I can picture his hand hitting the side of the conga from time to time. His ring tap, tap, tapping on the wood.
All the other islands are jealous
No one can blame them
My father had a deep, folksy voice. Gravelly and warm. As soon as René and Santiago hear it, I can tell they’re impressed. The song is his love letter to this island. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. A shapeless memory. The longer it plays, the more it fills in, becoming thick and sweet with my father’s energy. He sings about his favorite beaches, foods, and hearing live, traditional music under the stars.
Santiago taps his thighs to the music, and René shuts his eyes, savoring each lyric. Hearing it through these high-end speakers, I think my dad sounds pretty good. The recording isn’t professional, but he’s singing and playing his heart out.
“I know where that is,” René says over the music. “It’s really close by.”
The song is a sweet celebration, and when it’s over, I feel like someone’s thrown a soft blanket around my shoulders. I look up and René and Santiago are exchanging amazed expressions.
“ ?Qué linda! ” Santiago applauds.
René stands. “It’s beautiful.”
My heart is pounding. I feel so grateful to them for listening and overwhelmingly happy for my dad. Proud for him. He would get a kick out of the way these professional musicians, artists I know he would have admired, feel about his song.
The next morning, I’m up early and doing something I shouldn’t. Updating our department calendar. I was supposed to relinquish this task to Susana, the other marketing coordinator, while I’m gone, but there are so many events missing on this thing, I can’t help myself. What’s the point of having a calendar if it’s not up-to-date? And don’t even get me started on her disregard for uniformity. What kind of person abbreviates “music festival” in one place as “music fest” and then “music fstvl” in another?
I woke up feeling wound tight and tense, but as I sit at the small wooden table in my room and organize the calendar, my shoulders loosen. I don’t want to give up the opportunity I’ve been given. Stepping up and leading the creative direction of a campaign has always been my dream, but at the moment, I miss these parts of my old job. So easy and predictable.
A gentle, double rap at the door startles me. My first thought is Susana’s come to tell me to stop touching her calendar.
As I get up and cross the room, my spirits lift. It’s way too early for James; there’s at least another two hours before the breakfast buffet is set out. So it has to be Camila delivering the day’s schedule. Finally! I open the door with abandon.
René is standing barefoot in the hallway. He’s wearing a green camouflage tank top and hot pink swim trunks that reveal the full extent of his strong quads.
“ Buenos días. ” His essence is extremely vibrant for 6:00 a.m.
I’m wearing nothing but a long Blondie T-shirt, so I tuck myself behind the door. “Morning. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, sorry, I saw your light was on.”
“Oh,” I say quietly and nod.
“I want to show you something.” He grins, one side of his lips rising higher than the other. It’s a sweet, good-natured smile. And so out of character, it throws a cog in my system.
“Okay,” I blurt out with an excitement that surprises me.
“Great”—his smile widens—“I’ll meet you downstairs.”