Ballad & Dagger, page 10
We round a corner and walk across a small street to Sandoval Park. It’s one of those little out-of-the-way spots with a playground, a tiny community garden, and a very modest amphitheater for the kids to do little plays in. Except today there’s a grand piano there, just casually sitting on that run-down stage like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Wha—” I gasp, stopping in my tracks.
Gerval nods knowingly. “Wicked, right?”
“How?” It’s Gerval who has to keep up with me now because I’m practically floating across the park to the stage.
“Put it like this,” he says, a thin, self-satisfied chuckle still lacing each word, “your aunt is right: don’t trust anyone. I don’t. Not even Anisette. And she basically raised me. But she’s still a politician and an adult, and neither can be trusted.”
The rumor is that Gerval’s parents died in a murder-suicide shortly after he was born. I don’t know how true it is, but that shadowy, tragic past certainly added to the mythos of who he was once he got famous. He bounced around with a few different families, including the Baracasas, but I guess he spent the most time with Anisette. Anyway, none of what he said explains why there’s a piano in Sandoval Park, which we are now standing reverently in front of, so I nudge him to go on.
I can’t believe I just nudged Gerval.
“Point is, even people you don’t fully trust can be a means to an end. Anisette may have lots of ulterior motives and some shady dealings, but it’s Madrigal! Who among us doesn’t, you know?”
He’s got a point there.
“I’ll be honest, she’s been freaking me out a little bit lately. I dunno. She insisted I come home for all this political stuff that I really do my best to stay out of. She’s been getting all worked up about old history. Feel like this island-raising thing is really taking her over. Like, it’ll be good for her to pass on the mantle finally and get out from under it.”
“Wow,” I say, partly because I can’t believe he’s just casually confiding in me like this.
“Yeah, I…” He makes a face, scratches his hair. “I decided to crash at the music studio while I’m here. It’s like, I’m not a kid anymore, you know? But Anisette can’t help but baby me, and with everything going on…it’s just better.”
“Sounds like a lot,” I say.
“Anyway,” Gerval continues, brightening, “I wanted to do an open-air concert. You know, give people a little something to enjoy.”
“Hey, Maestro.” On the other side of the piano, a guy stands up and brushes himself off. That would be Arco “El Gorro” Kordal, an enthusiastically piratey pirate if ever there was one. He’s the guy who got shoved out of the club last night, just as things were getting hot. “The PA is pretty much set up, so just grab the mic and go to town whenever you’re ready.” He nods at me. “’Sup, Mateo.”
I wave and say hey, but all I can think about is that beautiful Steinway waiting for me in the sun, the way her keys will sing to me as I press them, the secrets they’ll reveal….
“What are you waiting for?” Gerval asks, his smile on a thousand.
I sit.
Take a breath.
It’s a bright afternoon—one of those October days that randomly feels like summer even though tomorrow will probably be freezing.
Old Maestro Organzo used to tell me, “Mateo, the first thing you do when you sit at a piano is play a single note,” in that old rickety voice of his. “Just one note.” Sounds a lot like Tía Lucia’s shells, now that I think about it. He’d drill that into me during my private lessons, and usually, I still do it. “Every song begins with a single note.” He’d hold up one finger, then dance it through the air as if all those chords and changes were blossoming around it. “That note is its beating heart. It beats all the way through, and then…” This is where he would tilt his shaky old hand downward and let it plummet. “Then it slides back to the one, once again, and that same note ends it.” He’d chuckle, “Resolution, hmm?”
Gerval usually sings in A minor, so I place my finger on the middle A key and then slowly press down.
Dunnnnn.
I let it fade into the sounds of chirping birds and passing cars, kids playing nearby.
Then I hit the whole chord—A in the bass, C and E higher up, and G just for some flavor, why not? The harmonizing notes shimmer out, ominous and resplendent, and man, this piano is magnificent.
“Mmm,” Gerval hums into the mic, nodding approvingly.
I hadn’t even realized he was already poised to dive in.
I’m about to jam out with my hero.
“Oh!” I say aloud because the next thought comes in so fast it startles me. “Hold up!”
A crowd is already gathering, and Gerval is too busy working it to notice me pull up the recording app on my phone and hit the bright red button. Probably for the best—I’m not sure how he’d feel about me doing it. But I absolutely have to capture this moment, because who knows…Who knows? This might be my only chance.
“Se vaaaaaa, se va, se vaaaa,” Gerval croons in a rich, vibrant rasp. It’s not an actual song, just a Galerano-style improvisation, a brand-new bolero in the age-old key of our lost island, and I know exactly what to do with it. My fingers find the bass notes and spill out a rugged tumbao. Up top, the chords blast out, dancing between the beat, modulating back and forth, playful.
“¡Eso es!” Gerval yells, catching what I’ve dropped. He swings one arm over his head, whipping the crowd into a frenzy to the beat as synchronized claps erupt in time all around me.
Madrigal.
Every song has its beating heart, but our people are a song unto themselves, and our beating heart is this: not just music, but the swirl of smiles, yells, the simple, unmistakable understanding that passes between each person here about what’s happening—a thing beyond language.
“Se va y volverá, mi amor,” Gerval sings, and then on the next line he glances meaningfully at the still-growing crowd so they know this will be their part. “¿Pero cuándo volverá?” He yells, “¡Asi!” and sings the line again. This time it sounds like the whole world joins in: “¿Cuándo volverá?” followed by a double clap. And again and again, on and on to infinity as people start clanging the clave rhythm against the playground structures and stomping their feet in time.
“¿Cuándo volverá?”
When will she return? the song asks, the world asks, over and over, and sure, could be about some beautiful girl, but today, we all know what those gathered voices yearn for, and it’s not a person.
“¿Cuándo volverá?”
I’m rollicking along beneath them, sweating, and Gerval unleashes his mean staccato scat over the thundering chorus—mostly nonsense, but it’s trilingual nonsense and that’s the Galerano sweet spot, so everyone loves it.
“¿Cuándo volverá?”
When indeed, when indeed…We all turn our lovelorn, heartbroken voices to the heavens and wonder…
“¿Cuándo volverá?”
I feel the song barreling toward its close even before Gerval signals me. It’s in the tiny, undefinable movements of it, the way certain notes last longer, each harmony becomes a sigh. Gerval glances back, nods, and raises his fist, and we all let out one final round and hold that last aaaaaaaah for waaaay too long as I run up and down the keys maniacally and then slam it all home on that last, galumphing chord, the beating heart of it all, back to that single note: the one.
Cheers explode, and I can feel them move through me along with my fevered pulse. It lights me up, like all this might be a dream. It lights me up, and I feel parts of me awaken that I didn’t know existed, tiny cells and synapses bursting with energy, fire.
“Ahhhh, that’s what I’m talking about!” Gerval says, running over to me and leaning against the piano to catch his breath. He glances at me, and I must be staring off into the infinity of space and time like an absolute goober, because he goes, “Whoa, you okay?”
I nod. “Hooo yeah. Very much so.”
“Good! Because we gotta do that again sometime!”
Everyone has already started slowly heading back to the regular world, going about their business, because that’s how we do it: absolutely unparalleled sacred musical experience, and then ho-hum, gotta go pick up the laundry, ya know.
“Yes,” I manage. “I would really very much.” And honestly, it doesn’t even matter that I can barely form sentences, because now Gerval has seen that my hands can do the talking. He passes me his phone, and I put in my number, hand it back.
“It’s just…” He shakes his head, suddenly somber.
“What?”
“Nothing. That was beautiful. It…It’s been a wild week. My man Trucks vanishing, you know…”
Vanishing? That’s one way to put it. I guess that means he doesn’t know what really happened.
I’m trying to figure out whether to say anything, and how, when Gerval clears his throat and says, “And…” He looks around, like the words he needs might be hovering nearby. “I’ve learned a lot about San Madrigal these past couple days. It’s opened my eyes, the things I’ve discovered. Really…weird stuff.”
“I mean, our whole history is weird….”
“No.” He tilts his head, eyes still skyward. “Not that kind of weird. Things about our history that no one knows. Well, almost no one. There’s so much more to it than they ever told us—a secret history—and…I’m just now seeing it all. And not just our history—our present tense, too. This. Right here and now. It’s…” He trails off.
“Who’s been telling you this stuff?” I ask. “Anisette?”
“Yeah, her, others. Been reading up on it, too.”
“Where?”
“Some…books she…” He seems to catch himself. Smiles widely, but there’s sadness there. “Never mind. I can’t…I can’t talk about it. Doesn’t matter.”
“Sounds like it matters a lot.”
“I need to be able to trust you, Mateo. Can I?”
I don’t know. I don’t even know which words to use to say I don’t know, because I’m not sure if I should say it.
He sighs. “Well, whatever happens…I’ll do my best to protect you. Protect all of us.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, because…what do you say to that? “You mean from those shadow creatures? Do you know anything about them?”
“I’m…I’m trying to find out more.” He shoots me a sharp look. “Can you bring Chela to talk to me?”
“What?”
“Chela Hidalgo. You know her.”
I know her, and now I know something about her almost no one else does. And that makes Gerval wanting to talk to her even more interesting.
Also, I’m going to be late meeting her if I don’t take off soon, I realize. And then she’ll probably murder me.
“We need her on our side,” Gerval says when I stand. He’s backing away, eyes fixed on mine.
I don’t even know what side I’m on, let alone what our side is supposed to mean.
“Can you bring her to talk to me?” he asks again.
“I’m not sure.” It’s the truth! “I don’t think anyone can get Chela to do anything.”
“You can’t tell her it’s me—she won’t come. But we need her on our side, Mateo. I mean it.”
“Okay.” The most noncommittal word I know.
“Soon, Mateo. It must be soon.”
“When’s soon?”
“Tonight.” He turns, starts fussing with the equipment, and yells, “I’ll text you,” over his shoulder.
“Okay,” I say again. And then I remember—my phone has been recording this whole time. I snatch it off the piano, press Stop, and head off.
THE BETAHAYIM CEMETERY IS NESTLED in a rocky embankment behind our local synagogue, and both places were originally used by Catholics, so the decor is all Gothic and creepy. Moss covers the decaying brick pillars on either side of the rusty gate, and winged gargoyles snarl from each. And perched on top of one of those stone creatures is Chela Hidalgo, looking right at home.
Behind the synagogue’s towering spires, the early-evening sky is torn with crimson streaks across a pale flush of magenta that eases into the growing darkness above.
“I have a lot of questions for you,” I say. I’m out of breath, and I don’t know why. Well, pick a reason, really. The memory of those things in the gym hasn’t left me, a relentless haunting. And now Gerval has me keeping secrets from Chela, and my aunt told me not to trust anybody.
“That’s fair,” Chela allows. “I got some for you, too.”
“I mean…” I wasn’t expecting that. She acts like she knows everything. And I blatantly know absolutely nothing. Well, I know about music. But that’s it. My hands land on my hips and I try to find a comfortable way to stand without looking like some clown yelling at a girl on a gargoyle. (I fail.) “Okay.”
“You first.”
“Fine,” I say, because where does one even start in a situation like this? Who has ever been in a situation like this? “You said you were initiated when you were a kid, too?”
“Yes.”
“To one of the original santos of San Madrigal?”
She nods, giving away nothing.
“Which one?”
She scrunches up her face. “Come on, man. There’s a lot going on, and we don’t have much time. I know you saw what I did last night.” She sweeps her arm toward the shadowy cemetery. “And this is where I asked you to meet.”
“Okanla,” I say. “The Destroyer.”
Legends say that the Okanla Society was a cult of warriors and assassins. They had various tiers and different skills—some were sneaky, others brazen—but they all excelled at murder. All our santos had worshipers charging into battle (it’s been a bloody run for us, like I said), but Okanlas were the ones you would keep in reserve until you really needed to turn the tide—the berserkers and calamity bringers.
Chela nods, then slides down easily from her perch and lands at the gates a few feet from me. “Coming?” She turns and heads into the gloom.
If she was going to kill me, she already would’ve done so. Sure, it’s getting dark and she’s inviting me into a creepy cemetery, but what am I supposed to do, stand outside and yell over the fence?
I’m just walking in after her when a flicker of movement catches my eye. The gargoyle she was just sitting on—a gnarled, irritable-looking creature…I could’ve sworn it moved as I passed. Ever so slightly?
I stand there staring at it for a moment. Considering everything else that’s going on, it’d be right on brand. But the thing remains perfectly still.
“You know what’s funny about you?” I say, catching up with Chela on the cobblestone path. “I just realized I’ve always thought of you as a goth chick, but you literally have never worn anything goth-like in all the years I’ve known you.”
She cracks the tiniest hint of a smile. “It’s ’cause I’m a real one. Don’t gotta advertise it.”
“That and your sunny disposition.”
Her grin disappears, and for a second, I wonder if she’ll materialize a knife out of thin air. Instead, she stops walking and squints up at me. “Anyway, you haven’t seen me in my club fit.”
“Oh!” It never occurred to me that Chela Hidalgo might go out clubbing, but why not?
“And you…Galanika.”
I know it’s more a formality, her saying it, like some part of an ancient ritual. But what does it mean to be an initiate of the great Healer? I barely know, can barely claim it. Yet, somehow, it’s true. And over the past twenty-four hours, the truth of it has been gradually washing over me, bit by bit. I don’t really understand it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not who I am.
“You already know that. You told me,” I point out. “Anyway, come on, man,” I say in a rough approximation of her cool-breeze voice. “There’s a lot going on, and we don’t have much time.”
She keeps walking, the edge of her mouth hinting at a grin again. “Look, what happened last night…It isn’t what you…” Her voice trails off. She’s either gonna talk about killing Trucks or not, but me pushing won’t help, so I just let the silence slide past.
Finally, she seems to think better of it, pushes past. “I’ll level with you, Mateo. There’s a lot I don’t know, either. A whole lot of mess is breaking out everywhere, and these old folks don’t want to say word one about it. The only person who will be straight up with me is my cousin Tolo. He and Big Moses trained me in fighting and that whole crew has my back, so that’s why I go hard for them. But Tolo’s knowledge is limited, too.”
She lets that settle in. It’s weird to think of that gangster as anyone’s cousin, even though I’ve always known he’s hers. I wonder what he knows and how he’s involved.
My unspoken question must be hanging in the air all around me. Chela says, “His dad, my tío Si, was the one who had me initiated into the society of Okanla. I’m the only one, as far as anyone knows. My dad…” Her lips curl up, teeth clenched. “The family split over it.”
“They didn’t agree on—?”
“Si didn’t ask first. It was all done in secret. So I guess I can see why my parents would be mad. But there’s plenty they refuse to talk about, like what all this means. Anyway, I’m trying to figure out whatever I can, and I’m sure you are, too.”
These are more words than I’ve ever heard Chela Hidalgo speak in all the time I’ve known her. I nod for her to keep going.
“I’m just saying…” She circles her hands around each other. Killing hands. Don’t trust her, Tía Lucia warns in the back of my mind. But I have to find out whatever I can, right? I just have to play it close, play it safe. Stay alert, that’s all.
“We’re both in this, some way or another,” Chela continues. “We should work together.”
Does working together include telling her that Gerval wants me to bring her to him? He said she’d never come if she knew. If I tell her, it’s me trusting her too much; if I don’t, I’m trusting him too much.
