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Language:
English
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Published:
2017-12-03
Completed:
2017-12-10
Words:
1,370
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
24
Kudos:
189
Bookmarks:
20
Hits:
2,865

What Color is the Sky

Summary:

What color is the sky on the way to Mariachi Plaza? A young, brash Héctor can’t quite remember, after being almost run over by a boot attached to the fiercest vision he’s ever seen.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: The Skies

Chapter Text

Santa Cecilia!

Its pink and purple skies halo the blue mountains, hugging the valley and hills dotted with autumn’s golden blush, glowing leaves and petals sprinkling the winding cobbled roads. There’s magic in this place, its very air tasting of vivid colors. He’s going to write hits here—lyrical odes that would finally make him famous! This is the spot; he can feel the inspiration in his bones.

Just as the traveling merchants said, just as the wandering mariachi told him, this town is so, so…

A boot positions itself quite near to his guitar.

Héctor hurls backward, curling around his instrument as he half-somersaults into the street corner. Crisis averted, he uncurls.

It is a good boot. Sturdy, brown, and connected to a leg possessing verve and passion for life, judging by the way the boot pauses and then descends to the dusty road like a dancing skip.

But it’s the surprised yet melodious “Pérdon” that seizes him and rattles something inside his thin artist’s frame.

He looks up. Gasps,

“Beautiful."

The woman’s eyebrow is full of arch and antipathy. Nevertheless, Héctor blesses the way it widens two dark, soulful eyes. Quite automatically, his own pair travel downward.

“A street dog,” she sneers, catching his stare.

A xolo, he is not. Wandering musician, yes. Though his troubadour days may be endangered, should Santa Cecilia have more stunningly picturesque visions to offer. He’s heard about this town’s abundant nature, the tantalizing markets and the sweet, sweet music—but madre mía—no one’s told him about her.

He’s about to pick himself up, dust off a bit, try some dash and just a pinch of rogue wit (women liked that, yes?) but the young woman is now assessing his threadbare outfit with something different than the steely look from before.

And though Héctor does not take charity from strangers, does not beg from young ladies, he is stunned to silence by the fierce softness in her voice as she rummages in her skirt and takes out the crispest peso bill he’s ever seen, pressing it into his mysteriously sweating palm.

 “It’s enough to cover the entry fee. Perform tonight, and you might win some prize money.”

As she wanders off, he notes the flowered detail of her wardrobe, sturdy brown boots not included.

Perhaps she is a singer as well. Perhaps he could meet her again tonight, at the festival.

Ah.

Héctor recalls that he was on his way to Mariachi Plaza.

He feels a tug on his lips, as his hand sweeps the strings of his white guitar.

Híjole! Music is his path.

He was about to have a change of plans and just follow her to the ends of the earth.

But what woman is worth that?

 

 

Chapter 2: The Flags

Notes:

Idk. The drabbling bug won't stop. Send help.

Chapter Text

There’s consistency, in life. Imelda’s seen Mariachi Plaza on the day of the autumn festival since she was a baby. The strung-up flags flutter overhead in the breeze, looking like cheerful waving hands, colors spanning the entire spectrum of the rainbow and more. Through the years—and through today—Imelda has watched the iridescent sun set and the plaza slowly come to life under these colorful waving hands. Hello. Goodbye. Hello. Goodbye. You’ve come to hear music? Oh, just buy rice? Goodbye.

The same old rhythm, played on repeat. Again and again and again.

“Imelda! You’re the sixth act!”

Javier, the baker’s boy, rushes by with a bright yellow notepad and cake flour dusting his clothes. He’s taken the night off to help coordinate the music talent show, like many other volunteers who are familiar faces in the crowd. Santa Cecilia’s a small, lively town. Imelda’s babysat nearly a quarter of her neighborhood’s children. Someone from that brood would babysit her own, one day.

There’s consistency. Heavy, like a blanket made of traditions that never seem to wear thin. But—as she waves at the people who wish her luck for her performance—consistency’s nice, sometimes.

“Imelda!”

A scallop-sleeved arm latches onto Imelda’s own.

“Help, hermana, I’m short some change for the spiced mangos. They’re fifty whole centavos more than last year!”

“Why do you nee—”

Juanita tugs insistently. “Oh, just come with me!”

“I’m the sixth act," she frowns.

“Which means at least five mariachi cancións before you,” Juanita presses, and crosses herself, because, mercy, the girl can barely stand one. “C'mon, Imelda! I know violíns give you a headache!”

“Only Rodrigo’s,” she sighs, mellowing. Juanita shoots her a smug winning look.

So she lets herself be hauled through the now thick sea of people—full of aunts, nephews, great-grandfathers, second-cousins once removed—and stopped in front of a colorful cart. Fat golden slices of mango on sticks are displayed like glossy jewels, peppered with sinus-tingling red chili.

One look at the volunteer salesman tonight and Imelda’s figured out the price change. Most girls from school would buy mangos for fifty pesos more, if the one selling was the slick-haired, square-jawed, silver-tongued neighborhood crooner.

“Fifty centavos more this year, Ernesto?”

He's steely-nerved, too, and doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Imelda! You look beautiful! Big performance tonight, eh?” Ernesto effuses, then in the same breath assures Juanita that she is equally gorgeous, ravishing, a feast for the eyes, etc. etc. Juanita lights up like a bulb and does a winning twirl while Ernesto claps appreciatively.

“Spare me,” mutters Imelda, who has no time for half-assed romance when she can buy ten-centavo novellas at the bookstore.

She plops down the original price for mango and turns to scan the crowd for an opening in the sea of people. The familiar strums of guitar and accompanying percussion are already washing out over the plaza. People are dancing now, cheering, bunching together as cords of family, friends, neighbors gather together.

She’s about to muscle her way past a particularly effusive spectator when a figure sporting a familiar white guitar weaves through the crowd from the other side.

His eyes light in recognition.

A split-second passes, and Imelda looks away, pushing past him in her haughtiest manner. All good girls know, have been indoctrinated by the time-old adage: Street dogs will follow you to the ends of the earth, if you give them a chance. Imelda’s fine with charity, but she doesn’t want him getting ideas.

Unfortunately, he follows—past the aunts, nephews, great-grandfathers, second-cousins once removed—and stops only when he’s among the throng of waiting musicians who are performing for the show. Uf! Imelda’s a good girl, but she’s certainly not shy. She whirls around, intending to give him a piece of her mind.

“Stop following me, you—”

“Héctor.”

She pauses.

He’s doing the stare again. But this time, it’s trained on her face, like he’s never before seen anything like her. Like he has a reason to tell his name to an angry girl about to verbally assault him. And now that Imelda's paused, and, reciprocally, has a good look at him—the stringed lights twinkling overhead—she can admit that he’s brushed up since earlier today. The overall effect makes her realize he’s younger than expected.

“It’s Héctor,” he repeats, taking her hand in his surprisingly large, warm one and pumping it up and down in an effusive shake.

“Me da igual. Let me go, H—”

“Héctor!”

A flustered Javier rushes over, and pushes Héctor toward the lighted stage. “Where have you been? I even switched the order for you, amigo! Don’t make my father whip me for dodging the bread stall and then screwing up this gig!”

Imelda watches with something between confusion and exasperation, as Héctor winks her way in farewell, then laughs: “I won’t let that happen! Amigos, they help one another!” all the while being bulldozed up the steps by the imperiled baker’s boy. 

“A little crazy, no?” a voice tuts beside her.

Imelda turns to her old classmate Rodrigo and the rest of his mariachi band, who’re packing gleaming brass pieces and hollow drums into large canvas sheets. Those who’d finished performing waited the night for the results to be announced.

“How good can a wandering musician be? I’m just glad Ernesto’s not participating this year.”

Imelda nods, but quiets all the same, eyeing the stage expectantly as she watches this street dog take a deep breath.

 

Notes:

Coco was so lovely.

And young Héctor, who I like to think is still working out his act, is a gem I'd love to see. Still freakin' charming, though.

Still freakin' charming.