T. Parker - The Jaguar

She opened the tiny canister and worked out the patch and read the words. Read it once. Twice. Three, four, five times. Got it, she thought. Yes, I know how to find that place. I think I do.

She placed it between her mattress and the box springs, deep toward the center of the bed, undetectable and difficult to find unless you knew right where to look.

She stood, short of breath. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow, she thought. Tuesday! One day before Charlie brings the money. Blessed Tuesday. Fat Tuesday. I’ll be at the cenote. We’ll get there. The baby and I will get there and we will be waiting for you.

The day after tomorrow!

She went to the table and opened the package. It was a plastic shopping bag with the name and logo of a Chetumal market on it, its handles tied neatly into a bow. Inside she found a freshly laundered white dress and one of the sheer white rebozos the lepers wore.

She walked behind Armenta down the hallway toward the elevator. She wore a long dress and a light shawl over her shoulders and the dress rubbed on her abraded back but at least her legs were free. She had taped the Cowboy Defender to her upper calf and she knew without a doubt that she could use it. Violence has set me free to use violence, she thought, like this country, like the world.

Armenta carried the Hummingbird in its case. She could smell the soap and shampoo on him. He wore a black-and-white paneled bowling shirt and raw silk trousers and the broad mesh of his huaraches shone with polish. The satellite phone and others hung from his belt. His face was cleanly shaven though the lines in it were deep and dark as always. He had attempted to tame his hair, which showed some comb tracks and patches of aromatic product, but was still a thatch. They rode the elevator looking straight ahead in silence.

He opened the door of the recording studio and stepped in ahead of her and turned on the lights. Erin walked in and felt the cool and the heavy hush that lightened her heart a small degree.

Armenta leaned the guitar case against one of the gear racks and waved her to follow. At the far wall he opened a closet door. Erin saw the mikes hanging on their dowels.

“Here,” he said. “Look at the selection in the mic locker.”

She looked down at the Neumanns and AKGs and Sennheisers. She was a longtime fan of the cheap Shure 58 for stage, but there was no such budget equipment here.

“Which microphone do you like?” he asked.

“I don’t need a microphone,” she said.

“If you record with me.”

“I won’t record with you.”

“But if you did record with me, which mic would it be?”

“You can’t beat the 251.”

He took down one of the ELAM 251s and closed the closet door. He went back and took up the Hummingbird case and walked into the tracking room.

Through the window she watched him take the mic to the vocal booth and set the guitar outside an instrument booth. He waved her in. She stepped into the shimmering aural brightness of the tuned room. She could tell that this space had been designed to use the reflections and peaks of sound to best effect. She suspected that even a spoken voice would sound beautiful here and she could not restrain herself.

“I have to hear this room,” she said. Her words came out with dimension and specificity. Uncluttered, she thought. Bottom, top, middle. No noise. Then the room closed around them and they were gone.

“You must hear it with music.”

“It’s as good as the rooms in L.A.”

“I have stood in the Boston Symphony Hall.”

“My old church in Austin had really good acoustics.”

“I designed this room myself. I used mathematics and a computer program that is a room peak calculator. You cannot have a tracking room that peaks or builds up in the frequency. These result in key and pitch and this you do not want. What is incorrect must be tuned out and what is ideal must remain. There are materials and designs that are to reflect. And some that are to diffuse and some to absorb. But the goal is not to create death.”

“I think you mean deadness.”

“Yes, deadness. You want the correct reflections. And the correct sonics. You must approximate…deadness. But not to create deadness total.”

She went to the Yamaha and brushed the keyboard lid with her fingers but did not lift it. An elaborate and beautiful accordion sat on the bench, gleaming ivory-and-black enamel with mother-of-pearl and gold inlays, and black straps of intricately tooled leather.

“Play only one note,” said Armenta.

She lifted the lid and struck middle C and listened to the note shimmer, then sustain and fade.

“I want you to write a song about me,” said Armenta. “I want you to describe the life of poverty that becomes wealth. By using the bravery and the hard work.”

“A narcocorrido .”

“The greatest narcocorrido ever written, Veracruzana style !”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Are you serious? Why? ”

“Yes. Serious in this.”

“I’ve been kidnapped by you and half raped by your son. My husband has been beaten and you’re stealing a lot of our money. I’m pregnant and I’m terrified of you people. All of you. I won’t write for you. Terror does not write songs.”

He looked at her morosely. He walked to the accordion and laid a hand on it. “We make music to defeat terror.”

“We make music to express joy.”

“A life without joy needs music also.”

“I’m sorry for your life but I won’t write a song about it.”

“But I am not sorry. I do not regret. I want my life to be told. I want them to know who I was. And what this time was. And this place.”

“I won’t write for you.” She heard her words held fast by the fine acoustics of the tracking room, and she heard the fear and anger in them.

“You have strong convictions and these I understand,” he said softly.

“I’m glad you understand.”

He eyed her with a cagey expression. “The studio would of course be yours if you wanted it. You can compose in your room or here. You may use the Hummingbird or the piano or both of them. You are to choose. I have pens and paper. Do you like the sheets with the staffs for composing? I have several small digital and tape recorders. If you would like a different guitar, you tell me what it is. I have some very old Martins that have magical properties, and some nice Gretsch hollow-bodies, and some exquisite Kirk Sand guitars from California. I have expensive five-string electrics for the open tunings of Keith, and I have a genuine Monteleone arch-top guitar. They would be very honored to be played. You know how they enjoy it. How only then are they alive. Perhaps you would be more happy here in the studio. It reminds you of other studios and the pleasures of music. It does not remind you of being a prisoner.”

“You don’t understand. You pretend to, but you refuse to, and this is an insult.”

“I understand but I try to persuade.”

“You can’t persuade me to write about you.”

“I will continue to try. For you to write about me you must be… encantada. ”

“Enchanted? You do not enchant me. I’m the opposite of enchanted by you.”

“Not by me. By my accomplishments. You must have a great impression by them.”

“I am not impressed by hell.”

“Hell?”

“You. Saturnino. This whole place.”

He regarded her with a long stare. She saw no guile in it and no anger, but something stonier and less negotiable. Will? Nature? Character? Then he looked down at the accordion and touched it thoughtfully.

“Then this I will do. Enchant and impress. You will now please come with me.”

He nodded and motioned her back into the control room with some urgency. She walked out of the tracking room and turned when he had closed the heavy door behind him.