El Musico - The Musician

Emilia Medina enjoyed the lively play and laughter of her children as they walked home from the small theatre. As a single mother in the early years of Jalisco's twentieth century, she did not have many opportunities to take pleasure in her children’s amusement, let alone something as frivolous as a live stage production. The audience had dispersed quickly, leaving only the children, Emilia, and looming darkness on the long stretch of road. Amidst her daughter’s delighted high-pitched squeals, she thought she heard a man’s heavy footsteps behind her. Three times she looked back sure to find someone following her, but saw no sign of another person nearby.

At home she put the children to bed and made herself comfortable for the night. Sleep was difficult to come by ever since her husband, Amado, had left them without much regard or resources. He had lost two of his fingers in an accident that involved firecrackers and it left him incapable of playing professional guitar - the only legal way he knew to earn a living. The last news Emilia had heard of him was that he had moved to California and had started a new family.

Abruptly, as if out of a dream, Emilia opened her eyes startled by the familiar sound of melodic strings. It was a sound she had not heard in two years, but recognized instantly. She looked in on the children who were still sleeping like bronze statues, immobile and perfect. She remembered how Amado used to play little tunes that either kept them entertained for hours or put them peacefully to sleep. Now, she could no longer hear the music.

Returning to bed, she sank underneath the thick blankets, concluding that the music must have come from a neighboring home. Allowing the warmth and comfort to soothe her quickened heartbeat, she relaxed her tightened joints and muscles until sleep coyly tip-toed toward her.

* * * * *

It was too dark to distinguish objects in the room but in a moment of sudden recognition she knew a strong, calloused hand had gripped her right arm. Numb with fear, she heard a gruff whisper call her name, “Emil-i-a.” In seconds, she was free from her bed, standing alert and defensive at her bedroom doorway. There was still a veil of darkness in front of her but, somehow, she knew whatever she had felt and heard had gone. Stooped over the nightstand, she clumsily lit a candle and caught sight of something sticking out from under her pillow. A small, course piece of paper, with no message or label, was wrapped around a rolled up bundle of money. Emilia pieced apart the variety of muck-covered bills that smelled of damp earth and only then did she notice her right forearm, still sore where three thick fingerprints lay.