Free Signal to Noise by Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page A

mother? Meche supposed it was to be expected. Natalia had a tendency to replace people. First her father, now Meche. She didn’t blame her on the part about Vicente. Natalia had taken too long to divorce him. It should have happened years before.
    Meche shook her head.
    “He didn’t collect CDs, only vinyl.”
    Meche knew Jimena had not been wondering about records. She was asking if he had anything valuable. Meche doubted he did, but discussing the amount of pesos they might make from the sale of her father’s collection was very inappropriate.
    “What will you do with them?”
    “Ship some back to Oslo,” Meche said, shrugging. “Throw away the rest. I can’t carry too many things but I could buy a suitcase and pack it with the ones I want to keep. I might also take the typewriter and his manuscript.”
    “The manuscript,” Natalia said, as she shook her head. “He was always going to finish it next summer.”
    Her mother smiled, gently, and for once in a long time Meche thought she glimpsed a certain tenderness towards the old man. She sounded almost fond of him.
    “Ay, we need to serve the coffee. Where’s my head?” Natalia asked, blinking and heading towards the kitchen. “Everyone is having coffee, right?”
    “I’d like some tea with milk, please,” Meche said.
    In Norway Meche drank her tea from a glass, with lots of milk, a custom acquired after living in London. An unusual gesture now in Mexico where she might be expected to ask for atole or coffee.
    “We’re out of milk,” Lorenzo told her.
    “I can go buy some.”
    “I’ll go,” Lorenzo said.
    “No. I’ll just head to the corner store.”
    Jimena and Lorenzo looked at her, doubtful. Meche chuckled.
    She knew they were worried about her. She had not cried during the funeral. She just stood under her umbrella, eyeing the casket with scepticism, thinking that Vicente Vega would have been shocked and outraged by the whole spectacle. He certainly would have said a few words about the cross sitting atop him, considering he had been a staunch atheist.
    “It’s still in the same place, right?”
    “Sure,” Lorenzo said.
    “Then I’ll be right back.”
    Stepping out into the street was a blessing. The apartment felt stuffy and her family were very noisy. Of course, Meche was accustomed to living by herself, not having cousins and aunts rolling in and out of an apartment in preparation for her father’s prayers, which began that night with a late mass and finger foods after going to church. Nine nights of prayer, to ensure the dead man’s soul would reach his final destination. Nine whole nights she had to remain here. Meche had already tried talking about the necessity of flying back to Europe, but her mother had blocked any plans of an early flight.
    Meche walked into the corner store, which was not really at the corner but that was what everyone called them in Mexico. It wasn’t really a proper store either, but the first floor of someone’s house, arranged to store foods and beverages, with the owners living on the top. In her time, the owner had been Don Chemo, the surly old man who always looked carefully at the kids, making sure they didn’t steal candy.
    The little store looked exactly as it had when she was a teenager. She was sure that even some of the ads on the walls behind the counter were the same, though the attendant behind the counter had changed. He did, however, bear an uncanny resemblance to Don Chemo. Meche wondered if this could be his grandson who would have been an annoying little kindergartener the last time she’d seen him.
    Meche found the milk and riffled through the store, looking at the candy and chips. They had the regular tamarind Pelón Pelo Rico and a sour lime flavour she had never seen before, peanuts dipped in chilli, and chocolate Carlos V.
    Meche took out a bill and placed it on the counter. Don Chemo’s grandson—he had to be, he had the same disposition—gave her her change and slowly placed