Disclaimer: COCO belongs to Pixar, Disney and Lee Unkrich. I only own the plot to this story ;)
Reincarnation AU! In which Miguel is Hector, Hector is Miguel... or both are both. Basically, Miguel as the character of the movie doesn't exist—his personality is all Hector. The in-story explanation I hope to explain it in future chapters, I don't want to spoil anything... and I don't have a clue how to explain it either...
I mixed third-person with the first-person narrator... I think you're big enough to tell the difference when it is one and when it's the other, right?
Spanish words that I hope don't need clarification, but that nonetheless I would put a translation at the end of each chapter.
Spanish speaker here! If you see anything that may be written wrong don't be afraid to tell me! I read in English, but it had been a while since I wrote in the language.
Ch 1. — I am my own great-great-grandson
Sometimes I think I'm cursed…. And for something that happened before I was even born!
No, wait—that was a lie.
See, a long time ago there was this family. The mamá, the papá, and their little daughter. The papá? He was a musician. He and his family would sing, and dance, and count their blessings. But he also had a dream… to play for the world. And one day he left with his guitar… and never returned.
And the mamá? She didn't have time to cry over that walkaway musician! She found a way to provide for her daughter… She rolled up her sleeves and she learned to make shoes.
She could have made candy! Or fireworks! Or sparkly underwear for wrestlers! But no… she chose shoes…
Then she taught her daughter to make shoes. And later, she taught her son-in-law. Then her grandkids got roped in. As her family grew, so did the business. Music had torn her family apart, but shoes held them together.
You see, that woman was my tatarabuela, Mamá Imelda.
And you wanna hear something crazy? That walkaway musician? That's actually me.
… Or was. I still don't know how this reincarnation thing is supposed to work.
See you might think I'm just a kid but in reality, my preteen years are way, way behind. In another life, in another time, I was simply Hector. Just one more orphan growing up in Santa Cecilia in the 1900s. Novice musician; that scrawny kid that followed Ernesto de la Cruz everywhere, and played beautiful songs in a rundown guitar.
Husband, father… walk away musician who chose to play for the world rather than stay at home with his wife and little daughter.
Maybe that's why I find myself thinking of myself as Miguel, rather than Hector. Hector is the man who abandoned his family to follow his friend in search of fame and money. Miguel is the sweet kid who loves his family and would never do anything to hurt them on purpose.
That he happens to be really close to his Mamá Coco who —coincidently enough is my very own daughter— is just an extra bonus for me.
"Miguel! Breakfast is served!" Abuelita's voice interrupted Miguel's quiet introspection.
"Coming!" The boy yelled in response, dropping the pen and closing the small notebook he had been writing on. Similar, but not exactly alike to the one he had owned so many years ago. For starters, there were no songs written on the pages of this book.
Ever since waking up as this twelve-years-old kid some three years ago, —or, more likely, since he started remembering his first life through dreams—Hector, or rather Miguel, had taken into documenting this bizarre experience that was being his own tataranieto.
It helped somewhat. Because even though he was adamant to think of himself as Miguel, a little piece of himself still wanted to grasp to the memory of his wife and child.
He wanted to keep remembering the woman he had fallen for at first sight. He wanted to remember the old friend too, and ignore the itchy feeling in his arm that told him Ernesto had left him alone on that street of Mexico City and never looked back since then.
He wrote about early days, happier days: Running barefoot along the dusty roads that led to the plaza, with a giant battered guitar hanging from his back; playing silly little rhymes for the amusement of the mariachis and a girl that frowned too often and smiled too little.
He hid that book in the deepest contents of his drawer. If someone —his prima Rosa, who was always snooping around his room— found that book… well, it would take a lot of trouble to explain.
Miguel joined the rest of his family on the dining room and sat next to his Mamá Coco, affectionately kissing one wrinkled cheek. Socorro Rivera was ninety-seven years old, and her mind was a thick fog that didn't let her properly recall her own daughter's name, much less her great-grandchildren's. But there was something about Miguel —whom she called Julio in more than one occasion— that even in the fogginess of Alzheimer, told her that the boy was more than just her great-grandson. An old familiarity that she couldn't quite identify.
"… I have a dimple on this side but not on this side," Miguel was telling her enthusiastically, showing his Mamá Coco the dimple that formed on his left cheek but not on his right. "Dimple, no dimple. Dimple, no dimple—"
"Miguel, eat your food," Abuelita Elena was right on his heels, gently interrupting her grandson.
Abuelita Elena? She's Mamá Coco's daughter. Eeeeeh, I guess that would make her my granddaughter just as much my grandmother… because this whole thing wasn't messed up, to begin with…
"You're a twig, m'ijo. Have some more," Elena proceeded to pile extra tamales on Miguel's plate.
"No gracias." The boy politely refused, with a small wave of his hand.
"I asked if you would like more tamales," Elena repeated more forcefully.
"S-sí?" Miguel backed away, slightly afraid.
"That's what I thought you said," her threatening posture forgotten, Elena smiled sweetly and ruffled her grandson's thick hair.
Uff. Like grandmother, like granddaughter they said… Abuelita Elena… she rules the house right how Mamá Imelda did, right down till the most important rule. The golden rule that must never be broken by anyone in the family: no music is allowed. Not even listening to the faint, far way songs coming from the streets.
And my family is actually okay with that! But, me? I'm not like the rest of my family.
I know I should hate music, but it's not my fault! ... Ever since I first picked up a guitar, back in 1909, and learned how to play from old Cheech, I've been captivated. And even if I'm a little resentful at some types of music, —namely all the songs Ernesto de la Cruz performed in front of a crowd— I can't bring myself to hate it like Abuelita Elena expect me to do.
I don't know how to explain it… but when I am at the plaza... I feel like I'm nine years old again, playing for a few people that stop to listen.
"I'll be going now! Bye!" Miguel said while hanging his shine box over his shoulder and heading for the door.
"Be back by lunch, m'ijo!" Mamá Luisa kissed her son on the cheek as he passed by her.
"Love you mamá!" The boy yelled, already through the door.
I think what I like the most of this reincarnation thing is my mamá Luisa and papá Enrique… I never had parents in my first life, so having them now… I really treasure them, even if we don't always are on the same page of this music issue.
Miguel was greeted by the kind voices of his neighbours as he raced through the streets. He stopped at a stand selling pan dulce and bought one for the road, throwing a few pesos to the vendor without stopping his stroll.
"¡Gracias!" He called before he forgot.
His destination was the Plaza De la Cruz—called that way to honour a man who was believed to be one of the greatest musicians of all time. Greatest eyebrows of all time maybe, Miguel snorted to himself. De la Cruz could have the people of Mexico fooled, but Miguel knew better—Hector knew better. Ernesto De la Cruz was nothing but a fraud.
But, all in all, the plaza was a great place to listen to music while pretending to be interested in shoes. He tried to avoid any De la Cruz's songs though, especially Recuérdame.
Tomorrow was Día de Muertos, though, and Miguel took a slight detour to the cemetery. He may not be Ernesto's biggest fan, but he couldn't help but spy through the mausoleum's window from time to time—every year on Día de Muertos to be precise, and make sure that the guitar was still there.
Oh, how he longed to have that guitar between his hands once again… to play it for Coco, because that way she may start remembering again.
The guitar was still there, as it had been for seventy-three years now. At least the groundskeeper of the mausoleum made sure the guitar was kept in its pristine form, even if the man did think it had belonged to Ernesto. Maybe someday Miguel could apply as an apprentice to the keeper for when the man was too old to continue his work. Taking care of the guitar, maybe be able to play it from time to time, that would be almost like a dream come true… even if he were never allowed to take it from the mausoleum.
Satisfied, Miguel backtracked over his steps and took the road that led to the plaza. If he was lucky, some travelling mariachi would stop to get their shoes shined and would play some songs for his entertainment.
As Miguel scrubbed the man's shoe, he plucked distractedly at the strings of his guitar.
"You like music, muchacho?" the mariachi asked.
"Huh?" Miguel looked up.
"You're humming." The man said, amused at the blush that spread over Miguel's cheeks.
"Oh… sí… yeah, I love music…" said Miguel.
The mariachi nodded towards the gazebo, where a bunch of people were decorating with papel picado and calavera designs.
"You're gonna be at the talent show?" The man asked.
"Oh no, I could never do that," Miguel laughed, trying to cover his own disappointment.
"Why not? You are a musician, right?"
"I don't know. I mean… I only really play for myself—"
The mariachi interrupted him: "Did De la Cruz became the world's best musician by hiding his sweet, sweet skills? No! He walked out onto that plaza and played out loud!"
Yeah, I know, I was there.
The mariachi didn't seem to notice the reflective stare down that came upon Miguel's gaze.
"You should sign up."
"Uh-uh, my family would freak!" Miguel fiercely shook his head. "They don't exactly like music…"
"Look, if you're scared, then… have fun making shoes." He was mocking him.
Miguel seemed thoughtful.
"C'mon. What did De la Cruz always say?" The man continued.
Miguel sighed and begrudgingly answered.
"… Seize your moment."
The mariachi smiled at him, and all resentment was wiped from the boy's face to be replaced by amazement when the man offered him his guitar.
"Here, show me what you got, muchacho! I'll be your first audience."
Dazzled, Hector reached for the guitar as one might reach a holy relic. He spread his fingers along the strings, tenderly petting it, anticipating the chord and…
"MIGUEL!"
Startled, Miguel impulsively threw the guitar onto the mariachi's lap, spiralling over his heels to see Abuelita marching towards him with Tío Berto and Prima Rosa on her heels.
"Abuelita!" Hector hoped the expression on his face was casual.
"What are you doing here?" Abuelita Elena wore an exasperated expression on her face.
"Uh… um…" He was stuttering.
Abuelita barrelled up to the mariachi. A shoe to his head displaced the enormous blue hat, sending it to the floor.
"You leave my grandson alone!"
"Doña, please— I was just getting a shine!"
"I know your tricks, mariachi!" Elena said the word with as much spite in her voice as if she had been cursing to the very devil.
Miguel physically removed himself a little, looking with wide eyes as his Abuelita beat the poor man.
"What did he say to you?" Ay, she was looking at him.
"He was just showing me his guitar…"
There were audible gasps from Tío Berto and Prima Rosa behind Miguel.
"Shame on you!" Tío Berto threw at the mariachi.
Abuelita Elena loomed over the fallen musician, shoe aimed directly between his eyes.
"My grandson is a sweet little angelito querido cielito— he wants no part of your music, mariachi! You keep away from him!"
The mariachi scrammed away, snatching his hat off the ground as he went. Abuelita hugged Miguel protectively to her bosom.
"Ay, pobrecito! Estás bien, m'ijo?" Peppering kisses along his cheeks as Miguel gasped for air.
She is a scary woman
EDIT: The premise of the chapter is the same one, I just changed some words and deleted others... Get used to seeing chapters disappearing from one day to the next. I always found something that I don´t like AFTER I published the chapter. It is incredibly frustrating... It's not just you.
HONORIFIC MENTION TO CHICHARRÓN. Did you find it yet? ;)