"Casa de Sanchez is occupied again," Maria heard her father say, murmuring to a few others in his dining hall as she snuck away rolls to eat later as a snack. The words rose around her, softly, fitting like puzzle pieces between the loud, boisterous laughs and the harsh barking of words.
"La anciana tiene compañía."
"Oí que alguien murió."
Alguien murió? Maria perked up, but her father caught her underneath the tablecloth and sent her up to bed where she slept and forgot like most children do.
Waving wooden swords about, she chased Joaquin through the market, both of them laughing, and paused when she saw an unfamiliar man talking to Señora Venzela. He had black hair greying along the sides, a scar that started at his forehead, went over his left eye, and ended on his cheekbone.
He bought some eggs and a couple of chickens and smiled in a way that made his moustache go up and down on his face.
"Maria," Joaquin whined, scrambling back towards her when he realized that they weren't playing the game anymore. "What are you looking at?"
"Have you seen him before?" She pointed with her sword as if it was just an extension of her arm, almost smacking a dozing pig on the head.
Her friend narrowed his eyes and looked the man up and down, stroking his fake moustache. "No," Joaquin shook his head and opened his mouth to say something else when they both paused, watching something else dart out behind the man, holding something that flashed with colour against the dulled, sepia shades of San Ángel.
It was a boy, no older than them, with black hair just like the man—his padre, the two decided, meeting each other's eyes before deciding to slink closer—who had his head lowered, eyes on the ground. Clutched between his hands, held closely to his chest, was a guitar that was the colour of cayenne peppers. He strummed the strings a few times when the man paused at another stall, talking to the man behind the counter about the bread sitting out.
"He's going to be our friend," Maria said, nodding her head once and taking off down the street.
Joaquin sputtered and scrambled after her. "Maria!" He cried and dodged around a woman holding a basket of fruit. They managed to slide, somewhat, to a stop in front of the man, dust rising up behind them.
"Oh, hello there," he blinked a few times, looking down at them. Joaquin's paper moustache was suddenly tickling under his nose, but he resisted the urge to touch it and, instead, tightened his hold on his sword.
"Buenos días, señor!" Maria grinned and saluted with her sword, feet snapping together and back as straight as some of the good soldiers that were under her father's command. "We were wondering if your son would like to play with us!"
A great, booming laugh left the man's throat and he looked down at where two large, brown eyes were peeking out from behind his leg. "What do you think, Manolo?"
Everyone turned to the boy and he shied away from their looks, holding his guitar out in front of him like it was a shield. He stared at them from behind it and Maria noted how his eyes were soft like the feathers of the eagle her father had pointed out to her a few days before.
"Oh, well," The sigh that left the man's throat was heavy and the smile on his face was sad. "Tomorrow, perhaps." Turning on his heel, he left, his son trailing after him, looking back just a few times to look at Maria and Joaquin.
"Bye!" The little girl raised her sword, waving with a wide smile on her face. Joaquin joined her, bouncing up and down on the soles of his shoes.
Slowly, Manolo's hand lifted and waved. The motion was slight and jerky, almost as if he wasn't waving at all, before the arm dropped back to the guitar and the boy turned to race after his father.
"Tomorrow," Maria grinned and turned on Joaquin, yelling a battle cry before chasing him down the road all the way to the gates. Their laughter echoes along the buildings and their smiles were bright like the sun hanging overhead.
The hours passed, new bruises were gained, and the two walked in silence through San Ángel while the sun was setting over the far mountains. Their hair stuck to their skin from hours of sweat dried up by the sun, shirts damp from the water they had poured over their bodies when it got too hot.
Joaquin paused first, his head tilted slightly to the side, a small frown on his face. He tugged on Maria, making her stop too, and listen.
Drifting through the dusk, the sound of a guitar rose above the quiet clatter of families and merchants getting ready for the night. It was a gentle song, one that had both children looking about for the source and finding it—the open window of a room from casa de Sanchez. They thought of the boy in the market place with his guitar, his fingers on the strings even though they couldn't see him.
They stood there, possibly for hours, listening to the boy and his guitar until "Manolo!" was shouted and the song faded away.
Long after Joaquin had gone home, Maria laid in her bed, her eyes on the bright lights hovering outside her window. "Tomorrow," she murmured, rolled over, and let herself be pulled into dreams full of bulls, skeletons, and a double headed snake.
She woke her best friend the next morning and dragged Joaquin across San Ángel to casa de Sanchez, stood with her back like an ironing board, and knocked on the door. Señor Sanchez answered, blinking slowly and staring down with his dark eyes. The scar was pink and sharp against his skin—which was the same colour as the black walnut wood Maria had seen in the orphanage.
For a long moment, he stared at them before smiling and stepping to the side, "come in," he said, "Manolo is still asleep—" Joaquin glared at Maria and she shrugged with a sheepish smile. "—But I'm sure he will be up soon." He guided them to one of the tables and, as if a veil was lifting, they could smell what was on the stove.
Joaquin's stomach, which had missed breakfast as Maria was dragging him out of the house, rumbled and the boy flushed. Señor Sanchez only laughed and grabbed two extra plates to be set down on the table. Sure enough, very little time actually passed before they heard footsteps on the stairs.
"Papá!" Manolo exploded into the kitchen and giggles busted from Maria's lips. The boy was clothed in black shorts with little skulls and pirate flags on them, his hair sticking up everywhere, and a white shirt that was two sizes too big hanging off his skinny shoulders. "Papá, I can't find—" His words cut off when his eyes, wide and round, landed on the two kids sitting at the table.
"I'm sure," Señor Sanchez herded his son towards the table by placing one hand between the thin shoulder blades and pushing him forward, "that we can find whatever it is after breakfast."
Manolo looked between Joaquin and Maria before glancing up at his father. The man had moved back to the stove and, sighing heavily, the boy climbed up to his seat, curling against the wood and watching them.
"Hi!" Reaching forward, the girl held out her hand above the plates and glasses. "I'm Maria! And this is Joaquin!"
He reached forward and took her hand, shaking it once before darting back. "Hola," Manolo murmured, trying to smooth down his hair with his hands and avoiding her eyes, staring down at his lap until a pan was placed in the middle of the table. Perking up at the smell and sight of food, the boy scooted his chair a bit closer and waited for his father to put food on the other two kids' plates before offering up his own.
"So, mijo," Señor Sanchez started off with that sense of calm most adults had when they were about to try and get a kid to do something that they needed to do, but had no desire on doing. "What do you think about playing with Maria and Joaquin today while I go look about town?"
A fork clattered as it hit a plate and all eyes turned to Manolo. He was shaking slightly, cheeks puffed out with the amount of potatoes he had shoved inside them, and shook his head rapidly.
"Manolo," Señor Sanchez urged, his voice soft and yet hard at the same time. "We talked about this."
"No, papá!"
Resting his head in his hands, Señor Sanchez let his son slip out of his chair and run from the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the floor, path heard all the way to the stairs and on the second floor where a door closed gently, but firmly. Maria looked at Joaquin, the two of them staring at each other even as the man across from them sighed.
"Señor?" Joaquin tried, his voice quiet but still like a clap of thunder in the room.
"Thank you for trying, Joaquin, Maria," the man nodded to both of them. "I'm... sorry for his behaviour."
Joaquin looked as though he was about to say something, opening his mouth before Maria kicked him in the shins. "Why doesn't he want to play?" She asked instead as her friend grimaced and rubbed at his ankle.
Giving them a small smile, Señor Sanchez's eyes were gentle and sad. "His mother died a few weeks ago," he admitted and the young girl gasped softly. "And the last town we lived in," pausing, the man seemed to gather up the right words. "They didn't really like Manolo that much."
"They're a bunch of pollos," Maria decided, crossing her arms across her chest and scowling. "I'm gonna go talk to him!" She slipped out of her chair, racing for the stairs. Pushing a bit more of the potatoes into his mouth, Joaquin followed her, their feet pounding up the stairs.
Managing to finally swallow, the boy looked over the doors and frowned. "How do we find him?"
"This way," Maria grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the door that had hand painted sugar skulls and a couple of pictures featuring a few famous guitarristas and bands. She rapped her fist against the wood and stepped back, waiting for the door to open just wide enough that they could see the other boy's eyes through the crack. "Hola," she started, shifting from side to side and lifting one hand up in a strange, awkward wave while the words froze in her throat, turning to ash on the back of her tongue.
His eyes narrowed and the hinges of the door creaked as he leaned against them.
"Do you know how to play Draughts?" Maria and the boy behind the door turned to Joaquin. He was smiling underneath the paper moustache on his upper lip. He waited patiently and the door opened up just a bit further.
"Sí," Manolo murmured and they could see the entirety of his head. "I have a board, too."
Nudging the girl beside him in the side with his elbow, Joaquin grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "Want to play?" He asked. "Maria isn't the best person to sit down and play a board game with."
The door opened a bit wider and Manolo was there, still in his over sized shirt and shorts, his hair more combed out and pulled back in a small ponytail with a red hair band. "Okay," he said and turned around to dash back into his room, the other two following. The red guitar from the day before was sitting on a stand as if it was a trophy, marigolds strewn about the floor and bookshelves, paintings of skulls and bulls along the walls, and, the most interesting thing, leaning against the window sill, was a long, wooden snake.
Manolo scrambled under his bed, his legs and sock-clad feet peeking out before he surfaced again, pulling a long box with him. He moved it closer to the middle of the room, sat with his legs folded and pulled out the hand carved, wooden checkerboard with the pieced hand painted black and red.
Joaquin sat across from him and took the red pieces without comment, placing them on the board while Maria sat down to watch. "How about we make this a contest," one of the pieces flew around and through the boy's fingers as Manolo watched. "Every time I get a piece, you have to answer one of my questions."
There was a spark of something in the other boy's eyes. "And if I get a piece?"
"You can ask us a question."
Leaning his head back, Manolo hummed and his eyes pinched at the corners, his lips pressing flat against each other. "Deal," he said and moved one piece forward. Maria placed her elbows on her knees, rested her chin on the palms of her hands, and just watched and waited.
A black piece went first, Joaquin taking his prize and flipping between his fingers. "What's your favourite colour?" He asked, eyes moving over the tension that was growing in the smaller boy's shoulders.
Tilting his head to the side, the boy narrowed his eyes and stared at Joaquin even as the other kid smiled and waited. "Blue," Manolo said at last, looking down at the board and moving one piece forward again. He captured a red one two turns later, placed it beside his foot, and looked at the two of them. "How old are you?"
"Seven," said Maria.
"Nine," said Joaquin, and the game continued.
The pieces clacked against the board and the silence was only broken by a quiet curse, a sigh, and the occasional 'king me'. But there were the questions, shot back and forth as if it was a tennis match, Manolo meeting and matching Joaquin piece by piece.
"Do you like tacos?"
"How many push-ups can you do?"
"What's your favourite animal?"
"How many times a day do you say chupacabra?"
Maria watched Manolo straighten, his eyes brightening and a smile spreading across his face. There was a challenge written into his posture—this smug, almost knowing stance that would have, on any other occasion, would have made hr smack the look right off the person's face. It looked good, though, on the shy boy they had met earlier—his eyes glinting in the light of the midmorning sun like axinite.
And finally, as Joaquin took another one of the black, wooden coins, he looked over the boy across from him and turned his eyes to the instrument sitting a ways away. "Where did you get your guitar?"
"Mi mamá," Manolo murmured, and, suddenly, the confident child that had been matching Joaquin move for move was gone. The boy was slumped, his eyes on the floor, the black hair falling forward.
Reaching forward, Maria placed her hand on his shoulder and looked back at Joaquin who was holding the black piece in his fingers and looked over the polished edges and carved crown on the top. "What happened to her?"
There was silence and Manolo just turned his head away.
"You didn't capture a piece, Maria," Joaquin flicked one at her and she turned on him with a scowl. "You can't ask a question!"
She howled and dove for him, knocking the board game over and spilling the markers across the floor. Laughing, Joaquin scrambled up and jumped out of her reach as Manolo watched, the darkness in his eyes receding as the girl took the fake moustache and dodged out of the way.
"Give it back, Maria!" Joaquin dashed around the room as the younger boy laughed, picking up the pieces of the game and putting them back in the bags.
"Come and get it—" Yelping, Maria fell over Manolo, both of them tumbling to the floor and the paper moustache flying, sliding under the bed. "Dios mío!" The young girl breathed, scrambling off him. "Are you alright?"
The guitarrista rubbed at his forehead but smiled. "Sí," he murmured, a blush rising under his dark skin when her lips pressed against his cheek.
"Maria!" Joaquin whined, pushing past them to try and dive under Manolo's bed, looking for his moustache. "Now I have to make another one!" When he pulled out, however, he saw the wide grin on the other boy's face, the smile on his friend's, and merely laughed, chasing after them around the room.
Hours later, Carlos Sanchez came home, shut the door behind him, and headed upstairs. Hi son's room was quiet and, with a sigh, he stepped inside. Manolo was spread across his bed, head resting on Joaquin's stomach, Maria's hand entwined with his own. The three of them were sleeping, three matching smiles on their faces. Above them, a picture of Carmen that had been hanging on the wall smiled down upon the three, watching over them like a silent, patient guardian.
Carlos grinned up at the image of his wife and stepped out, leaving the three to their well deserved nap. "It was a good idea to move here," he told his grandmother later over a bowl of salsa fresh from their new neighbours.
She only laughed and continued knitting.
Thank you for reading!
Gospel