Chapter Text
After returning from Mariachi Plaza, Miguel looked at ofrenda with melancholy. The picture displayed at the top showed three people, one of whom had no face. Papá Imelio standing expressionless, little Mamá Coco looking unhappy on her mother's lap, and a woman with her face torn off. Miguel stared at the faceless great-great-grandmother. She had left her family with her guitar to bring music to the world. After she left, Papá Imelio hated music, forbade his family to play music, and devoted himself to the shoemaking business, where he had originally trained. Thanks to this, his whole family is shoemakers. Miguel looked away from the picture with a sigh. Deep down, he felt alienated from the curse that had been placed on his family since before he was born.
“I don't want to see you end up…”
He hear his Abuelita's voice. She is telling him in a desperate voice that she doesn't want Miguel to participate in the contest that takes place every year in Mariachi Plaza on Día de los Muertos. But it didn't reach his heart.
“…Like Mamá Coco's mamá?”
“Never mention that woman!”
Miguel said, and his grandmother sharply stuck her finger out at him. She continued sternly. “She's better off forgotten.”
“But you're the one who…“
“Shhh!”
Unsatisfied with the course of the conversation, he tried to interject, but she interrupted him. Whenever Miguel tried to say something, Abuelita would use gestures to try to silence him. He became increasingly frustrated. Just when he was about to argue with her again in a louder voice, they huffed when they heard a faint voice.
“…Mamá? Mamá is home?”
In the corner of the room, Mamá Coco, sitting in her wheelchair, whispered excitedly. Abuelita rushed to her mother in a panic.
She is Miguel's great-grandmother, and she is very old and, from his point of view, a bit forgetful. She sometimes mistakes him for her husband, who has already passed away, or forgets the name of her daughter. Still, Miguel knew that sometimes she would remember her mamá, who was supposed to be gone a long time ago. The sight was, to be honest, a little painful. Miguel loved Mamá Coco, but there was nothing he could do for her. With just a little bit of pining and relief that he could get out of grandmother's sermon, Miguel quietly fled from ofrenda room.
When Miguel entered the secret attic, he made final adjustments to his nearly finished handmade guitar. He had been given a broken guitar that was about to be thrown away, and over the course of a year, he had painted it white, re-stringed it, and modified it to look just like that man's guitar. Yes, just like Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar.
The great star from Santa Cecilia was Miguel's idol. Anyone who heard his music would be captivated by him. Miguel was one of them. As long as he existed in this world, it would be impossible to live without music.
I want to play the guitar and sing as much as he did. As he dreamed of that moment and plucked the strings of his guitar to see if the sound would come out without problems, a light leaked through the doorway, which was hidden by the store signboard, and Miguel gulped. He hastily hid his guitar, wondering if someone had recognized him. When he looked, he saw that it was Dante, a stray dog, who had come in. Miguel's chest heaved with relief.
“Get in here. C'mon, Dante. Hurry up,” He called out to the dumb-looking stray dog and beckoned him in. Dante was caught by the signboard and wriggled away, but eventually rolled over and finally entered the room.
“You're gonna get in me trouble, boy. Someone could hear me.” Miguel sighs. Dante walked around nearby, and he was playful. He painted one of the skeletal teeth he had drawn on the head of his white guitar gold. He mustn't forget this one. It is an important charm point of de la Cruz's guitar.
“I just wish I could get someone to listen,” he said, turning the pegs made of screws with a spanner to tune the guitar. It was a dream that would never come true anyway. He sniffed.
“Other than you,” he added sarcastically, and Dante jumped on Miguel and licked his face. Dante's long tongue tickled, and Miguel stroked his body with a laugh. Then he held down the strings and strummed the guitar, the light sound of a C chord echoing through the small room.
“Perfecto!”
Miguel laughed, then pushed up the cloth at the back of the room and entered the other side of it, approaching the secret ofrenda. There are collection of goods related to Ernesto de la Cruz.
All of them were secretly collected by Miguel behind his family's back. He collected whatever he could get his hands on, from faded posters and records to figurines he had no idea what they were for. The many pale lights from the candles gently illuminated de la Cruz's face throughout the room. Miguel picked up a nearby candle, held it close to the extinguished one, lit it, and gently placed it near the record of “Remember Me”, de la Cruz's biggest hit, which adorned the top of the altar. The record has a print of him with a handsome smile on his face. Miguel lifted his guitar and imitated him.
Then, Miguel put one video into the player. An old black-and-white screen appeared on the TV screen. The video was a compilation of several scenes from films and interviews in which de la Cruz appeared.
“I have to sing. I have to play,” dressed in a white charro, he begins to speak with a serious face.
“The music, it's not just in me. It is me. My Musa lives in me and she teaches me everything.”
Musa is apparently the goddess of music in foreign mythology. Miguel likes this word from him. De la Cruz was born to play music.
Miguel set up his guitar and began plucking the strings to the melody and voice coming from the video. The soft, comforting tones lulled him into a state of bliss. Once he started playing the guitar, he forgot everything. With each pluck of the strings, his mind seemed to fly away to some other world. There really was a Musa there, singing to Miguel that he was free to play music…
Miguel, who had closed his eyes and was feeling the sensation of playing the guitar, slowly opened them. It was de la Cruz on TV, being interviewed.
“I had to have faith in my dreams.”
Miguel approached the TV to listen to his words more closely.
“No one was going to hand it to me.”
He stared at de la Cruz.
“It was up to me to reach for that dream, grab it tight," de la Cruz, who had been clenching his fists tightly in time to his own words, turned toward the camera. Miguel and he looked at each other.
“And make it come true,” de la Cruz and Miguel said simultaneously. The video ended and static appeared on the TV.
Miguel picked up a poster. It was an announcement for the Day of the Dead contest, which he had gotten at Mariachi Plaza.
He stared at the poster. de la Cruz is right. Nothing will happen if we wait.
“No more hiding, Dante,” Miguel said and looked up. “I gotta seize my moment!”
He looked at Dante. Seize your moment. De la Cruz had said this before he died. The time to follow his words had now come.
Dante tilted his head and looked as if he didn't understand anything, but when he saw Miguel's face, he barked with joy.
“I'm going to play in Mariachi Plaza if it kills me!”
The church bells are ringing. Night is almost upon. All the families are preparing for Día de los Muertos celebration so that their deceased ancestors can come home. In the midst of all this, Miguel is stealthily walking on the roof, trying to make his way to the square with Dante. He slides down the leather propped up against the wall, down the ceiling, and tries to run toward the outside.
“Mamá? Where should we put this table?” Miguel was startled to hear his father's voice. He heard his father approaching from outside, carrying the table.
“In the courtyard, mijos.”
He rushed to hide, but this time he heard his abuelita's voice from behind him. She is sweeping with her back to him. They entered the courtyard, conversing as they were. This was not a good idea. He hugged his guitar and backed away, praying they wouldn't see him. Miguel, who was in ofrenda room, hid the guitar under a cloth on the ofrenda.
“Hurry! Under the table!” Pushing Dante, who sniffs and sniffs, under the ofrenda.
“Miguel?” At the sound of his abuelita's voice, he turned and yelped.
“Nothing!”
She looks at him with an angry look on her face. Behind her, his father and mother are also there. Miguel approached them with a voice that sounded like an excuse.
“Mamá, Papá, I…”
“Miguel,” Papá opened his mouth happily. The grandmother, who was leaning her broom against the wall, was also smiling, but somehow she was all smiles.
“Your abuelita had the most wonderful idea.” He looked at his mother and then continued, “we've all decided,” with that, he took something from her, quickly unfolded it, and placed it around Miguel's neck.
“It's time you joined us in the workshop!”
“What?” Miguel looked at himself, sounding surprised. It was an apron, a sign that he was a member of Rivera Familia de Zapateros.
“No more shining shoes,” his father said proudly. “You'll be making them! Every day after school!”
“Oh, our Miguelito's carrying on the family tradition.” Abuelita, who was looking at Miguel with a dreamy expression, then stroked his cheek as hard as she could.
“And on Día de los Muertos!”
His head spun next to his grandmother, who squealed with delight.
“Your ancestors will be so proud!” she said and looked at Ofrenda. Papá gently put his hand on Miguel's shoulder.
“You'll craft a huaraches just like your tía Victoria,” she said.
“And wingtips like your papá Julio,” his father added happily to abuelita's words.
“But…what if I'm not good at making shoes?” Miguel clammed up and slipped out of Papá's hands, approaching the doorway to the room. He honestly wanted to end this conversation as soon as possible. But abuelita, Papá, and Mamá just smiled kindly.
“Oh, Miguel. You have your family here to guide you.” His father looked lovingly at Miguel.
“You are a Rivera.”
Papá pointed happily at ofrenda. Seeing him like this did not make Miguel happy. Papá put his hand on his son's shoulder and crouched down to look at him.
“And a Rivera iiis…?” He stretched out the end of his sentence, urging Miguel to continue. He knew the answer his father wanted. There is no escape from this curse. Miguel gave him a dark look.
“…A shoemaker. Through and through.”
“That's my boy! Haha!” His father hugged him tightly. Then he patted Miguel's head vigorously and left the room, asking Tío Berto to serve him a drink to celebrate his shoemaker's anniversary.
Mamá touched Miguel's chin and smiled. He smiled awkwardly. As she left the room, abuelita now kissed him all over his face. He thought she was done, but she did one last time. Then she took the broom and left the room.
He loves his family. But he doesn't know what to do when he realize that as long as he's with everyone else, he can't escape the abominable traditions. I am cursed, after all. He thought so. As he sighs, he hears a rattling noise behind him and turns around in a panic. He saw Dante licking the meat offered on ofrenda.
“Dante!”
Miguel held his head in surprise, but Dante stopped for a moment, glanced at him, and began licking the meat again.
“No, Dante! stop!” Miguel grabbed the dog's body and yanked as hard as he could. Dante was still clinging to ofrenda with his claws digging into it, trying to get at the meat. Miguel pulled desperately on him. The cloths on ofrenda were pulled together, and the photos and offerings on display swayed noisily. Somehow, Miguel managed to pull Dante away from ofrenda, and just as he felt relieved, the photo on the top of the ofrenda fell down on Miguel.
He tried to catch it, but could not. The picture frame fell to the floor and broke with a cracking sound. Miguel covered his mouth with both hands. He looked anxiously outside to see if anyone had heard him, then fearfully reached for the photo.
“No no no no no!”
Miguel stared in despair at the photo of Papá Imelio and Mamá Coco, which was undoubtedly his grandmother's most cherished possession. How would the family react if they knew they had ruined the ofrenda…?
It was then that Miguel noticed something strange. The picture was unnaturally folded, partially hidden. With a dubious look on his face, he gently unfolded the folded part. A familiar guitar was propped up against the chair where the woman was sitting. Miguel gasped. It was a beautiful white guitar with a skeleton-shaped head.
“De la Cruz's guitar…?”
Why? Why is his guitar here? Right next to his great-great-grandmother? Miguel thought frantically with a head that did not work well. Then he suddenly remembered de la Cruz's musa.
That word must be some kind of metaphor, Miguel thought, even as a child. He had thought it was a poetic expression of playing music following his heart. But maybe the word did not actually have such a euphemistic meaning, but literally meant that he had a very important woman who taught him music. And maybe that is who this faceless great-great-grandmother is…
Was she his lover? No, that is not possible because she was married to Papá Imelio.
His mother? No, that would mean that de la Cruz is Mamá Coco's brother, and the time period is not right.
His daughter? No, in that case too, the time period is wrong. De la Cruz was crushed to death by a big bell in 1942 at the age of 46. Considering that Papá Imelio started his own business in 1921, the math still doesn't add up.
…Or his sister? Did he have sister? So…Ernesto de la Cruz is Miguel's family?
That would fit the chronology and seem natural. And since it is such a cool guitar, it wouldn't surprise him if there were any number of special episodes between the siblings. Maybe it was their favorite guitar that they shared and used together. Or maybe she gave the guitar to him after this for some reason. Anything is possible. The fact that his guitar is shown next to his great-great-grandmother is the best reason of all.
“Mamá…”
Someone whispered behind him. Miguel turned around. Mamá Coco was pointing at a photo and calling frantically.
“Mamá…!”
“…Mamá Coco?”
Miguel decided to ask her directly, as she raised her voice at the sight of the photo.
“Have you met Ernesto de la Cruz? …Tío Ernesto?” he said and approached her, unfolding the photo.
“Is your mamá…sister of Ernesto de la Cruz?”
“Mamá! Mamá!” she nodded repeatedly, pointing to the white guitar and shouting happily. Miguel looked at the picture again, suppressing his racing heartbeat. He was going crazy with excitement. Breathing hard, he stared at the photo and ran to the attic. Holding the “Remember Me” record in his hand, he compared it again and again with the photo. The white body, the skeleton head, and the gold tooth. Everything is the same.
“Haha!”
Miguel ran out with the guitar and the record and ran on the roof to his father. Papá has a package in each hand, and Mamá and abuelita are next to him. Miguel opened his mouth, not thinking about what kind of reaction he was going to get.
“Papá! Papá! It's him! I know a little about my great-great-grandmother!”
“Miguel! Get down from there!” his mother shouts in concern.
“Mamá Coco's mother was Ernesto de la Cruz's sister!”
“What are you talking about?”
Miguel was shaking with delight and raising his voice, but Papá looked at him as if he didn't know what it all meant at heart. Miguel took off his apron and threw it away.
“I'm gonna be a musician!”
“What is all this? You keep secrets from your own family?” Abuelita screams sadly. Miguel's handmade guitar, Ernesto de la Cruz's records, and many other secret collections were cruelly discarded in front of him.
“It's all that time he spends in the plaza,” Tío Berto said disgustedly.
“Fills his head with crazy fantasies!”
“It's not a fantasy!” Miguel countered Tía Gloria's words.
“This woman's brother is Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time! My great-great-grandmother was the one who taught him music!” Miguel handed the picture to his father as he said.
“We've never known anything about this woman,” his father continued in a stern voice. “But whoever she was, she still abandoned her family. This is no future for my son.”
“But Papá…you told me to look to the ofrenda. You said my family would guide me!”
At Miguel's words, his father, who had been staring at the photo, looked up with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, de la Cruz and his sister is my family! I'm supposed to play music!”
“Never!” abuelita shouted sharply.
“That woman's music was a curse! I will not allow it!” she said, and then she slapped the palm of her other hand with one fist.
“If you would just…”
“Miguel.”
Miguel was about to say this when his mother raised her voice angrily. He still tried to say something.
“You will listen to your family. No more music,” Papá said in a tone that didn't make you say whether or not.
Why don't they understand me? Why do they keep believing that music is a terrible thing?
“Just listen to me play.” Miguel held up his guitar pleadingly. One listen will surely change their minds.
“End of argument,” his father said, but he ignored Papá's words and began to play the guitar. At that moment, however, his grandmother snatched the guitar away from him with great force.
“You want to end up like that woman? Forgotten? Left off your family's ofrenda?” she must think that is really painful. That's why she says it like that. But Miguel didn't think so. He would rather be forgotten than listen to his family, suppress himself, and live as if he were cursed.
“I don't care if I'm on some stupid ofrenda!” Miguel spat. Abuelita gasped with a shocked look on her face. Everyone in the family had gone pale as well. Abuelita, who had looked saddened by his words, glared at the guitar and eventually swung it wide.
“No!”
“Mamá!”
Miguel and Papá shouted. But they were too late. She slammed the guitar to the ground, sending shards flying all over the place. Each time his grandmother swung the guitar down, Miguel's heart shattered into pieces. Eventually, the guitar he had spent so much time creating was broken without a trace. He stared in dismay at the pieces of guitar wood scattered at his feet.
“There.” Abuelita throws down the neck of the remaining guitar.
“No guitar, no music.” She crossed her fingers. Miguel stared at the wreckage of the guitar in despair. I worked so hard, I put my heart and soul into it. A matching guitar with Ernesto de la Cruz. I could have believed that if I played it, even I would surely be given her blessing by the goddess of music…
“Oh…come,” abuelita said and reached for Miguel's cheek, who was holding back tears.
“You'll feel better after you eat with your family.”
But Miguel broke away from her hand, snatched the picture from his father's hand, and ran off at a brisk pace.
“I don't want to be in this family!”
I hate this family! I hate them all. If I stay here, I'll never be happy.
“Miguel! Miguel!”
His father was calling his name. But Miguel didn't stop and kept running.