know the affection is mutual, but the roundabout way is much more delicious than the straight line. So Ramón circled the other hats, flirted with them, as if he were going to ask them to dance, one after another, until that splendid Stetson was the only one left. Of course if it had been a person, it surely would have been irritated by the wait and would have refused to dance. But since it was a hat, it was more than willing. Ramón didn’t merely place the hat on his head, for him it was an act of coronation. He put it on and modeled it in front of the mirror.
Hat tilted slightly to the side.
Hat tilted forward, covering the eyes, giving mysterious airs.
Hat tilted back, giving the look of a horse’s mane.
Hat over his chest, held with two hands, in a sign of respect.
Hat lifted up a little, as if to say hello.
Ramón running with hat.
Ramón avoiding a punch without dislodging hat.
Removing his hat in salute while bowing to an appreciative audience.
It’s not easy to explain the relationship between a man and his hat. It is an object that is always going to be there, very close to the head. He sets it on a table and sits down. Watches how the light caresses it and how it projects an elegant shadow.
He hangs it from the back of a chair: position of the hat during a game of poker.
Hat down, arm straight, held by the left hand: position of the hat at church, during Mass.
Hat over the heart: position during a declaration of love.
Hat in the hand, fanning, one side to the other: function of the hat on a hot day.
Hat tossed with the right hand so that it flies through the air and lands perfectly on the hook of a coat rack.
Next purchase: a coat rack where he can hang his beloved hat.
Partners
Hey, what’s wrong? Come a little closer, I have something to tell you.
Hey you. I’m talking to you.
Don’t go.
I want to make a deal with you.
Come here, don’t be scared.
Do you know who’s talking to you?
Don’t be scared. Don’t be yellow.
You like music? Well, we’re going to talk about music, what do you think? I love music too. Not just any kind though. The kind that strikes deep into the heart, the kind that makes you cry and hurt and remember your buddies. The kind you hear on the radio and say: Hey, now that’s a song, I want to listen to it again and again and again. That’s music. Where are you going? You can’t avoid Me.
You can say no to Me, you can tell Me that you aren’t interested in going into business with Me. And I’ll go, it’s that easy. I’m not a creep. But first you have to hear Me.
Well, actually you don’t have to.
I don’t force anybody. I gave up on that already. Everybody can do their own thing.
But it’s a good deal for you.
Really.
Listen to Me.
It’s. A. Good. Idea.
It’s an indefinite contract. You can’t lose. Guaranteed success. We have to do it together. You can’t do it alone, I can’t either. Collaborators, partners. Are you in? You want to think it over? Well, think about it. But I don’t like to wait either. I’ve waited enough times. Think fast. If not, then that’s it for us, goodbye, it’s finished, and you lost the opportunity, I swear you lost it.
And forever.
I’m Looking Through You
His mind is blank, free of thoughts. Emptiness. Uninhabited space. Fathomless loneliness. A path, maybe.
You could describe it like this: a long road, a straight line, paved, in the desert. A formidable distance.
Suddenly, far away, a musical point appears. A faint sound that can barely be identified as sound. An incomprehensible melody, approaching. A little later, that melody acquires a definite form and some verses begin to blossom around it: the exact poem wrapped in the exact music, not one syllable too many, not one missing beat.
Cornelio opens his eyes and the song is right there, in front of him, waiting for him. He watches it for a long time, ecstatic. Finally, his fingers on the string of the bajo sexto help it spring forth:
“Your Beautiful Eyebrows”
Having just been born, the song feels trapped in the little house of its creator. It dreams of wide open spaces, where it can run, where it can feel free. As soon as Cornelio turns his back, the song escapes the house through the window. It feels the heat of the pavement, walks for the first time among the people of the border, slides between cars and passersby, climbs into trucks and taxis.
Every moment is a new experience.
The song wastes no time in learning to flirt and wiggle its hips with a sensual and captivating rhythm.
Men watch it pass by as if it were a beautiful woman and turn to check out her behind.
Women watch it pass by as if were a handsome man and turn to check out his behind.
Children understand that it is only a song, and they smile.
Amarillo no me pongo,
amarillo es mi color;
he robado trenes grandes
y máquinas de vapor.
—Lupe Tijerina
Now when I was a young boy, at the age of five
My mother said I was gonna be
the greatest man alive
But now I’m a man, way past 21
Want you to believe me baby,
I had lots of fun
I’m a man.
—Muddy Waters
CORNELIO: I don’t know who thought of it first. We were always real restless. We wanted to conquer the world. You know how it is, man. A man wants to make a mark. But we never imagined how it was going to go for us.
AB: How did it happen?
CORNELIO: Well, I don’t remember anymore. What about you?
How’d it happen?
RAMÓN: What?
CORNELIO: How did we get started?
RAMÓN: I dunno.
AB: You really don’t remember? Surely, there had to be a day when you decided to become musicians.
CORNELIO: Shiiit, I don’t remember, man. We were always doing crazy things, the stuff kids do. We were writing poems and stuff like that.
RAMÓN: Don’t give me that, man. I never use to write poems.
CORNELIO: Okey, but we were going along without rhyme or reason, without a care in the world, just getting by. You get me?
AB: No.
CORNELIO: