#marrosa

PRÓLOGO

Long ago, in a town called Santa Cecilia, lived a family of three. The papá was a musician who dreamed of playing for the world, while the mamá was an aspiring shoemaker who loved music just as much as her husband. They had a small daughter together, and the three of them would sing, dance, and count their blessings.

One day, the papá left home with his guitar. And never returned.

Outraged and heartbroken by his disappearance, the mamá banned music from her family. Nobody was allowed to play music, listen to music, or even hum a single note. She also forbade her family members from even uttering the name of her husband. She considered him dead, and she put up their family photo on their family’s ofrenda with his head torn off. Nobody was to remember him. Ever.

The mamá did not have time to cry, however. She rolled up her sleeves and focused on her shoemaking business, turning it into a family affair. She taught her brothers, then her daughter, then her son-in-law, and then her grandchildren. The business grew and grew, and they became known for making the best shoes in town.

Music had torn the family apart, but shoes put them all together.

That is the legacy of Imelda Rivera. Mother, grandmother, shoemaker.

Music shall never enter our family again, she had decided. But was that really such a good idea?

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30 de diciembre, 1942. Ciudad de México.

It was a night to remember.

After the 21st anniversary of the establishment of Escuela de la Cruz (or De La Cruz Academy, if you are not a native Hispanic), the most famous musician in Mexican history and the namesake of the school himself, Ernesto de la Cruz performed his biggest hits for his beloved students and fans alike. He opened with “El Mundo es mi Familia”, made the crowd clap and sing along with his upbeat songs like "Un poco loco", stunned the audience and even the stage crew with his ballads, and ending with arguably his biggest hit: “Requérdame”.

As Ernesto went up the escalator all the way to the top of the stage just below the bell, everything was going well. The fireworks were shot at the correct time, the dancers were on beat, Ernesto was singing with his powerful vocals, and the crowd was pleased. The skull guitar was shining and reflecting the lights, as if it was celebrating along. Just before he was about to belt out his final note, Ernesto handed over the guitar to a stage crew, as rehearsed.

Unbeknownst to most, except for a small number of people behind the stage, one of the staff was leaning on a lever that controlled the bell. Perhaps it was a slip of the body, or perhaps he was leaning too much on the lever, but it all happened so quickly that some were convinced it was almost as if the musician was somehow cursed.

30 de diciembre, 1942. Ciudad de México.

Ernesto de la Cruz was crushed by a giant bell. There was silence followed by screams of terror and panic. The screaming only got worse when suddenly the concert hall turned dark before anyone could do anything. People were bumping against each other and against furniture, tripping over cables, and the students were rushed out of the arena back to the Academy.

After a staff member was able to turn the lights back on, somehow things took a sharp turn to the mysterious. There was indeed debris atop the escalator where the bell was dropped, but there was no bell. And the oddest thing of all: Ernesto de la Cruz’s dead body was nowhere to be found. Yes, there was blood, but other than that and some tattered fabric, he was nowhere to be seen. The skull guitar had also disappeared.

30 de diciembre, 1942. Ciudad de México.

It was a night to remember. For better or for worse.

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1 de noviembre, 2017. Santa Cecilia.

Not so long ago, there was a young boy. He came from a family of shoemakers who hated music. For as long as he could remember, music was banned from entering the family. Not a whistle, not a tune, not a pluck of a guitar, not a finger tap, not even a hum. His grandmother would even yell at passerby’s who sang outside of their home.

And yet, out of everyone in his family, he was the one who fell in love with the forbidden art. He knew that his family loved him and that he loved them in return, but he too knew that he was different from the rest of them. His love for music was strong enough to the point of creation. He would record himself secretly playing music up in the hidden attic. He would write songs that he would hide in-between his books and other personal belongings in his room and in the attic as well. He even managed to created his own functioning guitar from a broken one he found amongst a pile of trash. All of this he kept a secret, except from his great-grandmother.

And up there in the same attic was also where he kept his stash of Ernesto de la Cruz memorabilia. De La Cruz was his idol, his mentor, his hero. If the boy were a rat in Paris, De La Cruz would be the imaginary chef guiding him everywhere he went. It was through his music and films that the young boy would come to love music himself. Ernesto de la Cruz came from Santa Cecilia, just like he did. He played in the plaza when he was young, just like how the boy wished he could do. He wished to do what his idol did: to seize his moment and play for the world.

Then, on a fateful Día de Los Muertos, the Day of The Dead, he found an opening. Up on top of his family ofrenda was a photo of his great-great grandmother, her daughter (the boy’s great-grandmother as a child), and an unknown man whose head was ripped off of the photo. The family only knew him as their great-great-grandfather, El Músico. The Musician. The man who left his family for music. A Xolo dog whom the boy liked to play with accidentally made the photo fall from the ofrenda, revealing a folded over portion of the photo.

It was De La Cruz’s guitar. A pristine white guitar, as if made out of marble, with a skull headstock and markings at the bottom of its body. There was no other guitar like it! He couldn’t believe it! Ernesto de la Cruz was his great-great-grandfather! With this revelation, he announced to his family that he would become a musician. Alas, his dream was rejected and his guitar was destroyed.

Heartbroken, with only his loyal Xolo at his side and the family photo in his clutch, he ran into the night.

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1 de noviembre, 2021. Santa Cecilia.