“Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be…”  

You’ve heard the song before and you’ll hear it again, this time reverberating from staticky speakers stacked atop a makeshift stage in a small nameless bar, one of many lining the streets of San Blas.

Why are you here?

You came here to escape, wondering why the first words you hear are Kurt Cobain’s from a long time ago yet eternally present.  

Though the voice singing the song is different.  So raspy the air seems smokey, catching in the static .  Like you’re playing it back to yourself from a future you can’t quite see.  Only hear.  

         You realize you must speak to her.

         And so you do between sets.

         She gives you her number and says she’ll see you later.

***

“Pass San Blas.  If you think you’ve gone too far, keep going,” she said. 

These are the words you will repeat to yourself as you make the climb, far above the parades, the fireworks, the dancing, the drums of the square below.  She is Ayana, the singer you met not far above the square on the walk to San Blas.  Ayana sang American covers.  In the touristy town of Cusco.  But she also said she sang original music and would be doing so later that night at a little blue house with a star above the window.  

On your quest to discover original music, she will be your guide, telling you exactly where to go and the time to be there, again and again, not disappearing, but failing to appear at all. 

You ascend the stone steps one by one.  You are winded.  You are that sort of dizzy drunk you know all too well.  With each stone step, , the plaza recedes, along with the festivities below.  You can finally hear the silence of the night, a muteness and swirling in the fog that seems to grow thicker with each step.  And just when you think you’ve passed your destination, you remember the words, “keep going.”  

And so you do. 

…

When you arrive at the blue house marked by a simple star above the window, you notice the lights outside are dim but the inside is illuminated by soft candles and a glow from a fireplace before which sits a man playing a guitar. At the opposite corner of the room, a woman sits knitting a red scarf.  You are hesitant, but you have come too far, so you knock on the door. 

The woman answers the door while the man continues to play his guitar.  You explain yourself,. 

“Come in,” she says.  “Is Ayana playing tonight?” she asks the man who has stopped playing guitar and has approached you to shake your hand. 

“No,” he says, “something came up.  But Leo is supposed to play later.”   “Sometimes Leo is a no show, too, though” he laughs. 

“I am Marina,” the woman extends her hand by way of introduction. 

You introduce yourself and do the same. 

“I am Mario,” the man extends his hand again. 

You do the same. 

“Time will tell,” Mario sighs, “but you are welcome to hear me play badly.  Please have a seat.  Care for a drink?” 

“Sure,” you say, unsure of everything. 

“How about a pisco and tonic?” 

“Ok.”

Mario disappears behind a red curtain.

Marina resumes her seat, taking up her knitting which you notice is the same color as the red curtain behind which Mario has disappeared.

Rather than sit alone in silence, you ask her if she is from Cusco. 

Marina stops her knitting.  Almost hesitant, she responds, “No.  I am from Venice.”  She pauses again, as if questioning whether to share more.  “I moved here seven months ago when I married Mario.  He is from here.  This is our place.”  She looks from her red scarf to the red curtain.  “I am trying to make it feel a little more like home.” 

You look around, the idea of home hanging in the air.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask.  “Venice?” 

“Oh, sure,” she says.  “Especially the food,” she sighs. 

“Is there any good Italian food here in Cusco?” 

“Not really,” she laughs a little wistfully.  “There is only one, but it is really expensive.”  She laughs again, but then looks serious, staring into the fire.  “The things we do for love I believe is an American song?”

“Right,” you reply.  

“Are you ‘in love’ with Ayana?” she looks directly into your eyes. 

The look, combined with the directness of the question, startles you.  You are unable to answer. 

“It’s ok,” she laughs.  “A lot of people are ‘in love’ with Ayana,” she pauses.  “So many of us fall in love with the music and think it’s the musician.”  She looks back to her scarf. 

Mario emerges from behind the red curtain and passes the drinks.  

A clinking of glasses.

Mario returns to strumming his guitar. 

The pisco tastes—  

“Not ‘in love’,” you finally respond to Marina.  “She just has a nice voice.” 

“Just enchanted then?” She looks up while knitting. 

You don’t answer.

Mario plays the guitar, each chord hit hard.  It is here, present, you think, the music.  Ayana may not be, but the music is, each chord seemingly wandering around the room, between the threads of the scarf, through the curtain, searching for a home.  You will find her, you think, each chord passing through the door and into the cold night air.  

You can see it, too, the music passing into the cold night air.  

You can feel it disappear.

Mario pauses his strumming.

Marina pauses her knitting.  “That’s ok to be enchanted,” she says. “Stay that way.” 

*** 

Morning.  Plaza del Armas. 

You are alone like you always are, only you recognize it this time. 

 You hear clicking .You see a shadow of yourself hunched over a typewriter.

 You are already there.  The climb happened.

The star above the window is dim.  The light within blazes.

The room is reversed, the dueling guitars reversed, Marina and Mario reversed.

Mario knits. Marina strums the guitar.

You take a seat at the entrance of the open doorway, where two dogs pass and lick your face. 

You hear clicking in the distance,  each chord hit hard, heavy metal, continuing, reverberating into a sort of forever,the heavy metal keystrokes writing you into the part you are playing right now.

***

A message flickering on a screen: “Hello.  Today in San Blas.  Same place.  10 o’clock.”   

“Hi, Ayana,” you say .  You say you’ll be there. 

No response. 

You make the climb again.  A cold.  Night.  Winded.  Dizzy drunk. 

 You can already feel her fail to appear like the light from a star burning right now.  It’s not that it’s not there.  It’s just that it will never be here. 

Stone steps.  Plaza receding.  The parades, the fireworks, the dancing, the drums from the square below.  Receding.  You know how this will end.  You feel it, arriving at the same destination marked by the same simple star above the window.   

Only this time, it’s different. No Mario. No Marina. … music resonates through the open window.  Conversations echo from the back to the front of the room.  You tell the future, “You’re wrong.”  But as you knock and enter, you see the future laughing in the faces of the strangers before you.  A girl you recognize as a waitress from a few stories ago welcomes you with a kiss on the cheek, as does her friend.  The rest are guys from the story you are writing right now, shaking your hand, looking to one another uncertainly.   You realize that through their looks they are asking each other who invited you and that it will only be a matter of time before they realize that it was no one.  No one here, anyway. 

Ayana fails to appear.

You are about to turn and leave, when Mario and Marina emerge from behind the red curtain, Mario wearing the red scarf you remember Marina knitting. 

 “So glad to see you again,” Marina kisses you on the cheek. 

“At long last, good music,” Mario waves to the two guitarists who have been playing since before your arrival. 

 “A pisco and tonic?”  Mario asks. 

You can barely nod yes before you feel a chair slide into your knees and you are sitting. 

And the music is unlike any you have ever heard before.  The dueling guitars, exchanging glances, calls and responses.  Conga drums keeping the beat.  A kazoo, strangely appropriate.  And before you even know it, you’re drinking another pisco and moving to the beat of the drums, the strums of the dueling guitars, one player with a red hat the color of the scarf and the curtains, the other with a ponytail on the top of his head like Ayana. 

And you think of Ayana.

And you remind yourself not to confuse the music with the magician. 

The voices bring you back, the real and the imagined.  The audience whispers among itself.  You feel eyes on you and suddenly sick on the pisco, a sudden paranoia.    

And the music is swirling.  And you are swirling.  You, at home in the music but still out of place in this world . And you’ve gotten what you asked for,. .  You hear the name “Ayana” spoken and laughter in your direction.  

You focus on the music and pretend that you can feel the light from that star.

…

Jonathan Jay is a freelance writer and editor at aesterion. He lives in Los Angeles.