(CLAP CLAP CLAP)
The crowd hummed like an ocean of whispers beyond the velvet curtain; “This is it…”
My hands trembled as I held my violin, the polished wood warm against my skin. It wasn’t the size of the audience that unnerved me…what really made me nervous was thinking about him:
“Abuelo…”
Yes…I think of my Grandfather…what frightened me the most… was the weight of the past, the echoes of my grandfather, El Charro Negro.
That’s right…I am the Grandughter of El Charro Negro; Nemesio Santacruz…
I closed my eyes and saw him again, just as he had been on those endless nights under the stars...I was a little girl before the deserts and mountains of nature became cities…
Dressed in his black charro suit adorned with silver embroidery, his silhouette had been both imposing and comforting. His deep, gravelly voice carried tales of old, of deals struck at crossroads and a life steeped in legend.
-? ? ? ? ? ?-
I closed my eyes and heard his violin play…it was so wonderful to hear him play his melody…
“Felicitas,” he would call my name… as he guided me to play just like him.
“Music is a conversation with the soul. If you can’t feel it here”—he’d tap his chest—“then you can’t play it.”
The mythical Charro Negro…the one who stole the soul of the President of Mexico and haunted the country since the beginning of the 20th century..
He was more than a myth to me. He was my mentor, my anchor. By day, he was my abuelo, teaching me discipline and music about the Art of the Mariachi…
By night, under the cloak of folklore, he embodied the legend that haunted Mexican lore, the mysterious figure who roamed the lands, striking fear and awe…
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However…those days were not eternal…my grandfather had to choose a successor, he chose the man known as Juan de la Trinidad…
When I joined Juan’s mariachi group after my grandfather’s passing, it felt like stepping into a sacred tradition… Juan, my grandfather’s chosen successor, had the same commanding presence, though he carried none of the legend’s shadow…
Instead, he bore a quiet determination to honor the music that connected us all…I was in my youth when I decided to join him and his Mariachi group…Los Vientos Del Silencio (The Winds of Silence)...in that group I fulfilled many missions around the world…
Those early days with the group were tough...Mariachi music wasn’t just about technique; it demanded emotion, unity, and storytelling..
Juan pushed me to find my voice within the ensemble, but it was my grandfather’s lessons that always echoed in my mind; “Breathe, ni?a…The violin is your voice. Speak with it.”
A stagehand’s voice snapped me back to the present; “Felicitas, you’re on in five.”
My heart raced as I adjusted my bow. Tonight wasn’t just any performance. Tonight, we would play La Llorona, a piece my grandfather had often played beneath the moonlight, his mournful notes weaving through the night like the wails of the legend itself…
Oh yes…that song is special…as I once met that lamenting soul…her ghostly appearance left me voiceless and yet her magnificent beauty made me wonder…why was she in somber?
I wonder if one day…I would see her soul in peace…
Stepping onto the stage, I felt the warmth of the spotlight. The audience’s expectant gaze melted into the background as I brought the violin to my chin…
(BADUMP BADUMP BADUMP)
For a brief moment, I hesitated, my mind reaching for him, for the memory of his steady hand guiding mine. And then, I began.
-? ? ? ? ? ?-
The opening notes rang out, soft and haunting. I poured myself into the music, each stroke of the bow a prayer, each note a conversation with the man who had given me everything…
The melody swelled, and I could almost feel his presence beside me, his deep voice whispering “Eso, Felicitas. Speak with it.”
The final note hung in the air, vibrating with the weight of a legacy. The audience erupted in applause, but I stood still, letting the echoes settle in my chest.As I bowed, I looked up at the darkened ceiling, imagining the stars above it.
“Gracias, abuelo…I’m sure we will meet again…”
THE END…
