EXCERPT: From "The Mariachi Played Penny Lane - And Other Short Stories..."

By PATRICK ALCATRAZ
Editor of The Tribune

McALLEN, Texas - Salvador Donaldo had been writing his novel for 30-some years, never putting it in writing, always keeping his plot & characters in his head. It had to be some 800 pages by now, he would tell his friends. It's up here, he would go on, pointing to the side of his head, to a spot directly above his right ear. When they would ask him what the book was about, Salvador would say it was about this middle-aged woman from the Boston suburbs who had come to the Texas-Mexico border to teach young Mexican kids the art and fancy of the piano.

"And then, but I'm flash-forwarding to near the novel's end, she composes this fantastic piece that at once bridges the style of the masters in Germany, Bach, Mozart, those guys, and the sounds of the Mexican mariachi, the strings and brass, that stuff," is what he would say, leaving it at that.

On the faces of his pals would grow looks of wonderment and concern.

Only, Salvador never cared for feedback on his work. It's the last thing a writer needs, he would say. Plus, you can never describe the contents of a novel in a short paragraph to friends, even if everybody is drinking beer. You were better-off  not saying anything. You could never hope to bring friends - or anyone - into the trip that was the writing of a novel. The engine pulled no passenger cars; yeah, that was it. Just the writer as train engineer. No one else aboard. They would get their chance to ride after the book was published. The thing is, he often tried to say, but never did, really because they were his friends, writers hate hangers-on, especially those who wish to be told of one's work before it was finished. No bookwriter liked doing that. No, the story, the novel, was like an old, but comfy jacket no one else could ever borrow, wear.

Indeed, something like that is what his main character, this woman from New England, says when she is asked about her music. And, she would go, don't even think of asking to play my piano. These keys can only feel my energy, perform my verve, release my innermost sounds. The desire to compose original music had entered the realm of possibilities for her only recently. She'd taught music, things like how to read it, at a Boston-area college for many years. Salvador had two names for her, unable to decide on which of the two best fit the character's quirky personality. One of the names was Elizabeth, which he liked. The other name was Margaret, which he thought lent itself more to the world of classical music - her one and only love in music. Margaret was the name he would have used, if only he was sitting down to write today, which he wasn't doing. The novel still swam the waters of that undiscovered ocean he thought would have looked lovely between the American Southwest and the Northeast - if only someone would rid the country of its middle, the so-called breadbasket, the boring heartland.

Margaret had taken nicely to the harsh geography of deep South Texas. She had moved her household belongings into a small house ("It came with a small swimming pool!") north of the Hidalgo County community of Edinburg. The widower who'd sold her the aging, three-bedroom ranch house had thrown-in the sixteen chickens he'd kept in a screened coop. A weathered barn off to the side of the house had been converted into the piano lessons classroom. Margaret had hired an insulation company to sound-proof the walls, not because she did not want to upset her neighbors, because she had none for miles, but because she thought the students' attempts at playing would upset her chickens.

In the story, Salvador created a second major character. That would be, he told himself, Genaro, the local who would tend to her yard, her weeds, and two the fifteen, or so rows of corn she had on the southern flank of the property. Genaro would be the stereotypical Mexican employee in the novel, a character to be admired and valued, but a character flawed to the extent that he would, from time to time, raid Margaret's freezer and take a few steaks. His background included a long trip from his native Chiapas in Southern Mexico to the U.S. side of the border. The illegal immigrant aspect of his presence did not bother Margaret. She had seen his tireless landscaping work and marveled at how much he did for the $50 she paid him.

But it was her students that Salvador had trouble defining. Yes, there was a pig-tailed, obnoxious kid whose parents were hotshot lawyers in town. And there was the lanky teen-age boy who had been told he could be the next Mozart and so had adopted the annoying Mozart idea of not playing the last note in the selections Margaret assigned. It aggravated her enough to go plunk the piano keys herself, to rid her brain of that last missing note wandering wildly in her mind.

And then would come the manager of a group of musicians who would say he needed help in getting his boys to play together, to play their best. They worked local restaurants as a strolling mariachi, asking for, and getting, five dollars for every song a customer requested. What to teach them, had been Margaret's challenge. All of them were from the interior of Mexico, familiar only with the traditional music of their country. The manager had asked for help in "spicing up" their sound, in making it more palatable for Americans. The manager's name was Pedro Fanques. He smoked Camels and liked colorful polyester shirts. His shoes were of the $40 variety, always purchased in Mexico and always black in color.

Margaret listened to him and then played songs from early Beatles albums. In three short weeks, she...

- 30 -     

[EDITOR'S NOTE:...The rest of the story will be available upon publication of this collection...]