Ghost Radio (15 page)

“I want to
tell you about something that happened to me last year. It's not a ghost story, strictly speaking. Then again, maybe it is.”

“Sounds like fun. Lay it on us,” said Joaquin.

A long sigh came over the speakers, then the caller spoke:

Joaquin sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands, listening to the call with his eyes closed. Suddenly he felt a deep shiver rock his body. He realized instantly what was happening; it wasn't the first time he'd found himself in this situation. He slowly, apprehensively, opened his eyes to find himself on the deck of a ship. The broadcasting studio, Alondra, Watt, the radio station, the building, the city had all disappeared. Next to him, the captain looked around, visibly concerned. It was cold. Joaquin couldn't move, couldn't control his body in any way. He breathed deeply, trying to remain calm. The narrator stood only a few steps away. But he looked right through Joaquin. I'm a ghost in this world, Joaquin thought, finding an eerie pleasure in the notion.

Joaquin watched the narrator come up on deck, seeing and hearing the ice that surrounded them on all sides. The narrow corridor of water had disappeared. The ice pressed up against the sides of the ship, which groaned under the strain.

Floorboards exploded around Joaquin, showering him with tiny splinters. He heard the rumble of other explosions belowdeck, it vibrated under his feet. Some crew members leaped over the railings, jumping out onto the ice. They knew the danger. They would not last more than a minute if they fell into the icy sea.

Another explosion rocked the ship. It knocked Joaquin off his feet. Jumping up, he rushed to the railing. The captain lay on the ice, his feet splayed out awkwardly beneath him. And moving away from the captain was the shadow of something…something like arms. The ship pitched, sending Joaquin over the railing. He tumbled through the air, and landed on the ice next to the captain. Joaquin rolled on the frozen surface and remained motionless, looking up at the starry sky.

At the sound of the caller's closing words, Joaquin's out-of-body experience came to an end. In the blink of an eye, the arctic night gave way to the soft lights of the broadcasting studio. After announcing his plan to take his own life, the narrator fell silent. Watt and Alondra looked at Joaquin expectantly. But Joaquin couldn't speak, could barely move his hands; he would have had trouble shooing away a fly.

Finally, he spoke.

“What a devastating story. But the fact that you survived is a privilege, an opportunity to start over again, not a punishment. Even when all is lost, you can never give up.”

He didn't believe a single word he was saying. In fact, he thought the caller was right, but he knew he couldn't say something like that on the air. Anyways, the caller probably knew he was lying; the whole world probably knew.

He felt numb, as if he really had been exposed to the subzero temperatures of the North Pole, and he was shivering—discreetly, but uncontrollably. The caller said he didn't want to die without telling his story first. He said the only thing that mattered was that someone else hear it, so his story wouldn't disappear along with his wife and his ship. The caller hung up. Watt went to a commercial.

Still Joaquin couldn't stop shivering.

“What's wrong with you?” Alondra asked.

“I was out there, on the ice. It's happening again.”

“You've got to see a doctor.”

It's late and
I don't know what I'm doing. These waking dreams are beginning to unhinge me. But tonight, rather than dwelling on my confused emotional state, I find myself thinking back to the events that led to the creation of
Ghost Radio
.

It began during a strange period in my life. Although years had passed since Gabriel's death, the pall of that event still hung over me, lending a darkness to even the brightest days.

I was living in the Mixcoac neighborhood of Mexico City and working a variety of radio jobs, ranging from gigs as fill-in producer or guest announcer to grabbing the occasional disc-jockey or talk-show slot. I felt directionless. I wandered through the murky bars of Mexico City, daring the world to attack me. I inhaled the darkness and all that came with it.

I drank every night, trying to erase my memories of Gabriel, our musical ambitions, and the events that brought me here. Numb and alone, my days blurred together. But my warrior instinct pushed me onward. It pushed me toward my destiny.

I had just left an after-hours club, and was stumbling down the street in search of another, when a limousine pulled up beside me. A man leaned out the window and called to me in a vaguely familiar voice. I couldn't make out the face. The man urged me to get into the limousine. I mumbled something about wanting more alcohol and lurched off down the street. The limo's doors opened behind me, and before I knew it, strong arms grabbed me in a viselike grip and dragged me toward the vehicle.

I found myself in the back of the limousine. The man introduced himself as “The Rat,” but something about him reminded me of Gabriel.

I cannot remember what happened during the rest of the night. I have murky recollections of bars and women and pain. I remember singing and playing an instrument. I remember the Rat's voice, talking, encouraging me.

“Your life is about to become real. The past is a prologue. Prepare for the future, my friend.”

It seemed as though he repeated this over and over again. But maybe he only said it once. I can't be sure.

I awoke the next morning, at home in my own bed with a dull pain in my arm. I looked down and saw a bandage. I ripped it away and was shocked to find a strange tattoo. A collection of letters arranged in an odd pattern:

 

E

N

I

T N U J A A

B

N

 

Shortly after that night I was offered a regular gig as a DJ on a local radio station. On my first night, I received a telegram that read:

Several months later, I took my first call about a ghost.

Before he met Alondra,
Joaquin had dated Elena, a beautiful, aspiring TV personality and former tennis pro. They met at the radio station, during a promotional tour. The moment Joaquin saw her, he knew he had to meet her. The pair didn't have much in common, but whenever they were together they enjoyed themselves a lot—especially indoors.

Elena was athletic and extraordinarily sensual, but she possessed a superficial streak a mile wide. Sustaining a conversation with her was a drain on Joaquin's patience, and he always found himself suppressing exasperation. In short, things worked out marvelously for both of them as long as the relationship stayed between the sheets.

One night, she called him, terrified. She said a strange man had been harassing her, was pointing a rifle or some other kind of long-barreled weapon at her. It was Sunday, which meant Joaquin didn't have to go to work. Sunday night was one of the few times during the week he could get a good night's sleep and was, therefore, a time he relished. He didn't feel much like running off to rescue Elena, or anyone else, unless it was an authentic emergency. In this case, he had a hunch it was a false alarm, a panic attack brought on by Elena's vanity.

Despite the fact that she appeared only occasionally, stammering through the weather reports on an afternoon news program, and doing comedic banter on a morning show, she imagined she had an army of fans who devoted their days and nights to stalking her. She thought that whenever she showed up at a busy restaurant and removed the enormous sunglasses she wore in public, it was enough to make the maître d' scurry
off to prepare a special table for her. In reality, more often than not, he gave her the once-over and put her name at the end of the waiting list.

This wasn't the first time Elena had called Joaquin for something like this; in fact, it was the fifth. She'd even done it a few times when he was on the air. Although the police had also responded to her calls on several occasions, they had never found the alleged stalker.

He wanted to tell her to go to hell, then roll over and fall back asleep. Each time he calmed her down and got her off the phone, she'd call right back. After the fourth call, he had no choice but to go to her. He dragged himself out of bed, climbed into his car, and drove to her house. After spending several hours searching the neighborhood, in vain, for a threatening stranger carrying a weapon with a telescopic sight, he had nothing to show for it but a bad mood and a stiff neck. He was tired and ready to tell Elena he was sick of dealing with her neuroses. But the moment he entered her apartment, she jumped up and wrapped herself around him. Her body was warm, as if she were running a fever. Joaquin wanted to push her away, but before he could, he felt her pelvis rubbing against him. He tried to tear himself away, but he couldn't. Her sensuality overwhelmed him. He spent the rest of the night with her. It was fair compensation; he'd gotten out of bed for much less. But even though the sex was great, Joaquin told himself that he wasn't falling for the imaginary stalker story again.

Around four in the morning, he woke up thirsty. As he was going for a glass of water, he heard a strange noise. When he looked out the window, he saw a man clinging to one of the trees outside, barely concealed behind the sparse foliage, and holding some sort of recording device.

“Son of a bitch! What the fuck are you doing there?” Joaquin yelled.

The guy in the tree was apparently half asleep. When he heard Joaquin he lost his balance, slipped, and was left dangling about three yards from the ground, his recorder hanging from one shoulder.

“I'm gonna kill you, motherfucker!” Joaquin howled, running to look for his pants so he could give chase.

When he came out of the house, the guy was still hanging there.
Joaquin jumped up and grabbed his legs; the stranger fell on top of him. As Joaquin lay there, barefoot and dazed, the man started to run off, but Joaquin tackled him. Once he was down, he didn't put up a fight.

“Don't hurt me, I only recorded the audio,” he said.

“You've got to be kidding. I'm gonna have you arrested, you perverted bastard! You should be grateful I didn't plug you while you were in the tree, and that I'm not whupping your ass right now.”

Out of breath, Joaquin sat down beside the man, whose recorder still hung from his shoulder. Joaquin guessed from his behavior that he wasn't the violent type.

“I know this looks bad, but really it's not. I'm just collecting sounds.”

“Collecting sounds?” Joaquin was truly surprised.

“I record people's sounds, their movements and activities.”

“Secretly?”

“It's gotta be in secret. I want the true sounds.”

Of course, this immediately struck a chord with Joaquin. A great deal of what he and Gabriel had done was just that: collecting “found” noises, often in a clandestine way. While they'd dedicated most of their research to nature, insects, birds, and animals, they recorded people, machines, and street sounds as well. They had also gotten into trouble for it.

They would compile and classify their finds, then polish, edit, and rework the best clips in order to sample them. Over the years they accumulated quite an impressive collection. This sound library was a source of pride and gave a unique quality to the music they played.

Joaquin couldn't maintain his fury; he was much more interested in the stalker's project than in putting him behind bars. This was too much of a coincidence; it verged on conspiracy or witchcraft. How was it possible that in Mexico City, with a population of over twenty million, and thousands of criminals of all shapes and sizes, he ended up dealing with an audio fiend just like he and Gabriel had been? What were the odds of something like that—one in ten thousand? One in a hundred thousand? It was
beyond
improbable. He thought of all the other coincidences in his life. Sometimes he almost believed that there was a kind of “unseen
hand” behind it all, his fate manipulated by someone or something with an unknown purpose. Joaquin wasn't religious. But he couldn't deny that often his life seemed ruled by strange laws. Order in the chaos. Sense in the senselessness. Destiny.

Without asking permission, Joaquin grabbed his captive's backpack and started going through its contents.

“Be my guest, make yourself right at home,” the stalker told him.

“I want to see what you've got—what your tools of the trade are.”

He had several recorders and microphones, one of them with the formidable telescoping boom that Elena had seen, as well as high-quality earphones and a notebook.

“May I?” Joaquin asked, brandishing the notebook with a grimace.

“Go right ahead.”

Joaquin leafed through pages of notes and comments. It was a field notebook with details of the recordings: descriptions of every situation, individual, and time of day. The notes were accompanied by diagrams of locations and various technical annotations. His handwriting was uniform, with firm, decisive strokes. Somehow, this inspired trust in Joaquin, who couldn't imagine that someone who wrote so stolidly would do him any harm.

“Are you aware of how risky this is?” he asked.

“It's worth it.”

“How do you choose your subjects? How do you decide who to record?”

“I observe people until I see something that resonates. It might be how they walk, eat, talk, laugh, anything. I can't explain it. I have very flexible criteria.”

“But you're harassing my girl, and that's gotta stop.”

“I didn't want to bother anyone—I'm just taking her sounds. She doesn't need them, and it won't bother her if I keep them.”

Joaquin wanted to explain that he understood, that what he really felt like doing was asking to hear his collection. However, he remained firm.

“If I hand you over to the cops, you'll probably spend the night in jail.
They'll confiscate your sounds and your equipment. They might even prohibit you from going anywhere near a recorder for the rest of your life.”

“I'll stay away from your girlfriend. I'm not interested in her, I swear.”

“If she finds out about this, it'll be even worse for you. Up till now, she's been convinced that you're an out-of-control fan, one of her countless admirers who lose sleep over the idea of catching a glimpse of her in a camisole. And, believe me, you're better off if she thinks that, because if you add a sprinkle of disappointment to this mess, she won't rest until you're punished.”

“I'm real sorry,” the guy said.

“Sorry isn't good enough. What do you use these recordings for?”

“To create soundscapes.”

“Music?”

“I wouldn't call it that. I'm interested in building landscapes using different layers of audio. I try to create minimalist, abstract textures where the protagonists weave narratives with their movements, voices, and noises.”

“I'm not sure I get it.”

“It's really basic. Think of them as movies that you can't see.”

“Have you done many of them?”

“No, just a few. It takes months of hard work, assembling sounds, finding narratives, setting up counterpoint…. Anyways, it takes a long time. But I do have a couple of things ready to go.”

“Ready to go where?”

“Anywhere someone besides me can hear them.”

“Let me guess: You don't have many friends, do you?”

“I got some.”

“Sure you do,” Joaquin responded with open sarcasm. “Would you be willing to show me your work?”

“Of course I would. Now?”

“No, not right now. Crafting soundscapes…can you make a living with it?”

“Of course not. I've got a day job as a customer-service executive with an international marketing corporation.”

“And what do you do there?”

“Basically, I talk to potential clients on the telephone twelve hours a day, from a room that holds another thirty-nine customer-service executives just like me. I call people at all hours, but the company asks us to try to do it at particularly inopportune moments. It makes it easier to sell them objects and services that they never thought they'd want or need.”

“Telemarketing?”

“Precisely.”

“Lady stalker, telephone predator. You wouldn't happen to be a serial killer or cannibal too, by any chance?”

“Well, I haven't killed anyone, and I can't say my hunger has ever reached those extremes.”

“I think I see a pattern here. Your thing is to take stuff away from people who you can hear, but never really see.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. I never thought of it that way. But you gotta understand, my work in the marketing company isn't something I do for pleasure. It pays the bills.”

“Sure it does—but even so, it's probably not worth it.”

“You can get used to anything, even making an old lady with Parkinson's or Alzheimer's invest her life savings in shares of a pharmaceutical company the night before it tanks.”

“You used to do that?”

“I didn't say that.”

“So you didn't?”

“I never said that either.”

“You're a professional crook.”

“Everything I do is legal. Not especially ethical, or nice, but legal. That is to say, strictly speaking, I don't break the law; I just create the conditions necessary for my bosses to abuse the trust of naive and defenseless people.”

“Disgusting. Forget all that and come work for me.”

“How? You want me to steal for you?”

“I need a sound engineer for my program.”

“Program?”

Joaquin told him about
Ghost Radio
. He listened with interest.

“I've never done radio.”

“Even better. We can start from scratch.”

“But what about jail and your girlfriend?”

“Never mind that. Quit working for those con men, come with me, and all is forgiven. Although I am going to have to think up a good excuse for Elena.”

“Tell her I got away.”

“Or that I killed you, cut you into little pieces, and threw you into the sewer.” That would get me more hours of grateful sex.

“Whatever.”

“Nope, I'm gonna have to tell her the truth. Which means I'll probably be left without a girlfriend. So I hope what I'm doing for you is worth it. Here.” Joaquin gave him one of the business cards the station had had printed up for him. “Show up on Monday at eight
P.M.
, we'll talk then.”

“You know, if you want some memories of her, I have a bunch here.”

“Don't test my tolerance.”

“Thanks. So you're really offering me a job?”

“Yep. What's your name? Mine's Joaquin.” He offered him his hand to seal the deal.

“People call me ‘Watt.'”