Tuning Signal

“Facet.” That was the word. Andrés didn’t quite grasp it, even as he heard it uttered by Walter White—the protagonist of the series he was currently translating for a streaming platform. He was getting more of this work lately: films and episodes to be rendered from English into Spanish for catalogs that were beginning to eclipse the DVD market. Sometimes they asked him to burn in the subtitles himself; other times, he received only the raw video file, stripped of the script that usually made the task go faster. This was one of those times. To make matters worse, the actor was mumbling. Andrés had to replay the scene five or six times before the phrase finally clicked: People don’t change; they just show different facets of themselves depending on the situation.

“Andrés!” his mother’s shriek broke his focus. “I need the bathroom!”

Andrés shifted his two-hundred-pound frame with practiced poise, moving from his room to hers. I wish this would just end, he thought. Though he immediately followed that with the realization that he’d rather deal with this than change her diapers. His pay barely covered their survival and the cocktail of meds keeping Beatriz alive; he had no intention of blowing his meager savings on a nursing home. Not yet. Better she stay out of diapers for as long as possible.

“ANDRÉS!” There weren’t twenty paces between his room and hers, yet she was screaming again, louder this time.

“I heard you, Ma. I’m coming.”

“Could you hurry it up? Or do you want me to go right here?”

“I’m working,” he replied, helping her out of bed and into her walker. “I came the second you called.”

“Working… sure. Your father worked. Spent all day locked in a factory, poor soul.”

Now he worked, now he’s a poor soul, now he spent all day at the factory, Andrés thought as he dragged both walker and mother down the hall. He sat her on the toilet and waited on the other side of the door for the summons.

“Wait, I’ll give you your six o’clock pill.” Back in the bedroom, Beatriz sat on the bed. She wrapped her arms around her son’s waist as he stood before her, picking through the blister packs on the nightstand. She pressed her cheek against his pelvis. “Stop it, Ma.” He had to move abruptly to pry himself loose. “They’re not here. I’ll go look.”

The third drawer in the kitchen held dishcloths, old papers, power adapters, and a graveyard of broken junk. No six o’clock pills there either. He shouted to his mother that he was heading to the pharmacy, grabbed his jacket, and left.

The errand took nearly an hour. He picked up some meat for dinner, arriving back around six-thirty. He mapped out his next moves: give her the meds (he’d likely have to wake her), resume the work he’d stalled, and translate until it was time to cook.

He opened the sheet-metal gate at the entrance and found a brown paper package at his feet. Someone must have slipped it through the mail slot while he was out; that book-sized rectangular weight hadn’t been there before. No name, no address, no return info. Nothing.

He opened it while crossing the front patio. It was a videocassette in its case. Stuck on the front, between the two white spools, was a label with an address that meant nothing to him. The tape was fully wound to one side. He wondered if it was an old client from back when he used to repair tapes, enhance recordings, or dub VHS to DVD. But there was no note, just that address. He left it on the kitchen table and went to his mother’s room.

Beatriz was sleeping on her back. A guttural, bird-like rasp escaped her half-open mouth. Her right eye was also slightly ajar—an expression that had always unnerved him. The room smelled rancid: a cocktail of sweat, age, and infirmity. On the third try, Beatriz woke up, choking back a snore. She leaned over to sip the water he offered through a straw and swallowed the pill.

“Lie down with me for a bit,” she whispered.

“No, Ma. I have things to do.”

“Just a little while.” Another graveyard whisper, sterner than the last. Andrés knew if he refused again, she would escalate, screaming for affection and spitting verbal venom.

He kicked off his shoes and lay down beside her. He got under the covers because he knew that’s what she wanted, and if he didn’t, she’d harp on it until he did.

“I can’t feel you,” she said.

Andrés turned on his side, his chest against her back. Her straw-like white hair smelled filthy. Beatriz tucked her backside into his lap. She said: “Kiss.”

He brushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. Short, soft kisses. He felt the wrinkles against his lips, the sour smell of something withered. He held her, and after a while, he fell asleep too.

When he woke, it was eleven at night. He heard his mother’s coarse, snoring breath in the dark and cursed silently. He cursed everything: falling asleep, his inability to say no, the unfinished work, the gnawing hunger in his gut. He cursed his whole life, his existence, and Beatriz’s too.

He checked his computer. A new email was waiting, demanding the day’s work and threatening to withhold payment if it wasn’t delivered by morning.

“Go to hell,” he told the monitor.

Beatriz wouldn’t wake again tonight. He showered, seared a piece of steak, and ate it with a handful of chopped tomatoes. While he ate, he looked at the tape again. He searched the address online: nothing. He went to his room and dug through drawers until he found his old ledger from the analog days. He combed through it twice. No such address.

What he did find, pressed between the final pages, was one of the few memories of his childhood: a candy bar wrapper with a heart drawn in blue ink on the inside. The bleeding lines of a fountain pen circled the letters A and A. Agustina. He remembered her perfectly: the girl with the sad, almond eyes. She had problems at home too. He remembered the day they shared that candy; the afternoon they kissed in the patio of this very house, before Beatriz chased her off with slurs and shoves, having seen them from the kitchen window. He remembered Agustina didn’t speak to him for days, until he approached her after she showed up at school with a black eye. A few weeks later, she moved away and vanished from his life forever.

He put the wrapper back and stowed the ledger.

In the shed, he still had a VCR—the newest one he’d kept. It was a relic now, buried under dust. He found the cables, cleaned it off, and hooked it up to the TV in his room.

It worked. The tape began to roll, displaying a tuning signal. Andrés fast-forwarded through the color bars until the screen went black. Then, with a slight flicker, the movie started. It was pornography: group scenes, couples, men, women. Leather lingerie, masks, chains. One scene showed a man masturbating in close-up while a woman stood beside him, arms crossed, watching. It looked like a home movie, but Andrés could tell it wasn’t. Despite the obsolete format, the production was high-quality, shot with at least three cameras.

“Andrés!” Beatriz was awake. “Come here, please!”

He had to take her to the bathroom, put her back to bed, and bring her tea. Usually, he’d stay to make sure she didn’t spill it or burn herself, but this time he left her alone and ignored her bellows.

Back in his room, he masturbated and fell asleep.

By ten-thirty the next morning, Andrés was getting off a bus. After tending to his mother and medicating her, he had headed for the address on the tape, on the other side of the city. He hadn’t translated a single word. He knew his pay would be docked for the delay, so he’d finish it when he got back.

The address was a vacant storefront. The windows were mostly white-washed, but through the gaps, Andrés saw it had once been a video rental shop. Old posters still clung to the walls. Discs and tapes were scattered across the floor and counter. Next to the shop was a steel door with peeling paint and mirrored glass. No number. Andrés looked at the label: 3E.

“Hello… a video arrived at my house and—” The buzz of the electric lock cut him off. He hesitated, then entered.

He waited for the elevator in a lobby of peeling ochre walls and water stains. Something was dripping nearby. In a dark hallway, he found Apartment E. He rang, and the door buzzed open instantly. He stepped into a makeshift reception area partitioned with drywall. Behind a desk, a girl chewing gum watched him approach.

“Morning,” she said. “Name?”

Andrés stared at her. From behind the partitions, he heard a man’s voice: Mile, you’re out of frame. A little to your left. There, perfect. Action!

The girl kept chewing, pen poised over a notebook. “Name?”

“Walter,” Andrés said.

“Last name?”

“Blanco. Walter Blanco.”

“Walter Blanco,” she droned, writing it down. “Age?”

“Thirty-seven.” Andrés spoke slowly. The world felt like it was lagging.

“Perfect. I’ll get the rest of your info later.” She eyed him up and down, then reached into a box and handed him a plastic bag containing something black. “XL should fit. Go change back there. Then wait until they call you.”

Andrés walked in slow motion toward the door she indicated. “You can wear the mask or not,” she called after him. “Your choice.”

He put it on. He sat on a mangy grey velvet sofa wearing a studded leather vest that barely buckled and a zippered codpiece. The faux leather clung to his sweaty skin. In his hand, he held a condom he’d found in the bag.

Across the room, three knocks sounded on another door. A voice called for Walter Blanco. He took a second to realize it was him. He opened the door to find a tall, smiling man with long curly hair who shook his hand and led him onto the set.

He couldn’t do it. His body wouldn’t respond. None of the women could stimulate him. The director told him not to worry—it was normal the first time.

“Let’s try one more,” the man said. “Call Milena, please.”

The woman who entered wore no mask. Andrés recognized the look instantly. The sad brow, the same smile from twenty-five years ago. Agustina’s face was exactly as it was when she was twelve. He could almost see the bruise around her left eye. She leaned in to greet him with a kiss. Hi, I’m Milena, she said. He said nothing; he just felt the heat of her body and a trace of mint and floral perfume.

The director gave his notes to Milena, and she guided Andrés through every movement with delicate patience.

“Action!”

Milena commanded; Walter obeyed. Andrés finally surrendered to Agustina, and the test scene was perfect.

“Cut!”

Back in reception, dressed in his own clothes, Andrés signed a form. He hadn’t seen Agustina since they left the set. She had vanished again, right after appearing—a cruel, macabre joke of fate.

“Great, see you Saturday then,” the receptionist said.

“Do you know any realtors around here?” he asked. “I’ve been looking for a place.”

“No idea,” she said, finally spitting her gum into a bin. “But there are vacant units in this building. I know the owner. I can give you the number.”

Andrés made the call on the bus ride home.

“Where the hell were you?!” Beatriz screamed from the floor beside her bed. “You were gone all morning!”

Andrés didn’t speak. The walker was overturned next to his mother. Her nightgown was soiled with urine and waste. The room stank worse than ever.

“I’m going to die because of you! You useless brat!” she wailed as he lifted her. “How could you do this to me? You’re just like your father. Pure shit!”

Once upright, the woman shook with rage, trying to wrench her arms from his grip. Andrés looked at her with the same fury she had used to drive Agustina away all those years ago. He squeezed harder. Beatriz winced and went still.

“Trash! Failure!” Now she was crying. “You son of a bitch.”

Andrés dropped her onto the bed with a jerk, like a shirt he’d just taken off.

“And now you’re the one getting angry? You pathetic worm! Now clean me up!”

“…”

“Andrés! Get back here!”

He went into his room, packed some clothes into a bag, grabbed the cash he kept in a tin in the wardrobe, and walked out.

He stopped halfway down the hall. Beatriz had gone silent.

Andrés turned around and retraced his steps. He folded the candy wrapper in half and tucked it into his wallet, gold and gleaming among a few crumpled bills.

He walked back into the hall and, this time, he left…

…"

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