Margherita - A Tragic Love Affair

The Mariachi's Wedding Song

If I ever knew anything before this

That I never knew nothing like you

Let it be all that I want to know my love

For your eyes speak more than I will ever want to know.

-Joe

Joe knew how to stroke the chords of the guitar with the same passion and grace as a lover knows how to cajole, coax and wheedle a paramour into gentle submission. The mariachi was always summoned to many a wedding ceremony in the town of Yerba buena, but today's affair promised to be a delightfully endearing one. The long and tantalising love affair of his close friend, his hombre Julio and the lovely charming lady love of his life, Romeena had culminated in Julio going down on one knee. It happened one evening, with Julio and Romeena on a leisurely walk around the lake when Julio had turned in her direction with a pleading gaze in his eyes and beckoned her to come and sit with him on a deserted bench where the birds came for roosting during the sunset.  Joe pulled her closer on the bench and whispered in her eager ears, "Matrimonio y mortaja del cielo baja, mi corazon, y eres paraíso". A teardrop fell down Romeena's eye as she moaned, "Yes, my love of course, I have always felt the same".

If the mojave desert is the color of forehead of the sun, then the gulf of mexico is like tears from the sun and mezcal had flowed the night before at the bachelor party. 

The Bacherlor Party

 Joe was in good spirits and the house of Julio had felt like a rundown Chicago speakeasy with chevys flowing in and out all night full of an eclectic mix of teeming teenagers, dowdy dowagers, chrulish curmudgeons, cantankerous cans, not to mention the deluge of amiable amorous innamoratas. Casa de Santos is what the locals chose to call Julio's dwellings for he truly was saint-like in his disposition, his merry eyes always overflowing with joy, merriment, laughter and gaiety. Julio's brother Caesar, the casanova and playboy of the family had walked in with famished femme fatales frothing at his far and near side, hanging on to every word he spoke or gestures that he made with his clever hands. For, where Julio was a dapper gentleman, Caesar was a contrasting tone of clownish mannerisms, and his never ending puns, quips, ripostes, chutzpah, and at time ribald humour had kept the crowd regalted late into what now seemed like a never ending night for Julio and his gang.

It was not much left to chance then that amidst this fiesta Joe lost his heart in a moment to the lovely eyes that met his, the eyes of a young madien with flaxen hair, and all it took was a glance in her direction at the party. A man's nose and a girl's hair have been much eulogized by poets but to sum it all up both grow when the person of good forebearance starts lying as has been shown with much fanfare by disney for Pinnochio and Rappunzel.

The adjectives for hair are numerous and abound like pop art clues as in color descriptions - auburn, shocking red, blonde braids, black patches, blue streaks, etc, styles - afro puff, bob cut, balding pate, pig tails, out of which the bun has been so glamourised that it finds itself at the mercy of such contraptions as clutches, and even pins and sticks,  time of the day - dishevelled early morning look, well done boardroom panache and to put the nail in the coughing, late night dreamy delusional dirages. But, what joe saw was something so illuminating and mirage like that it almost felt like a halo on top of a visage that held up the very face of a goldilocks, or perhaps Calipurnia with tresses that fell down like the rapids of the Russian river bellowing a raucous beat down the parched, desert like terrain of Mexico. And so it goes in many a fairy tale, the street urchin fell for the charming princess when they met at the ball, and the scene is all set for a rollercoaster ride , a heart rending, thumping, diaphanous dream that can break at the very outset if one is not careful enough to wake up from one's delusions about a fairy tale world being chased away daily by the privations, starkness, mundane daily existence that is life itself for many a loveable rascal. Joe was the retiring shying away type, so he had to muster a lot of courage to more of less propel himself in her direction and then out of his stupor he managed these words, 'Como si amo, Senorita! Como estas?'. It turned out that she was just the opposite, outgoing and vivacious, for she giggled like a teenager and pat came the reply,'You are funny senor. I am Margherita'. It turns out Joe and Margherita would be on the lips, minds and inside the hearts of Mexicans, from the old towns, the peasant dwellings to the Metropolis for a long time to come, for noone less than the great poet Pablo Neruda would write about them, Freida would dance to them and a very much drunk Diego Rivera would paint the town red with his murals when he described their ill fated love affair. It also happened that gypsy trumpet noise makers would come to life with bamboleo riffs, flamenco staffs and bolerias that rang loud and clear in the streets from Tijuana to Mexico City and all the way to  Ford Lauterdale and Palm Beach Florida.

The Rendezvous

As fate would have it, and as seems appropriate, ruins of the reich chancery pavillon was where they were destined to meet again, for the reich seemed like it was waiting to be rejuvenated by that first burst of a spring waltz by the couple amidst the gentry that routinely cavorted in its lawns and fabled premises. It was a routine chancion del mariachi performance for Joe and she was on the guest list. Joe was trying his best to avoid her gaze but how could he for he felt like goose game on a hunting paradise where a pair of eyes sought his. He stole a glance and for a while like narcissus he saw only her eyes in his own for her eyes were the most brilliant, little gems that shone with promise at clever conversation and repartee.  He felt like he was in the midst of a herd of grazing musk deer that had descended from the upper reaches of the kalahari and hers belonged to a caribou, pallid brown crystal balls with a sheen that defied description other than metaphysical metaphor and symphonic similes. At this moment, he felt like he was in a dream where his mind were Houdini ram-shackled tight and thrown to drown like the loch-ness monster in the calm placid watery confines that were her eyes reminding him of the Scottish highlands, while she lay drunk on hemlock in the damp mil-dewy dungeons of her castle as a lonely princess of high noble birth in the forgotten city of Atlantis with Zeus presiding over the proceedings with a steely scepter and an even harder resolve in his harsh hands.

Fantasy gave way to reality and he woke up to the lead of the band Jose wielding a guitar not a conductor's baton. Joe always played by the ear and had a severe case of stage fright. While others were happy with music written in notes on sheets, such writings and codices seemed strangely apocryphal to him. When playing with an ensemble, he always chose a seat at the back where he could get an ample view of the orchestra while at the same time managed to hide himself from the glare of the audience. Joe liked to think himself a natural musician, definitely not a gifted one, even though his friends chugged him on from his slumber many a times to make him believe otherwise. He would always laugh it off with 'I am just waiting for inspiration, yall know, like Michelangelo waiting for his Venus di milo'.