The Mariachi Man | El Mariachi
"A mariachi serenades her every weekend until she finally opens her window—and her heart"
The Mariachi Man
El Mariachi
The first time he came, I threw water at him.
"¡Lárgate!" I shouted from my window. Get out of here! "It's 11 PM!"
He just smiled beneath his enormous sombrero and kept playing.
"Para la mujer más bella del barrio," he sang. For the most beautiful woman in the neighborhood.
"I don't even know you!"
"Then let me introduce myself." He launched into another verse.
His name was Rafael, I learned later. My neighbor's cousin, visiting from Guadalajara. He'd seen me at a family party and decided I was "the one."
"You're insane," I told my neighbor. "Tell him to stop."
"I tried. He says he'll serenade you until you agree to coffee."
"That's harassment."
"That's romance." She shrugged. "Very traditional. His grandfather won his grandmother the same way."
"I'm calling the cops."
"No you're not." She grinned. "You're blushing."
The second week, I opened the window but didn't throw water.
"One coffee," I called down. "Then you stop."
"Three coffees."
"One."
"Two and dinner."
"You're not in a position to negotiate."
"I'm the one with the guitar, mi reina." He strummed a chord. "I can do this all night."
"Fine. Two coffees. No dinner."
"Done." He blew me a kiss and finally stopped playing.
He was handsome without the sombrero—dark eyes, strong jaw, smile that could light up a cathedral. We met at a café the next morning, and I was determined to hate him.
"So," I said. "Serenading random women is a hobby?"
"Only the extraordinary ones." He stirred his coffee. "And you're not random. You're Alicia Mendez. Lawyer. Graduated top of your class. Volunteers at the community center teaching English."
"You researched me?"
"I asked my cousin questions." He leaned forward. "I wanted to know if the woman in the window was worth singing for."
"And your conclusion?"
"You're worth an entire symphony."
I tried not to smile. Failed.
"That's very smooth," I said.
"I've had practice." His hand found mine across the table. "Give me a real chance, Alicia. One date that isn't forced by musical extortion. Let me show you who I am."
"Who are you?"
"A man who plays music because it's how he speaks his heart. A man who saw you across a crowded room and couldn't look away." He smiled. "A man who believes in love at first sight, even when the woman throws water at him."
I agreed to dinner. Then a second. Then more nights than I could count.
"I'm going back to Guadalajara next month," he said one evening, holding me on my tiny balcony.
"I know."
"Come with me."
"I have a career. A life."
"You have loneliness you pretend is independence." He turned me to face him. "I know because I had the same. Until you."
"Rafael..."
"I'm not asking you to leave forever. I'm asking you to visit. See my home. Meet my family." He kissed my forehead. "See if this is real enough to build something."
"It's crazy."
"All good love stories are."
I went to Guadalajara. I met his grandmother, who cried when she saw how he looked at me. I heard him play in the plazas where he'd learned, surrounded by musicians who knew his father and grandfather.
"You're considering staying," he observed one night.
"Maybe."
"What would it take?"
"A reason."
He pulled out his guitar—the one his grandfather had given him—and played a song I'd never heard.
"What is that?"
"Something I wrote. For you." He set down the guitar and dropped to one knee. "Alicia Mendez, you threw water at me the first night we met. You made me work for every smile. You changed my life in ways I can't explain."
"Rafael—"
"Stay. Build a life with me. Let me serenade you every morning for the rest of our lives."
"Every morning?"
"I'll move to whenever you want. I'll play softly. I'll—"
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll stay. Yes, I'll marry you. Yes to all of it."
He kissed me in the plaza, with his fellow mariachis cheering and strangers applauding. When we finally separated, he was crying.
"My grandfather said I'd know," he whispered. "When I found her. The one worth every song."
"And do you?"
"I knew the moment you threw water at me."
We married in Guadalajara, with a hundred mariachis playing and my family flying in from the States.
"He serenaded you until you said yes?" my mother asked.
"Basically."
"That's how your father won me." She smiled. "The old ways still work."
They did. Every morning, Rafael still plays me one song. Every night, I still fall asleep grateful for the crazy man who wouldn't stop singing.
The mariachi man—persistent, passionate, mine forever.