The Monkey’s Moonlit Tune

The town of Carlos Rey, perched on the northern tip of Isla San Pedro, was home to an old woman properly known as Doña Amparo. A healer of others but unhealed herself, she loved sunrise and the echo of the breakers against the rocks. Her lodgings were some two rooms, scented with cinnamon and eucalyptus, upstairs from a café with peeling shutters. Secrets floated in the air like smoke. By day she read shells, mixed herbs and prayed to her ancestors, treating the headaches and heartaches of those who softly came and went. She made no claim to replace medicine.

“You must see a doctor,” she sighed to one visitor after another.

“So, your remedies don’t work?” would come the reply.

“They are a last resort. You must come here at the end.”

But, proud and stubborn, or perhaps just careful, they insisted on coming to her first, and she lost count of the feet that must have hurried over the cobbles towards her place; the faces that sought shade under flowered balconies, the bodies that skulked in the shadows of the staircase.

A delivery boy came by on most mornings, sweating with a cart of plantains, coconuts, eggs. “Sorry Señora,” he said, wiping his brow, “can’t chat. Valuable stuff here. Long way to go.” Amparo stepped aside to let him pass. He was gone in seconds, the cart rattling downhill, out of sight.

People called her la viuda, but no one knew why, as it was unclear that she’d ever been married. She would take pale photos from a drawer and wipe her eyes. The guitar sounded in the street at night, and of late a new sound also—the strange, winding notes of a violin. Dogs howled at the church bell, and the tide calmed her.

Her only enduring companion was a small fellow called Santiago, who had become her lodger and business partner. He swept the floor, shelled beans, and shooed stray cats off the windowsill. In return he received fresh fruit, a hammock near the fan, sometimes a spoonful of honey. He could understand, but not speak, and they had worked out a sign language between them. Once the perfect worker, Santiago had changed. He was sleeping in, snoozing in his hammock during the day with the broom at his side, yawning through consultations. One morning, having waited longer than ever, she woke him with his breakfast of chopped bananas, papaya, pineapple, and mango.

“I want coffee,” he signed, eyes peeking.

“I told you before, Santi, I’m not giving you that stuff.”

“I want coffee.”

“Well the answer’s no.”

“It’s not fair. I see you drinking coffee all the time, and I smell the aroma and you don’t gimme any. I see you putting rum in it, and smoking cigarettes. I wanna try that.”

Amparo rolled her eyes. “Santi, I must have said this before—monkeys don’t smoke cigarettes or drink coffee and rum!”

He knocked his hands together, sulked, picked up a spoon and started eating, pausing to look up at her and sign thanks, his eyes glittering like black marbles.

“What is the matter with you, Santi?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not yourself lately.”

“Yes I am.”

“Listen, do you sneak out at night when I’m asleep?”

“What if I do?”

“It’s not safe out there!”

“Are you going to put me in a cage?”

It was in a cage that she’d found him—a baby in the market square. Half-starved, trembling. She had no answer. “Time for work, Santi.”

Amparo’s pharmacy was a wooden shelf or three, stuffed with jars and pouches, yet the village folk whispered that her tonics could soothe anything from a fever to unrequited love. For one who could not speak, Santiago was talkative indeed, and Amparo was long used to his stories. She’d even ceased to wonder where he heard them. During idle moments, his capuchin monkey hands spelt out sagas of the sun and wind and pain; of crashing galleons and fire; of her people harvesting sugar cane under the lash; of those who’d been and gone. But he told of other things too—lands across the waves, where snowstorms battered the valleys, and men once smashed steel against shield to decide who should rule them. She wondered from time to time if he could read, but didn’t ask.

He dropped a jar and it shattered.

“Santi, you’re no good to me like this!” She snapped.

He said nothing, took up a broom, swept the mess, binned it, and proceeded with his tasks. He hummed a tune. She could have sworn she had heard it before.

That night she could not sleep. As she lay awake, music drifted in from the alley—slow, sweet and sorrowful. The violin. She glanced in the dark and lit a lamp. Santiago’s hammock was empty. She went to the window, drew back the curtains, and under the rooftops and balconies beneath the full moon, she saw them: a dark man with an open shirt, playing as to charm the stars, and Santiago, bow in paw, squatting on an upturned crate, playing along with him, swaying and mimicking the man’s every movement. She gasped, laughed, almost tripped, ran out the door and down the stairs barefoot, past the silent café, into the street.

The violinist was tall and lean, with dreadlocked hair and clothes as patchy as an old quilt. The music was gentle as a lullaby, merging with the night.

“Who are you?” She sputtered. “This is a miracle such as no town has ever seen. The whole world must hear of this!”

Without a word, the man crouched by his case and took a fruit from a bag. He stood, tossed it spinning in the air, slashed it in half with a knife, and caught the pieces. It was a star fruit. He handed the halves to Santiago, bowed, and walked away, leaving them staring at one another.

The sun peeped over the horizon and the bats retired. Rays glistened on the sea. Crickets grew loud as the day began. Amparo’s eyes burned for lack of sleep, but she chopped fruit for Santiago’s breakfast and took it to his bedside where he snoozed with the violin under his arm.

“You are a miracle, Santi,” she said, nudging him awake. “A miracle must rise at dawn.”

The neighbours had heard the music late at night and had no complaints. As for the strange violinist, no one knew his name or where he came from. Santiago returned to his chores, but at dusk, he went to Plaza San Cristóbal to meet the man and play. Passers-by stopped and gazed. At first his notes were scratchy beside his teacher’s, but the crowds swelled as his playing grew ever more beautiful. Amparo watched in awe as his bow-strokes became rapid, accurate, exquisite, adventurous. But the smile left his face, and every night, when his performance ended his hands—once restless with happy signs—were more still and tired than the night before.

“That was amazing again, Santi,” she said, with a hug. He thanked her, but fell silent.

“Are you all right?”

“I can still play,” he signed, “just not for long.”

Spectators filmed him on little screens and his fame spread online. Hats overflowed with dollars. The violinist and Amparo split the money, and she began to wear dresses suited to her new status. She longed for a proper conversation with the man who had taught Santiago the violin, but before and after the performances he was elusive. He appeared only to play and pocket his share before dissolving into the alleys. Santiago played on, night after night.

“That’s my boy!” She cried, clapping. “I brought him up myself.”

But she looked at the phones and cameras, the jumble of unknown faces. None gave her a glance. She turned to the sea beyond the town, and felt a cool wind from a larger world. Carlos Rey now bustled with tourists. The council considered authorising a new hotel, but homes would have to be demolished and residents compensated, and it turned out there was no room for anything on a profitable scale. Amparo was relieved that it didn’t go ahead. At the end of every night, her boy seemed more alone than ever, unable to connect even with her.

One evening when the crowds drifted away, Amparo was left alone in the square. Santiago was gone. She worried, and hastened about the town looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Uneasy, she gave up and went home. Santiago returned about two o’clock, waking Amparo by vomiting on the floor.

“Santi!” She cried, stroking him, quieting her anger. “Where have you been?” .

“Why do you care?” he signed. “I stole from you, in a way. But am I the real thief?”

Trusting the violinist to take only his share, Amparo had not counted the evening’s gains. “You took money from the last hat?”

He nodded.

“And you went to a bar, and they gave you rum?”

He nodded again. “If I want rum, I will drink. Otherwise, I won’t play.”

Dizziness came over her, as it had for some time. Her hands trembled. He looked at her, worried and ashamed.

He played that evening, but it was not the same. His intonation faltered and the audience thinned. Watching from behind the crowd, Amparo saw the violinist’s disappointment. For the first time, Santiago seemed less the astounding prodigy than the comical circus act. When it was over, the two performers packed up their violins in silence. Amparo approached, hoping that if she comforted Santiago and gave him a share of the money, he would not spend it on drink.

A man appeared. He was unusually dressed for that place and its heat, in a suit and tie. His face was strangely pale, and his eyes an unsettling bright green. The violinist was crouching by his case, winding down his bow, when the man spoke.

“I would like to buy the monkey.”

Santiago froze in terror. The violinist stood up, his face stern.

Amparo cut in. “He’s not for sale.”

“Five million dollars.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Seven million? We must think of his future, Señora. What future does he have if he continues like this? I offer you both a chance to do great things for this town. The revenue he could generate elsewhere and send back here is…incalculable.”

“He’s not for sale.”

“Señora, I would advise you to reconsider.”

The violinist had been studying the newcomer coldly. “Sir,” he said, “I know nothing of your provenance, and it concerns me little, but you must surely know that the trade in wild animals has long been forbidden in these islands.”

The stranger cackled quietly. “Is that so? Then how, may I ask, was the creature acquired?”

“I daresay the Señora would be glad to tell you if it were any affair of yours.” The violinist nodded towards the streets leading from the square. “Good evening to you, Sir.” The stranger stared for a moment, his green eyes cold, then turned away.

The violinist tapped his hat, picked up his violin case and left. Amparo was struck by dizziness. She felt a jolt of panic and looked about frantically. Santiago was gone. She screamed his name, but there was no answer. She ran madly, calling as she went. She charged into an alleyway, hitting the walls in despair, hot tears streaming down her face. She dried her eyes, took a breath, and went to the police station.

The reception area was hot and stale, and the sergeant haggard. A ceiling fan rattled above an ashtray of cigarette ends. Piles of forms, rows of files. Shadows spun. He took her statement, nodding as he wrote.

“There are many monkeys on this island,” he said, putting down his biro. “Looking for a particular one…”

“He is Santiago, Sir, the violinist.”

“Of course that is noted, Señora.”

“I believe he was kidnapped.”

“You said that, Señora. It is noted.”

“I gave you a description of the man who could have done this.”

“Señora,” he sat back, “we have looked through all of the security footage from the square this evening, and as I said before, we cannot find the man you describe.”

“He offered five million dollars,” she sobbed, sliding a banknote across the desk.

The sergeant pushed it back. “Go home, Señora.”

Amparo limped up the staircase in the dark and turned the key. As she opened the door, something moved in the darkness. She gave a start and hit the light.

Santiago was crouching in the middle of the floor, trembling, eyes wide. She fell upon him, weeping, holding him tight.

“What the hell happened Santi? What, by our Lord and his Mother and all the Saints happened?”

Santiago breathed heavily for a few seconds, then his hands moved, shaking.

“I promise I wasn’t going to drink. Please believe me. I wasn’t going to drink. I felt horrible today because of drink. I followed my teacher because I wanted to talk, but I couldn’t find him. Then I just wanted to be alone. Someone grabbed me and shoved me into a bag. Someone grabbed me and put me in a bag, and I could not get out. I shrieked, I clawed, I bit, but I could not get out. They swung me and walked. I thought it was the end of everything. Then the bag was dropped. The bag was cut open, and I got out. A man lay dead in front of me. Throat cut, eyes big, blood running in the gutter.”

“The man from the square?”

“No, a poorer man, paid by him I think.”

Amparo stroked his head. “I’ll get you some coconut milk.”

The sound of a violin came from the street. It swelled to a deep crescendo. Amparo poured Santiago his milk, and Santiago drank. And they went to the window. Below stood the tall, dark man they knew, in his open shirt and wide-brimmed hat. They beckoned him to come up, but he just waved goodbye. He threw a fruit into the air, slashed it to pieces with a knife, and let the pieces fall onto the cobbles. Then he was gone.

“Santi,” said Amparo. “I must show you something.”

And Santiago saw the old woman rise and open the drawer he’d seen her open so many times before. She gave him not photos, but reports from a clinic. He looked and read.

“Santi, I cannot be with you much longer,” she said.

Santiago threw his arms around her neck, then drew back, turned away. “No,” he replied. “Please, you can and you must.”

“I’m afraid not, mi niño. I’ve got to go.”

“Please…”

“I couldn’t go on forever, Santi.”

Santiago stood as tall as he could, as strong as he could. “I know you had a son, and you were forced to give him up, and it was not your fault. All these years, you’ve felt bad about something that was not your fault.”

“It was, Santi…”

“No, it absolutely was not. I know how society worked, and how you were forced. And I can find out what happened, or at least get humans to find out what happened. The best part, Doña Amparo—I think you have a granddaughter.”

“How can you possibly know such things?”

“I’m a monkey. You humans will never understand us. You think you’re cleverer than us, and you’re wrong. But we keep it this way. It works.” He jumped up and scurried about the room, returning with a violin and bow, which he presented to her.

“You’ve listened to me. Now I must listen to you.”

The story of Santiago and Amparo is not over, and their sufferings are not yet over. If only they were. But this much is certain: If you ever visit the town of Carlos Rey on Isla San Pedro, and walk through the streets at night, you will hear the violin as from another world. And if you look up, you might just see, on the rooftops, an old woman and a monkey, playing violins together, laughing under the moon.