The Radio Repairer – Part 2: The Bolero

The radio woke on a Thursday afternoon.

Lucia was at the stall before noon. The street outside was bright and white with heat, the shutters closed against the sun. Inside, in the amber glow of the lamp, the old radio sat on the bench, its wooden cabinet polished, its dial lit with a soft golden glow. Mateo stood beside it with his hands clasped, looking nervous.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready."

He turned the knob. A faint hum, a click, a crackle. Then, slowly, as if rising from the bottom of the sea, a voice came through: a warm, throbbing, old-fashioned voice, singing a slow bolero over a soft guitar. Lucia put her hand over her mouth.

"That's it," she whispered. "That's her song."

"I thought it might be."

"How did you find it?"

"I looked through every record I own." Mateo's voice was rough. "It took four nights."

Her eyes filled. The song swelled, trembling, filling the little stall. Outside, the vendor had stopped singing. A boy on a bicycle paused in the street to listen. Lucia, without thinking, stepped into the middle of the floor, closed her eyes, and began to sway, as her grandmother had.

She danced slowly, alone, among the dusty radios, in a pool of golden light. Mateo watched, motionless. Then, hesitantly, he put down his screwdriver, wiped his hands, and held one out.

She opened her eyes. She took his hand.

They danced. His hand was warm and a little rough at the small of her back. Their steps were slow and shy. The music wound round them, crackling softly, singing about a love that had lasted fifty years.

When the song ended, they stood still, hands joined.

"Can I ask you something?" said Mateo.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Lucia, softly. "And if you say stop, you must teach me to repair the next one."

"That will take years."

"I have years."

He kissed her, gentle and astonished, a hand rising to her cheek. She kissed him back with a bright, trembling joy, tasting of coffee and heat. The radio hummed. The street, outside, stayed quiet.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Lucia. "Very green."

The old radio sits in her flat now, on a shelf, playing the bolero on Sunday afternoons. Mateo comes round to listen. He brings his screwdriver. It is, he says, for emergencies.

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