Rooftop Cinema – Part 1: Last Projector Reel

The rooftop of the old building in Roma Norte had a white sheet hung between two water tanks, forty mismatched chairs, and a projector that Renata had borrowed from her uncle, who swore it had survived the earthquake of 1985. Every Saturday in summer, the neighbours climbed the stairs with blankets and snacks, and the city lights glowed below.

On the third Saturday in August, the projector died in the middle of the second reel.

The sheet flickered grey, then black. Forty people groaned at once. A child started crying.

"Give me five minutes," shouted Renata, already halfway up the ladder to the projector box.

A man was sitting on the top step of the ladder, cross-legged, with a soldering iron in one hand and a sound cable in the other. He was lean and sunburnt, in a faded grey shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looked as though he had been hiding up there for an hour.

"You're in the way," said Renata.

"I'm fixing the way," said the man, without looking up. "I'm Julio. Your uncle sent me. He said the projector was dying and you'd be too stubborn to call for help."

"I'm not stubborn."

"You're very stubborn. You've been trying to fix it with a hairdryer."

Renata's face went hot. "That was one time."

Julio laughed, quick and warm, and climbed down the ladder with a bundle of wires. Within ten minutes the projector was humming, the sheet had burst back into colour, and the whole rooftop cheered.

Afterwards, when the film had ended and the neighbours had drifted off down the stairs, Renata sat on the edge of the roof with two bottles of cold Jarritos and a view of the city lights stretched out to the mountains.

Julio sat beside her, not too close.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Why do you always hide in the back? Every Saturday, your uncle says you're the best technician in the city, and you never come to the front."

Julio turned the bottle slowly in his hands. The city glittered below.

"Because I like the sound more than the faces," he said. "People look at the screen. I listen to the room. It's easier."

"Easier than talking to me?"

He looked at her then, a little surprised, a little embarrassed.

"Yes," he said honestly. "You talk to everyone. I'm bad at it."

"You're doing fine," said Renata, and smiled.

"Can I ask you something?" said Julio, quietly.

"Yes."

"Would you let me come back next Saturday, not to fix anything, just to sit in the back and listen to you tell the neighbours which film to show? And maybe, after, you'd let me buy you a horchata?"

Renata laughed, her heart thudding. "Yes," she said. "But only if you come to the front for the first reel."

"Deal," said Julio, grinning. "Green?"

"Green," said Renata. "Very green. Now hand me that horchata, Julio, before the projector changes its mind."