"It seems like a common joke to shorten a last name to name something."
"It is common. No one has it all, and few come up with good names—it's like a rare gift."
"See, brother? I'm not useless." Maria joined the conversation, completely detached from the situation where a suited man who looked like a mobster, flanked by three men who towered over us, stared at us with undisguised intensity. They made sure we were within their line of sight and at the exact distance they wanted.
I kept trying to appear calm. I had hoped the Borja family's dog would help us, but it remained oblivious to any concept of human danger—it was busy sniffing my shoe while Villarán waited for me to take his business card. At the same time, he showed me his name on his phone's internet search. A large photo appeared on the screen, along with a very brief description of his life. Well, I couldn't expect much from a miniature schnauzer.
"Alright, you're famous. What do you want, and how do you know who Maria is?" The question remained unchanged, though the answer seemed a little obvious.
"You should check the terms and conditions of the app you use. Much of that information is stored in databases only the owners can access. Sometimes, other highly trusted individuals can get to them for matters like this."
At first, I thought he wanted to buy the rights to one of Maria's songs, but that was hard to believe—especially when you considered that this guy had probably battled two hours of traffic just to meet us in this no-man's-land.
"You must know the Ricardo Bregona Specialized Arts University."
"Yeah, the one in San Bartolo." I knew it because I had once fantasized about Maria enrolling there to hone her talent, make connections, get famous, and enjoy her youth. But it was impossible. The tuition was exorbitant, and my hopes were crushed all over again when I remembered Maria hadn't even finished high school or gotten her diploma—once more, due to her unique personality and other, darker reasons I won't mention.
"Then you must also know the high school affiliated with Ricardo Bregona—the Ricardo Bregona Specialized Arts Preparatory School."
I nodded.
Back in my parents' time, things like this would've been unthinkable. Ricardo Bregona wasn't just a school—it was a business, fueled by foreign capital, and recently, the State itself had shown growing interest in the project. Money from abroad had been dangerously pumped into this stretch of land. Our country, defined as a vassal state rich in natural resources, was the continent's gateway to the sea. It all started with a mega-port built by the Asians on our soil—the rest was history. Little by little, we were starting to resemble a first-world nation.
In theory, that was a good thing. But it also meant radical changes.
To promote and export our entertainment, Milicia began investing more in art, music, film, and television—it wanted to make itself known to the world and capitalize on an international relevance that an almost-banana republic had never enjoyed before.
I still thought the truth was more complicated than that. But it was undeniable that we were better off than a few decades ago. Then again, I was no expert in the matter, and the hundreds of mysteries hidden within the strange sciences of economics and politics—or whatever—remained utterly alien to me.
"Yeah, I know it. So, do you want to buy VILCA's song or not?"
The truth lingered between us, timidly implied. What Villarán was getting at was common knowledge, easy to deduce—but I didn't want to hear it. Because I knew the real reason María wasn't even attending school right now.
"For the past year, I've been listening to VILCA. You could say I'm a fan—an expert, even. When I recognize unmatched talent, I recognize it. And I wouldn't be at peace with myself if it were wasted online, reaching so few people."
A very subtle disdain for our work, though unintentional. Nothing I could really call him out on.
"I own the record label Llaran, but I also have a significant stake in Ricardo Bregona's investment fund through donations. Given how things are going—and I rarely do this for kids like you—I'd like VILCA to enroll on a full scholarship to the prep school, followed by a potential scholarship to the Arts College. Not as VILCA, but as her real self. I'm interested in crafting a singer the world has never had the privilege of seeing—one of flesh and blood."
"That's out of the question."
Villarán laughed.
"I doubt you're that stubborn. I'm offering you a once-in-a-lifetime deal—one that could transform both your lives."
"Sorry, but it's out of the question. My sister can't even attend a public high school."
"On top of the scholarship, we can provide a daily stipend for basic needs, depending on her academic performance."
"Like I said, we're happy with our lives as they are."
"You and I both know that's not true."
"Well… maybe. But that doesn't mean we want your dirty generosity."
It was clear—nothing in life was free.
"Do you recognize this name?"
Before I realized it, one of his bodyguards—an Afghan giant—was standing beside us. So tall he could've crushed both me and María underfoot at the same time. In his hand was a tablet, displaying an email I knew all too well. Then, a series of communications where I had been an active participant.
A user named Stev. claimed to be an indie artist deeply interested in my sister's songs. He ended up buying a few for a couple thousand dollars.
Calling him a stranger would be a lie. Friend would be closer—or maybe mentor in music.