El Ave Detrás del Mar (The Bird Behind the Sea)

Fernando hadn’t expected a full house, especially since nowhere in the promos or playbills had he mentioned his father’s name, the great Agustín Martínez Del Corral. In fact, Fernando had changed his last name many years before, adopting his mother’s last name, Sullivan; and it had been his older brother’s fault, for Diego Martínez Del Corral had stolen Fernie’s first playscript, one Fernando had written for a high school competition.

Diego had turned it into his first novel, becoming an instant New York Times bestseller. “The young Martinez Del Corral is a true master of his craft, an heir to his father’s legacy,” one reviewer wrote.

And had Diego commended his brother, Fernie? He hadn’t.

Now, at thirty-three, Fernando Sullivan had achieved his dream: giving life to his very own play, El Ave Detrás del Mar (The Bird Behind the Sea), the story of two brothers enamored with the same woman living near a coast, and their familial rupture after the older one steals her after she’d chosen the younger one.

Fernando had done it all: wrote the script; hired the talent; negotiated the financing; promoted the hell out of it.

Opening night was a success for El Ave Detrás del Mar. The applauses seemed endless. And when Fernando joined the talented actors on stage, the applause intensified, and everyone, from the front and to the back of the house, cheered him.

After thanking the attendees and addressing his team, inspiring them before the next day’s rehearsal before showtime, Fernando checked his phone. Diego had texted him.

Congratulations Fernie. The show was great. Watcha doing after? Meet for coffee across the street.

Fernando liked the message and replied he’d meet him in fifteen minutes.

The brothers hadn’t seen each other in a year and a half, and when Fernando had learned Diego would be in town for a book signing, Fernando scheduled it on his calendar. It would be on the day after opening night, and since Diego had taken the time to see El Ave Detrás del Mar, Fernando agreed to the meetup.

Diego waited outside Excelsa Coffee Emporium, unbothered by the punching gusts of wind, reminiscent of those wintry afternoons he’d wait for Fernie after school before heading home. He wore his usual jean jacket and classic rock band t-shirt that only intensified the chill, and for this encounter, Diego had chosen a black Pantera t-shirt.

Fernando ran to his brother. His long, blue wool coat flapped in the air, and his black tie waved around and behind his neck. He felt like a superhero running to his older brother’s rescue. The two hugged, and Fernando opened the door for his brother.

“L’il bro, look at you, with your play out there and this fancy suit you’re wearing.” Diego loosened Fernando’s black tie a smidge. He tapped his brother’s cheek a couple of times. Fernando pulled away and smacked Diego’s hand. “Congrats, man. I mean it.”

“Thanks, D.”

“How’d you do it, though? You haven’t written anything in… what? Twenty years?”

“Just something I’ve been working on for the last few years. Went all in on it. But, tell me about you? Been good? I was planning on seeing you tomorrow at your signing. How’s your book going?”

“Good. You know how it is. Takes a while to pick up.”

Fernando didn’t know. Rather, he assumed any day now Diego would be getting book-to-movie deals, million-dollar advances for the next Martínez Del Corral novel. After all, Diego assured everyone and their mother who his father was, the great Agustín Martínez Del Corral.

#

Agustín began his career as a playwright in Mexico before focusing on short stories and magical realism novels. When Agustín’s Maria de la Costa Azul, a Cinderella-style story about a woman who married a spy during the Mexican Revolution, hit it big in the U.S., he moved his wife and sons to Chicago. In less than ten years after its release, Maria de la Costa Azul had been adapted into a full-length feature film and into a forty-four-episode telenovela.

Agustín never stopped writing. Readers devoured every book, eager for the next Agustín Martínez Del Corral novel.

Agustín’s hope was for his sons to follow his path, but after Diego stole Fernando’s work and Fernando moved out of state to college, he only had Diego to work with. Agustín gave Diego all his knowledge and guided Diego in his writing journey. But Diego’s books failed to capture audiences. His praises were mediocre, at best. “The apple falls far from the tree in this case,” one reviewer wrote. So, Agustín co-wrote with Diego, but Diego’s arrogance, and his need to control what he and his father worked tirelessly at, further damaged his work.

Diego didn’t achieve the success his father had. It was only his first novel, the one he’d stolen from his brother, that best reflected the young Martínez Del Corral.

Fernando, for his part, left that world behind. While in college, he worked in factories and the occasional construction job. But after their mother’s lung cancer diagnosis and death, and his father’s early onset dementia following his wife’s death, Fernando returned home to help his father.

Agustín, despite his illness, never stopped writing, and before his death, polished one final work of art.

#

“So, what’s going on tomorrow?” Fernando asked his brother. He took a bite off his BLT sandwich. Diego only ordered a cup of black coffee.

“It’s actually a release. It’s dad’s fictionalized story, about a man coming to the U.S., searching for a better life for him and his family, and on the boat that brings them—they’re from Spain, not Mexico—finds a magical pen that he uses to bring stories to life, literally. It’s titled Pen Man Ship.”

Fernando laughed so hard he almost choked on his sandwich. “Really?!”

Diego dreaded people’s reactions and could only imagine the scathing reviews that awaited, which is why he’d only let a handful of people read the book ahead of its release, even if his agent had suggested otherwise. In fact, his agent had begged Diego to change the title.

Diego shot Fernando an enraged look, and at the same time, a broken-hearted one.

Fernando, recognizing his brother’s desolate look, knew he needed to apologize. “I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“Well, we can’t all have dad’s gift. Clearly, you do. Your show was great. People are already praising it. My biggest achievement was my first book, thanks to you. Everything that came after has been… meh.”

“Thanks to me? You stole it.” Fernando put his sandwich down. He was done with it.

“I’m sorry, man. I’ve told you a million times. But people knew who our father was, and they expected the same from us. I couldn’t let them down. Couldn’t let dad down. What was I supposed to do? Be like mom? Work odd jobs here and there? Be a slave like you?”

“Mom was happy doing what she wanted. And you ruined what I wanted to do. I hated you for what you did. Couldn’t forgive you. That’s why I left. To let you go, let everything go, even our name. And then, when dad got sick and I came back, you contributed nothing. But you sure did use dad. Bled him dry of his talent.”

A tear ran down Diego’s side. He cleaned it with Fernando’s used napkin before their waitress returned to take Fernando’s plate away.

“Congratulations, Mr. Sullivan. You’re trending,” the waitress said with a wide smile. “I can’t wait to see your play. I requested tomorrow night off and convinced my boyfriend to see it with me.”

“That’d be great,” Fernando said. He noticed his brother shied away from the young waitress. “Well, I’ll save you a couple of tickets. Also, if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, my brother’s releasing his book at the bookstore down the road. If you can, please come. I can give you your tickets there.”

He tugged at Diego’s arm.

The waitress realized who sat with Mr. Sullivan. She shrieked. “Oh my God. You’re Diego Martínez Del Corral.” She paused, then glanced at Fernando. “Wait, Mr. Sullivan, does that mean you’re Agustín’s son?” This hit her hard like bricks to the face.

“That’s right,” Fernando said, satisfied. Diego simply waved.

“Wow! So, this is what it’s like to meet your heroes? God, I loved reading your dad’s books in school, and then…” The waitress paused. “I really like your books, Mr. Diego. Looking forward to your new one.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, kid,” Diego said, finally making eye contact, to which Fernando followed that Diego was being modest.

“So, you’ll be there? He could use your support.”

“For you and your dad, of course.” She hurried to the kitchen, and Fernando recognized her excitement to let the other barista know who sat at their table.

“See, that’s for us and dad,” Fernando said.

“For you and dad.” Diego stood and slid a wrapped book to his little brother. “Here. See you tomorrow.”

#

The next morning Fernando woke up late, drool slobbered over page one hundred thirty-five of his brother’s book. He checked his phone. 10:15 a.m. Fernando wasn’t one to wake up this late, even on his days off. Typically, he’d be up by five in the morning, walked thirty minutes on his treadmill, and prepped his breakfast and lunch for the day. But this morning he paid for the daily rehearsals from the past weeks, his exhausting job at the town’s meat plant before those rehearsals, and the previous evening’s opening night.

A text from a local newspaper reporter awaited his response. Fernando complained when he read that the reporter knew who Fernando was related to: Agustín Martínez Del Corral.

After his shower, Fernando congratulated his group via text and invited them to his brother’s book signing at noon. Then, he dialed the reporter.

“Yes, it’s true,” Fernando said over video. “I tried avoiding my father’s shadow, but, if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be here talking. My brother Diego and I have been truly blessed with this gift.”

“Tell me about the idea for El Ave del Detrás del Mar.”

Whenever asked this, Fernando kept his answer short. He’d avoided saying it was inspired by his brother stealing his work, unlike the woman the brother had stolen in his story. He’d also avoided mentioning his father had a hand in Fernie’s play. He’d wanted to keep that secret.

There was silence on Fernando’s end, so the reporter inquired more. “I understand your brother worked his entire career with your father and… got by. Yet, after your father’s death, you gift us with this first production, a true success. What’s that say about you versus your brother’s talents?”

Fernando paused, considering his response.

“The truth is my father did help me, just as he helped Diego.”

The thing was, before Fernando returned home, he’d begun working on El Ave del Detrás del Mar. After one of Fernando and Diego’s arguments before their father’s death—an argument over Diego pressuring his father on his final days, so Diego could put out his next great novel—, on one of Agustín’s better days, he asked to see Fernando’s script.

“Fernie, this… is a masterpiece,” Agustín had said. “May I suggest something? Have the brothers mend their relationship. They must forgive each other. Then they will be complete.”

Agustín noted his suggestions, his handwriting barely legible.

“So, you could say that El Ave del Detrás del Mar was my father’s final work before his death.”

“Would you agree, though, that, in essence, it’s all yours?” the reporter asked.

And, yes, El Ave del Detrás del Mar was.

#

After Diego’s reading of Pen Man Ship, Fernando stood in line like everyone else to get his brother’s book signed. In front of him, two people down, the coffee shop waitress and her boyfriend waited. Fernando could hear her explain Diego’s books to her boyfriend. She turned and waved at Fernando, Pen Man Ship in hand.

When it was Fernando’s turn, Diego smiled at his brother. “Fernie, you read it?”

“Almost done. Read half last night, some this morning, and some in line.” Fernando smiled at his brother; a smile that told Diego all was right between them.

“Forgive me,” he said once more.

“Of course. It’s all in the past,” Fernando assured his brother.

“So, what’d you think? Careful what you say; I’m about to sign it.”

Fernando smirked. “It’s great. The title could’ve used some work. But you’ve got dad’s gift.”

But deep down Diego knew there was much work to do before becoming a great writer like their father. And like his brother.

“Will you help me?” Diego asked, pen up in the air, ready to sign his brother’s book.

“Any time,” Fernie said.