Havana Jazz Club (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

They arrived in Madrid at dusk on a cold day in February. They took the metro downtown, and Billie clung to Orlando’s arm the entire way. She was terrified as she observed the scowling faces out of the corner of her eye, the obstinate silence of the passengers, each isolated in his or her own world. Their lack of communication left her perplexed. The mute aggression in their expression when they discovered a foreign gaze—doubtlessly interpreted as a provocation—made it seem like an intrusion on their privacy. They kept their eyes low, avoiding other people’s faces, appearing to focus on some fixed point as if abiding by some secret code among the passengers not to meddle. In Cuba, people struck up conversations everywhere, even if they didn’t know each other. They interrupted each other all the time, and no one ever took it amiss. Of course, they didn’t travel squashed in tin cans like this one, underground with barely any air to breathe, rushing around, their faces taut with worry. Billie had thought that everyone in Europe would look happy because they had everything they wanted—food, clothes, appliances,
cash
. But seeing them now, she thought that Cubans were a good deal happier than this bunch, even though they lacked everything.

They emerged onto the street at a station in the city center called Sol. Despite its name—which meant “sun”—it was freezing. Night was already falling over the city. At first glance, it struck her as horribly ugly and gray, compared with Havana or Miami. The sky seemed to loom over the tall buildings like a slab of lead, or maybe it was the buildings that pierced the skyline with their aggressive shapes, tall and pointed like arrows.

Orlando fished a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his paltry jacket with the information for the hostel a friend had set up. Paper in hand, he approached a pedestrian.

“Excuse me, sir, San Bernardo Street?”

The man shook his head without stopping. Everyone walked quickly, bundled up in their coats, faces half-hidden under hats and scarves, grim faced and hunched. Billie, frozen stiff, felt a deep wave of sadness. She felt so far from the heat and happiness of her homeland!

Orlando went over to a couple next, a man and a woman who walked arm in arm, chatting and laughing.

“Excuse me,” he said.

The couple stopped, and Orlando repeated his question.

“San Bernardo Street, please?”

The man took the paper in his gloved hand to examine it under the streetlight.

“Yes,” he said, stretching out his arm and pointing. “Go straight down that street, and you’ll arrive at Callao Plaza. Keep going down Gran Via, and take the fourth street on the right. That’s San Bernardo. This number must be at the beginning of the street.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” Orlando said, smiling and bowing slightly toward the woman, which made her smile, flattered. “Ma’am . . .”

Orlando grabbed the suitcase with their meager belongings in one hand, took Billie’s hand in the other, and started walking briskly down the street. She tried to keep up with him, though her teeth were chattering and she was shivering inside her thin coat. Their clothes were useless against the raw winter temperatures of Madrid. They had been warned it was cold in Spain this time of year, but they didn’t know the real meaning of the word.

They soon found the hostel. As they stepped inside, they felt instantly revived by the warmth and coziness of the place. Though the room and bed were tiny, they ended up having plenty of space, since the air eventually grew so cold that they had to sleep with all their clothes on and cling to each other for warmth.

“We’re not going to stay here,” Orlando said. “Tomorrow I’ll call some Cuban friends who’ll let us stay with them until we find work and can rent our own apartment.”

The next morning, the cold forced them to get up early. They ate breakfast in a café nearby, and Orlando called his friend.

When they emerged onto the street into the clear, bright morning, the city didn’t seem quite as sad and gray to Billie. But the sun still had a pallid shine that barely warmed anything.

They lugged their suitcase back down to the metro and headed to the address Orlando’s Cuban friend had given. It was in Aluche, a working-class and immigrant neighborhood on the outskirts of the city with modest homes all built in a uniform style. Because the streets and buildings all looked the same, it wasn’t easy to find his friends’ address. Still, Gladys and Aldo’s warm welcome made up for the journey and their exhaustion. Their new friends offered them good food and lent them clothes that were actually suitable for Madrid’s climate. Billie felt a little better.

Time passed slowly in the tiny apartment. Billie and Orlando slept on a sofa in the living room, which they unfolded into a bed at night. They were unable to enjoy the slightest intimacy, but it was all Aldo and Gladys could offer them. Billie was relieved that they all left early in the morning and she could spend most of the day in the apartment alone, reminiscing about Cuba. When Gladys returned from work in the midafternoon, they went out to do the shopping and take a stroll around the neighborhood. None of them had any money to spare, and the cold was too intense to wander far. In the evening, they would wait for the men, watching soap operas at home on a tiny television. Aldo came home exhausted from working all day, and Orlando was discouraged by his unsuccessful efforts to find work. It wasn’t easy for a young Cuban to find a job in the boisterous Madrid of the early eighties. Like the rest of the country, the city was still emerging from a prolonged state of lethargy, and its population seemed more interested in making up for lost time than in securing the future.

On weekends, Aldo and Gladys showed the newcomers the city that never slept. They toured all the fashionable pubs, bars, and clubs where young, strangely dressed punks danced tirelessly to deafening music as though possessed by the devil himself. It was obvious that those seemingly endless nights were fueled by drugs and alcohol. They called it the Madrilenian scene, and it was a sociocultural phenomenon that appeared to be spreading through the whole country. Billie felt uncomfortable in those places, surrounded by people she thought looked ridiculous or insane or both. Orlando, however, seemed to be in his element. He loved the brightly lit nocturnal life and the riotous and uninhibited environment he had heard so much about when he was in Cuba.

The weirdos only went home as the sun rose in the east. They slunk along the streets as if they were vampires, crossing paths with taciturn and sleepy workers on their way to work, who threw them evil looks that fluctuated between envy and disdain.

Orlando made fun of Aldo, who worked in a supermarket. He considered Aldo to be among the “gang of wretches” who woke up at dawn every day of their lives to toil away for a miserable pittance, and he swore that he wouldn’t turn into one of them. He got it into his head that there was opportunity to be had in the nightlife scene and started going out every night to “develop public relations” as he called it and find work in some bar or club. Billie went with him at first, but she soon tired of the endless, meaningless club scene and preferred to stay home with Gladys and Aldo. Meanwhile, Orlando got used to sleeping by day and freshening up once night fell to go out and “find life.” He returned at dawn, reeking of alcohol and cheap perfume.

As soon as Orlando slipped into bed, Billie, tired and bored from tossing and turning on the uncomfortable mattress, would get up and take refuge in the kitchen. There, she gazed up at the tiny sliver of sky through the window and wrote her parents long letters full of compassionate lies, careful to wipe her tears so they didn’t smudge the paper.

Dearest Papi and Mami,

I hope this finds you in good health, and the boys too. We are doing very well. You can’t even imagine what Madrid is like. It must be as big as New York, Mamita. The streets are full of cars—there are so many that I don’t know how they get around without crashing into each other—but they’re smaller and newer than the ones in Havana. There are also tons of
guaguas
, “buses” they call them here, and the metro, which is a train that goes under the city and gets everywhere so fast. There are people everywhere, and they’re always rushing around. It’s very cold now, but I’ve heard the spring is beautiful here.

We’re staying with some Cuban friends for now, but when we have a little more money, we’ll find an apartment of our own. Orlando is working a lot, and I’m trying to find work singing in a jazz club. The very second I get some work, I’ll send a few dollars.

Mamita, you would love seeing how many fruits and vegetables there are in the markets. There are huge piles of meat and fish of every kind that fill you up just looking at them—and they never close, just like in New York. There are countless appliance stores and boutiques full of beautiful clothes. Though we haven’t been able to buy much yet, Gladys and I go out to window-shop and we have a blast.

I miss you all so much. I hope I’ll be able to hug you all soon. And I miss that ocean too, our Caribbean, and those strolls down the Malecón at dusk, and the heat . . .

I’ll write more soon. I hope the boys are behaving and not getting into trouble. Give them lots of kisses from me. Sending you both a big hug from your daughter who loves you very much and will never forget you.

Billie

PS Orlando sends his love.

CHAPTER 9

“We have a job, my love.”

Orlando woke her up at dawn, falling onto her on the sofa bed with all his weight. She sat up sleepily and tried to understand what her husband was saying, his tongue muddled by alcohol, his words interrupted by silly giggles and anxious caresses that made clear he was burning with desire for her.

“I met a guy who owns a bunch of clubs,” he continued, kissing her neck and searching for the heat of her sex with clumsy fingers. “That’s why I’ve gotten back so late these last few days, doll, because what’s-his-name lives at night, and I had to get him to trust me. He’s going to give us both jobs, you and me both. I’ll be the manager of one of his clubs, and you’ll sing in it. I told him that you sing like the angels themselves, and he wants to meet you. Tomorrow we’ll go see him together, and he’ll give you an audition. I’m sure he’ll love you.”

He possessed her without preamble, while he was still talking, and fell asleep inside her. More interested in her husband’s words than his clumsy actions, Billie didn’t move for a while, thinking about what Orlando had just said. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him. She was finally going to sing in a club! But she had to contain her excitement and wait for him to tell her more details.

On Orlando’s instructions, Billie borrowed from Gladys some high heels and a tight, low-cut pink dress that highlighted her curves and contrasted with her dark skin. As he studied her with admiration, Billie felt flattered, delighted to see the satisfaction in her husband’s eyes.

On the way to the meeting, Orlando gave her a warning.

“I told Gregorio that you’re a friend of mine. It’s better if he doesn’t know we’re married.”

“But why?” Billie inquired.

“Because it’s better that way, my love, believe me,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips for a kiss. “Marriages aren’t in vogue in the nightlife world. Everyone should just think we’re friends.”

Billie was about to protest again when he stopped in front of a metal gate. Next to it hung a huge brightly colored poster announcing the bar’s latest show: “New York Music Hall presents . . .” Beneath the words were photographs of what appeared to be an absurdly dressed comedian on stage and a few half-naked women with curvy bodies standing in suggestive poses.

“See?” Orlando said with a teasing smile as he knocked on the door.

She shot him a scolding look and he laughed, pulling a funny face to ask forgiveness. Then the door opened, and a little man with a sinister look appeared before them. Orlando greeted him familiarly, and the man nodded and let them pass. The room was submerged in darkness. There was only a single wavering light on the bar, where she made out the rotund silhouette of another man, crowned by plumes of smoke spiraling over his head.

“Get over here, buddy!” the man exclaimed. “Bring that beauty here.”

“Don Gregorio, allow me to introduce my friend Billie.”

The impresario put the cigar he had been smoking in the ashtray and reached for Billie’s hand, running his eyes up and down the girl’s body as if he were appraising merchandise. The penetrating smell of the cigar and the soft, sweaty hand that held hers longer than it should have made Billie uneasy.

“Damn, man! She has a guy’s name, but she’s nice,” the man exclaimed, addressing himself to Orlando. He continued, “She’s a knockout. Now let’s see if she can sing too.”

Though it bothered Billie that he was talking about her like she wasn’t there, she didn’t show it for fear that it might jeopardize her husband’s chances of landing a job.

“Paco!” the man yelled.

“Yes, Don Gregorio,” a little man piped up, emerging from the shadows like a ghost.

“Turn on the stage lights and go to the piano. This is the girl who wants to sing.”

Seconds later, a tiny theater in the back of the room was illuminated by spotlights. Gregorio gestured for Billie and Orlando to follow him as he swerved around the tables and chairs toward the stage. He sat down in the front row and invited Orlando to do the same. Orlando waved Billie forward, and she approached the pianist timidly to show him the song she was going to perform. Then she climbed up on the stage, frightened and trembling, looking as though she wanted to disappear under the boards.

The pianist gave her the opening, and she closed her eyes to concentrate and give herself body and soul to a jazz version of “Blue Moon.” She sang with a warm, rich voice laced with emotion and nuance.

Orlando was watching Gregorio out of the corner of his eye. He grew worried as his expression changed from one of expectant attention to one of surly impatience, which he expressed by grunting and insistently drumming his foot on the worn carpet.

“Can’t she sing something more animated?” he shouted at the end, turning brusquely to Orlando. “I don’t know, a mambo, some kind of salsa. She’s Caribbean, right? Well then, she should be shaking her ass. Shit! This isn’t a church!”

“Of course, Don Gregorio. Don’t worry. Billie has a large repertoire, I’ll tell her to sing something else.”

Orlando jumped up from his chair and approached the stage where Billie stood, mute and frightened, after hearing the impresario’s upset tone. She gave her husband a questioning look. He smiled and beckoned her closer.

“He wants you to sing something more active, my love,” he whispered in her ear. “And for you to shake it a little. You know, it’s a party hall.”

“And what do I sing?” the young girl asked.

“Sing . . . I don’t know . . . ‘The Peanut Vendor,’ for example. Sing the way you did the other day with Gladys in the apartment, okay?” he suggested, winking at her conspiratorially. “Imagine I’m the only one watching, doll. Shake that little butt for me.”

She nodded, and Orlando headed over to the pianist to tell him which song Billie was going to sing. Then he sat down next to the impresario and shot him a buddy-buddy look.

Billie tried to relive that afternoon in their friends’ house when she and Gladys had sung and danced for their men, giving the song a mischievous and sensual air.

When she finished, she looked at the two men expectantly.

“She’s not bad,” Don Gregorio conceded, satisfied. “We can pull it off with the right clothes. Tell her to prepare a bunch of songs like that. You’ll both start on a trial basis next week.”

“Thank you so much, Don Gregorio,” said Orlando, jumping to his feet obsequiously. “I promise we won’t let you down.”

“I hope not, kid.”

Their new boss got up from his chair and headed toward the bar without saying good-bye, leaving the stench of the Cuban cigar trailing behind him. Orlando helped Billie down from the stage and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

“You did great, beautiful. We have jobs! Let’s go celebrate!”

Walking home, Billie felt infected by her husband’s elation. He promised that this was just the first step, that tons of people would see her, and there would be new and better opportunities on the horizon. She would become a star, and then she would be able to sing wherever she wanted. They would travel to the
real
New York—and beyond—because she was a great singer, and she would achieve the success she deserved.

“The world is ours, my queen!” he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her, exultant. “This is just the beginning.”

Billie laughed at the sight of her husband looking as excited as a child and convinced herself that everything he was saying would come true. She felt strong and safe at his side. Her sun god would always take care of her.