Havana Jazz Club (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

Their jobs at the New York Music Hall meant Billie and Orlando could rent an apartment in the center of the city, right in Chamberí, very close to work. It was a small place, but modern and functional and not lacking in any way. Its many amenities seemed superfluous to Billie, coming as she did from a place where the most basic staples were a luxury. She struggled to learn how to use all the gadgets she didn’t need, but Orlando loved them, as they were clear proof of their newly acquired status.

“And this is just the beginning, doll,” he said to Billie, bursting with satisfaction.

But she wasn’t happy. This wasn’t what she had dreamed of. Yes, she sang in front of an audience every night, but she couldn’t sing the songs that moved her, the ones that were born in the most profound part of her soul and soared out through her throat like a blazing fire; or the ones that flowed through her like a placid river, ending in a rough sea; or those that were like a violent storm that dissolved in a shower of stars in the cadences of her voice . . . All the feelings that overwhelmed her when she listened to the records of her idols were now tainted by a patina of shame and frustration. When she sang the most popular boleros and the Caribbean rhythms that were in vogue, she was heckled by a vulgar and drunken audience that cared nothing for the quality of her voice. As she stood there, half-naked in a jeweled bra and a sarong whose flimsiness left little to the imagination, she endured guffaws and breaking glasses, smoke and lascivious looks. She had flatly refused to show her naked breasts, an expectation that seemed to be the norm these days after the long period of sexual repression and ostracism the country had suffered for the last forty years. She hadn’t agreed to slip off her bra—even for a few seconds during the “final climax”—as if she had suffered an innocent and involuntary “malfunction,” as Gregorio had insistently proposed. But faced with the impresario’s threat to throw them both out on the street, she had to give in when it came to the skimpy clothes and the songs she would sing.

Discovering the true nature of the place did nothing to quell her anxiety. In the early evening, the bar filled up with provocatively dressed women who wore too much makeup. Little by little, they were joined by men who arrived alone or in groups. Then the girls approached the clients, exchanged a few words, and sat down next to them. An attentive waiter rushed to serve them a glass of champagne. As the performance on stage heated up, so did the relationships between “new friends,” whose suggestive smiles quickly turned into a furtive kiss, and then a prolonged caress, until their hands started shamelessly exploring the foreign body. Eventually, the couples got up and left, arm in arm. Some of the women returned alone a little while later and started the same game anew with another stranger.

When Billie understood what was happening, she relayed her disgust to Orlando, but he brushed it off.

“What does it matter to you what they do? They’re just having a little fun. Nobody’s going to bother you. I already made sure of that, I promise.”

As soon as she finished her performance, Billie hurried to change her clothes and go home, despite Orlando insisting every night that she should stay and have a drink and relax a little. She needed to have fun too, he would tell her. But Billie felt uncomfortable there. She was afraid the men would think she was like the others, a notion that was confirmed by the appraising looks she felt on her as she said good-bye.

Orlando had to stay until closing, so Billie went home alone, unsure what her husband’s real function was at the cabaret—because that’s what the place really was: a cabaret—that was the euphemism Billie used in her mind to avoid a term she didn’t even want to think about. She assumed Orlando was the headwaiter, who managed all the other waiters, maintained order, and paid attention to the clients. But his obligations seemed to include taking especially good care of the girls, a facet of public relations that he performed painstakingly. He treated them with both familiarity and confidence, the way he did the clients, making sure they were all well looked after and making the pertinent introductions when necessary.

Orlando came home at dawn, sometimes well into the morning. At first, Billie asked him why he came home so late when the party hall closed at three in the morning. Initially, Orlando responded easily that Gregorio had asked him to accompany him to another of his places, or that he had to escort two drunk clients back to their hotel. But his answers grew more vague every day, and he seemed to grow annoyed when Billie interrogated him. So she eventually opted to shut her mouth and swallow her tears. She knew her husband was unfaithful with those women. She wasn’t stupid or blind. She saw how he acted in the hall, the excessive liberties they took with him, and how Orlando responded without any qualms, laughing with them, embracing them casually, and greeting them every day with a friendly kiss on the cheek and a slap on the butt. Would it be different if those women knew she was his wife? Maybe that’s why Orlando insisted that they keep it a secret. But, what could she do but bear it and shut up? If she scolded him, it would only make him angry. She loved him madly—he was still her sun god, the light of her life. Anything was better than the prospect of losing him. Maybe things would change with time. This life was so new to both of them. Orlando had always dreamed of a life like this, and he was enjoying it intensely. Soon he would tire of it, and they would go back to being together as before. She didn’t have the slightest doubt. One day, in the not too distant future, they would return to Cuba, or they would move to the United States, to Miami, maybe. They would start a family and live happily ever after. Orlando had promised her as much.

“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Gregorio said one night, looping his arm around her shoulder as she came out of her dressing room about to go home. He led her toward the bar, where she found Orlando chatting with an obese man in his forties.

“But I—” Billie protested.

“He’s a good client and a very special friend of the house,” Gregorio insisted, holding on to her firmly, but never losing his smile. “Be nice to him.”

The man looked at her shyly, his expression revealing how much he admired Billie’s exotic beauty. She glanced at her husband for protection, but saw only a look of encouragement behind a nervous smile and his cold ocean-colored eyes.

“Armando,” Don Gregorio said, “allow me to introduce you to Billie, our best artist and the most beautiful jewel in the house.”

“It’s a pleasure, miss,” Armando said, wiping his hand on his pants before offering it to the girl. “You sing wonderfully.”

“Thank you very much,” Billie said.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the man offered.

“Thank you, but I was on my way—”

“Of course she’ll have a drink with you!” Gregorio intervened, pushing Billie toward the man until she found herself thrown right up against him. “That way you can get to know each other.”

“Orlando,” Billie muttered, alarmed.

“It’s just a drink, Billie,” Orlando whispered in her ear before moving away with Gregorio.

Armando smiled in surprise and tried to strike up a conversation about her homeland and the music she liked. Billie responded in monosyllables, distracted by Gregorio and her husband a few feet away, who seemed to be arguing in a contained but clearly heated way, judging by their gestures. Eventually, Orlando turned to her, his expression serious, his brow furrowed. Then he turned back to Gregorio and nodded. The impresario smiled and gave him a friendly pat on the arm. Then he turned to them with a satisfied air.

“How’s it going, guys?” he asked jovially, draping his arms over both their shoulders. Turning to Armando, he said, “A delicious creature, isn’t that right, buddy?”

“Of course,” the man said politely. “But it’s time for me to call it a night.”

“Billie would be delighted to accompany you to your hotel for a nightcap,” Gregorio prompted. “Isn’t that right, Billie?”

Horrified, the girl turned to the impresario. Then she looked around for Orlando.

“Oh, there’s no need!” Armando said when he noticed the girl’s trepidation.

Orlando, who was watching the scene unfold from a distance with a sullen face, came over to the group when the impresario beckoned. Orlando took Billie by the arm.

“Will you excuse us for a moment?” he asked, forcing a smile as they stepped away.

“He wants me to sleep with that man!” Billie exclaimed, terrified.

“No, my love, that’s not it. Calm down,” Orlando said, in his most cajoling voice. “All you have to do is go have a drink with him and keep him happy, that’s all.”

Billie, trying to contain the tears threatening to burst from her eyes, looked at her husband incredulously.

“How can you ask me to do this? I’m your wife!”

“I know, chocolate chip. But that’s why I know I can trust you and you won’t let me down. Gregorio wants to keep this client happy, and he’s taken a liking to you. We’ll get a tidy sum from this.”

“I couldn’t care less about the money!” Billie retorted, indignant. “There’s no way I’m going with him!”

“Listen, honey,” Orlando said, his tone hardening. “You’re not going to fuck with me now, okay? There’s a lot of money on the line. What’s your problem? It’s not like you’re some innocent virgin. I know how wild you can get in bed . . .”

“But, you’re my husband, and I love you! I’m not a whore!”

Billie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her own husband, the man she loved most in the world, couldn’t be saying such unspeakable things to her.

“I know, doll, I know,” Orlando said, his voice now turning sickly sweet again. “Just go with him. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Women know how to satisfy a man without even letting him touch her.”

Billie’s eyes were brimming with tears. She was about to protest when Gregorio came over to them and grabbed her impatiently by the arm.

“End of discussion,” he said unceremoniously. “There’s a taxi waiting at the door. Be good, cutie.”

And with that, Don Gregorio took Armando by the arm as well. Joking the whole time, he led them both toward the front door and then practically hurled them into the taxi. Billie looked back, searching for her husband, but Orlando had disappeared from view.

CHAPTER 11

In the taxi, on the way to the hotel, Armando tried to break the tension by babbling uncontrollably. He wasn’t an innately social man. He had few friends and had handpicked each one of them. In fact, the proprietor of the New York had put him in a tight spot. It was still early when he had finished eating dinner, and he didn’t feel like being cooped up in his hotel. So he had gone to the bar with the intention of having a drink and killing time by enjoying the show for a bit, just as he had on many previous occasions when he had traveled to Madrid. Not that he had any complaints about enjoying the company of a woman. Gregorio had introduced him to girls before, and he had had a fine time with them. But this beautiful young girl intimidated him. She wasn’t like the rest of them. She had class. It was clear she was educated and sophisticated. Her persistent silence obligated him to fill it with meaningless platitudes that even he was embarrassed by—he was acting like a teenager. True, he had expressed his admiration for the girl to Don Gregorio while she was singing, but he had meant nothing by it. He had no ulterior motives, but Gregorio had practically forced him to take her. The girl didn’t seem very happy, but that hardly surprised him. She was so beautiful she had the luxury of choosing her clients, and he was quite aware that he wasn’t the cream of the crop.

Billie was stunned. She couldn’t believe this was really happening. The man was blathering on beside her, but she couldn’t even hear him, let alone respond. The streets blurred past the window unseen, and he didn’t even notice when they reached the hotel. Her mind was still locked on Orlando’s eyes, his cold gaze reproaching her for her lack of willingness to cooperate. When the car stopped in front of the luxurious hotel on Paseo de la Castellana, her heart began racing. She kept her eyes down, embarrassed, as they passed by the reception desk and the concierge said good evening in a neutral tone, responding to her companion’s greeting. They went up in the elevator in silence, not looking at each other, and suddenly she found herself in this stranger’s room.

“Would you like a glass of champagne?” he asked.

She might have said yes, or maybe she said nothing. In any case, seconds later, she heard a bottle being uncorked, a sound she had grown accustomed to during her performances. But it was never she who laughingly caught the explosion with a glass in hand. Armando offered her the foam, and Billie heard the characteristic clink of glass as they toasted. She downed her glass in one gulp to give her courage. The man then took it from her hand and put it down on one of the bedside tables. They were standing next to the bed.

“You’re a beautiful girl . . .” Armando said, contemplating her with pleasure as he lifted her dress straps off her shoulders.

He unzipped her dress, and it slipped to the floor. He was ecstatic as he contemplated her toasted skin, covered only with a few choice bits of lingerie. The man’s breathing sped up. Soon he was panting. Billie wasn’t sure whether this was because he was overweight or just excited at seeing her half-naked body. Either way, it repulsed her. Armando caressed her with the tips of his fingers, descending slowly to her stomach. He stopped at her belly button and delicately kissed her shoulder. But when he turned to kiss her on the mouth, he stopped. The girl’s face was wet with tears. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her jaw was clenched. Then he realized she was shaking.

“What’s happening to you?” he asked, alarmed.

She shook her head, biting down on her lip in a desperate effort to contain a sob. But it only ended up bursting out more violently, and she collapsed on the edge of the bed like a sand sculpture battered by the wind, covering her face with her hands.

Bewildered, Armando immediately covered her with her dress and dragged over a chair so he could sit across from her.

“Calm down, calm down,” he spluttered, not daring to touch her. “Would you like some water?”

Before she could answer, he got up and made for the bar. As he opened a bottle and filled a glass, he watched her with concern. Billie took little sips, hiccupping between sobs.

Armando sat down across from her again.

“This is your first time, is that it?” he ventured. Billie nodded without looking up from the floor. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to. I already suspected you weren’t like the others. But Gregorio was so insistent . . . You don’t know how sorry I am.”

Billie looked him in the eye for the first time, an expression of infinite gratitude on her face. She put on her dress with shaking hands and wiped her tears with the handkerchief Armando offered her.

“I’m only at the New York to sing,” she tried to say, her voice wavering.

“But, sweetie! How did you end up at a place like that? All of Madrid knows what goes on in that place. Go on—go home. And if you want some good advice, don’t go back there. It’s not a place for a girl like you.”

He got to his feet and took a wad of bills from his wallet. He held them out to Billie.

“I can’t accept that,” she said, shaking her head. “We didn’t do anything . . .”

Armando took her hand and closed it around the money.

“Only you and I know that,” he smiled. “I don’t want you to get into trouble because of me. But listen to me and get away from that dump and all those people as soon as you can.”

Billie didn’t respond. How could she explain that it wasn’t that simple? That her own husband had pushed her into his bed?

“Thank you,” she mumbled, standing up and heading toward the door.

“Wait,” Armando said, handing her a card. “I have a jazz club in Barcelona. It’s a small, modest place in the old city, but if what you want is to sing, I can offer you a job . . . If there’s ever anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to call me.”

She took the card and gave a small nod.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me,” the man continued, trying to justify himself. “I don’t like having to pay women to . . . you know. But, who would want anything to do with a guy who looks like me?”

“Please,” she broke in, trying to smile. “You don’t owe me any explanations. You’re a good person. One day you’ll find someone . . .”

“I don’t have much hope anymore,” he smiled bitterly.

Billie slipped the card into her pocket. Feeling a sudden wave of compassion for the man, she went over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good-bye,” she said. “And thank you. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

“Would you like me to take you in a taxi?” he offered.

The girl shook her head.

“I’d rather walk for a bit. Thank you though.”

Once she was in the hall, she took a deep breath and then sprinted toward the elevator as if she were afraid that Armando would regret his kindhearted act and come after her, to claim what he had paid for so generously. She pressed the elevator button with tears streaming down her face. As the pent-up tension burst forth, she was afraid she would faint before she reached the street. She hurried across the deserted lobby with her head down, avoiding the gaze of the receptionist, mortified by what he must think of her. But the employee was an efficient professional and turned away from her passing as though he hadn’t even noticed her. Billie was grateful for his silence.

Once back on the street, far from the hotel, she stopped for a few seconds to calm down. Paseo de la Castellana was wet from the street-cleaning truck, and she was glad to feel the fresh, humid breeze on her skin on that torrid summer night. Then, she started to walk slowly, with no clear idea where she was heading. She didn’t want to go home—the last thing she wanted that night was to confront Orlando. She was confused and hurt, and she needed time to think, to organize her thoughts and clarify her feelings.

How could she forgive Orlando for pushing her into that stranger’s arms? What should she do now? Leave him? Where would she go? What would she be without him . . . ? She walked for a long time without finding any answers to her questions, until she discovered that, almost without realizing, her steps had brought her to her street. She found herself in front of her building, just below the apartment she shared with her husband.

She was terrified as she entered the apartment and was relieved to see that Orlando hadn’t come home yet. Without even turning on the light, she took the money out of her bag and threw it on the coffee table as if it would burn her, curled up on a corner of the couch, and rested her head on her knees. Alone in her house, protected from strangers’ eyes, she let loose all the anguish pressing against her soul. A tornado of feelings came unleashed inside her: sadness, disappointment, helplessness, rage, hate . . . And she couldn’t stop crying until she heard Orlando’s key turning in the lock.

She held her breath and waited, sheltered in the dark, her body tense and heart pounding.