Havana Jazz Club (16 page)

CHAPTER 30

After calling repeatedly and getting no answer, Armando looked nervously in his pockets for the keys to Billie’s apartment. Ever since Nicolás’s death, her friends hadn’t wanted to leave her on her own. Armando had convinced her to stay with him for a few days and spent most of that time with her. At night, when he and Matías had to go to the club, Tatiana stayed with her. The doctor had prescribed sedatives that Armando doled out since the doctor had implied that it was preferable not to leave pharmaceuticals in the hands of someone struggling to get to sleep. During the day, antidepressants helped her endure her pain, though she was only half-conscious, still in a state of shock.

After the first week, Billie decided to stop taking the meds and return home. She wanted to fully experience the pain of her son’s death, to say good-bye to Nicolás in the intimacy of the home they had shared for sixteen years. All of Armando’s attempts to dissuade her were fruitless. So Billie returned home and shut herself up in it, and her friends couldn’t do anything but call or pop by every once in a while with some excuse.

But now Billie had stopped answering the phone and wasn’t opening the door for anyone.

When Armando went in, the house was silent and dim. He felt a surge of anxiety. Billie loved sunlight and always left all the doors and windows open so it could pour in. Though it was a beautiful and sunny winter day outside, Billie’s apartment was freezing and overtaken by black shadows.

“Billie?” he called.

When he didn’t get an answer, he went through every room in the house until he got to Nicolás’s room. Billie was there, curled up on her son’s bed, clinging to his pillow, her gaze locked on a photo of her son in which he was smiling, holding a soccer ball in his hands.

“Billie,” Armando whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed and lightly placing his hand on her. “I’ve been knocking for a while, and you didn’t answer. I was worried about you.”

She didn’t react, didn’t even blink.

“Come on, Billie. Get up. You can’t go on like this,” Armando said gently, trying to sit her up in the bed. “You have to get out of here. Come home with me. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Billie looked at him strangely then, as if she didn’t recognize him.

“I can’t go,” she mumbled. Her desolate eyes were two deep wells of sadness. “I want to be here, with him.”

“Nicolás isn’t here, Billie,” Armando replied sadly. “And he’s not coming back. We have to face that and carry on living.”

“I don’t want to carry on!” Billie exclaimed, breaking into a heartrending sob. “I want to go with him, Armando. I don’t have the strength to continue.”

She collapsed against Armando’s chest, and he hugged her with all his strength, uncertain how to relieve her unbearable suffering.

“Don’t say that, Billie, please,” he said, incapable of containing his own sob. “I know there’s not a thing I could say to console you, but we’ll keep moving forward, I promise. Let me help you. Come home with me. Staying here alone isn’t doing you any good. Let me take care of you until you feel better.”

Billie didn’t respond. She stayed crumpled against Armando’s chest, sobbing, and he held her in silence, stroking her hair. After a long while, when she seemed calmer, he helped her to her feet. He bathed her, combed her hair, dressed her, and left her sitting on the living room sofa while he collected a few things he thought she would need. Billie didn’t move. She just gazed absently ahead, overcome by a crushing exhaustion.

In Armando’s apartment, time seemed to come to a standstill. The days were long and sad. Billie barely spoke. She spent most of the day in bed with her eyes open, not sleeping, barely moving, her cheeks always wet with silent tears. She got up every now and then like a shadow, not even bothering to bathe or get dressed. She wandered around the house in her robe and pajamas, mechanically ate whatever Armando put in front of her, and stared out at the plaza through the balcony windows without seeing anything. If Armando insisted that she go sit for a time in the living room and distract herself by watching television, she obediently took a seat and fixed her eyes on the screen. But when he made a comment about the show they were watching, Billie looked at him with surprise, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Though she was there in body, her mind was in some distant, otherworldly place, chasing her son’s evasive soul.

Armando kept a close eye on her, barely leaving her side. He tried to distract her by giving her updates about the club. He told her everyone was asking about her and wanted to know when she would sing again. But Billie just smiled weakly and didn’t even respond.

“Why don’t you come take a walk with me?” Armando would say. “It’s a gorgeous day, and it would do me good. I think I’ve put on weight again.”

“I don’t feel like getting dressed, Armando. You go alone. I’d rather stay here.”

He didn’t insist. He didn’t want to go out if Billie wasn’t going with him. She only left the house to bring flowers to her son at the cemetery or to take refuge in Nicolás’s room back at her apartment. If Armando got home and she wasn’t there, he always knew where to find her. When he went to get her, she was always sitting on the boy’s bed, with something of Nicolás’s in her hands, lost in her memories.

When Armando had to go out, Tatiana took over.

“Guess what?” the actress told her, ingenuously vain. “On my way here, a man stopped his car next to me and beckoned me over. I thought he wanted to ask me directions. But no, he told me I was very pretty and that he would die if I didn’t give him my phone number. I burst out laughing and went on my way while he kept catcalling me.”

Billie smiled tenderly. Every day, some new man was fascinated by the Russian’s beauty. He’d fall at her feet, invite her to dinner, and even ask her to marry him. Poor Tatiana! She was so hungry for love and so used to thinking she could only receive it in exchange for her beauty that she clung to her fantasies. She saw that time was taking its toll on her enchantingly seductive face, and she was horrified to think that she would soon have nothing left to offer in exchange for a few crumbs of affection. She re-created these imaginary stories for Billie with such conviction that Billie started to wonder if Tatiana was playing a role, as if she were in a movie—or if she had really convinced herself that these episodes had taken place.

She also told Billie about her hard childhood in Russia, the terrible cold and the long winters in Moscow. She told her friend anecdotes about her years in film, described past lovers and the fabulous gifts they had given to her. She loved talking about herself—after all, she was a star—and Billie was the ideal listener. Silent and seemingly attentive, Billie gave Tatiana the opportunity to relive her most golden years. By the time she left, Tatiana had achieved her intended goal of distracting Billie, but she had also helped herself. She always left renewed and euphoric, feeling unique and special once again.

Billie dreamed of a summer night on a wide solitary beach. Wearing a wedding dress, she left her guests and headed toward the edge of the black water. As she walked, she could hear them chatting and laughing behind her, clinking glasses and uncorking champagne. The sea was an immense and placid blanket that drew her like a siren song, offering shelter in its warm breast. As Billie entered it, the foam caressed her bare feet and the cool water climbed up her calves, then her thighs. The waves enveloped her, took her softly by the waist, and carried her with them out into the darkness, pulling her toward the silent bottom. Everything was peaceful as she sank gently down, abandoning herself. Then suddenly she felt herself being pushed to the surface. When her head emerged from the water, she saw before her an undulating and kindhearted face:

“Are you sure?” asked a woman’s voice with echoes of seashells and mermaids.

“Yes,” Billie replied firmly.

Her “alter ego”—could it be Yemayá?—turned her watery face toward the beach. Her guests were very far away, their chatter and laughter muffled by the distance. Billie thought she could make out Armando, Matías, and Tatiana. She saw her mother smiling happily in her father’s arms. And Nicolás was there too—he was still a boy, perched on the shoulders of one of his uncles, who was galloping down the shore as if he were a horse. Suddenly, a breeze lifted a curtain of sand, which veiled them. They all disappeared.

Billie felt an urgent need to go back and join the party. But when she got to the shore, the beach was deserted. Looking for her guests, she ended up going down strange alleyways. She tiptoed forward in absolute darkness, her hands stretched out in front of her, scared of crashing into something or being attacked. A crowd of shadows heading in the opposite direction ran right through her. She brushed against a body in the shadows and fled in terror. She could make out a weak light up ahead and ran toward it. She recognized the place: it was the garden where she had celebrated her wedding. But when she went in, everyone was crying and dressed in black.

“What’s going on?” she asked a man standing by the door.

“They’re mourning your death,” he replied.

Billie woke from that strange dream with an extraordinary feeling of peace. She stayed in bed for a while, savoring it and replaying it in her mind. She didn’t want to lose it. She didn’t want it to dissipate in her mind and end up back in the pain and desperation. She got up and went in search of a pen and paper. She spent the whole morning choosing the words that best expressed the serenity she had felt when cradled by the darkness of the dense, warm sea, the sensation of being gently rocked, basking in the protective arms of the waves. She wanted to re-create the calm sound produced by the water’s gentle ebb and flow, the silence of the depths of the ocean . . .

And in the silence, there was music.

She started to hum a melody and searched it out patiently on the keys of the electronic keyboard that Armando had forgotten in a corner of the living room.

When he got home, she was still sitting in front of the keyboard. She turned and treated him to a smile, and a new light was visible in her black eyes. To Armando it felt like heaven opened up to receive him that day. Then Billie handed him a sheet of paper. The title at the top read “Dream of the Sea.” Armando read it with great emotion and looked at her with tears shining in his eyes.

“What do you think?” Billie asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I put a little music to it. I have to ask Matías to help me.”

She started to play a few simple chords, and her intimate and enveloping voice filled the room. Armando couldn’t contain his tears while she sang. When she finished, he went over to Billie and kissed her hair tenderly, incapable of saying a word. She took his hand and looked at him, smiling.

“Tonight I’ll go with you to the Havana,” she said.

CHAPTER 31

Billie started going to the club regularly again and resumed her obligations as a business partner. The work seemed to distract her and, little by little, her spirits rose. Still, a permanent veil of sadness had fallen over her face, and her gaze had turned dull. Her eyes never shone as they had before, and her smile was never more than a weak shadow of what it had once been.

Suddenly, she threw herself into frenetic activity. In addition to managing the Havana, she began writing songs and working on them for hours with Matías, who was overjoyed to collaborate with her to put music to the feelings Billie wanted to express.

She returned to her house. She asked Armando to help her dismantle Nicolás’s room, as she didn’t have the strength to do it alone. Between the two of them, they gathered the boy’s clothes and donated them to a charity, along with all his books and records. They emptied the wardrobe and pulled the posters down from the walls. Billie kept a box with the photograph of Nicolás holding the soccer ball, her son’s first drawings, and some school notebooks written in an infantile and trembling hand. She stopped on seeing one of them, a simple circle that seemed to represent a smiling face. In colorful misshapen letters, he had written, “I love you, Mama.” Nicolás had given it to her when he was five, and Billie couldn’t hold back her tears when she saw it. Armando hugged her silently and saved the drawing in the box before closing it and putting it on a shelf in the now-empty wardrobe. Then they painted all the rooms. Billie forced herself to resume her life in a house that would always seem too big and silent to her now.

Armando watched Billie at the Havana. She was friendly and sweet to her customers—it was in her nature, after all—and she introduced the invited musical groups like a true master of ceremonies. She sang her own songs and those of her idols with exquisite mastery. And she did it all with a perennial smile on her lips.

But the smile hurt Armando as much as it did her. He knew how hard Billie had to work to keep it there, how difficult it was to keep it authentic. He knew that sometimes everything collapsed inside of her and that she occasionally felt the urgent need to flee everything, even herself. He had to stay alert, always ready to rescue her from that black abyss. He could see it in the depths of her eyes, in the way her body weakened, as if it had suddenly been invaded by a terrible exhaustion. Whenever he sensed it was coming on, he went over and offered her a comforting smile, a caress, or some trivial remark. Billie would then pull herself together, standing up straight and smiling again. She went back to being the strong and brave woman life had forged through the force of many disasters.

When she sang, she went inside herself. She forgot the world and the room full of people listening to her with great devotion, moved by her wrenching voice, her helpless air, her sad expression. She still sang Billie Holiday songs and, when she did, Armando felt like the spirit of that unhappy singer possessed her from beyond and manifested through her voice. Once potent and profound, it was now more fragile and wavering, like a glass about to shatter into a million pieces, like the unforgettable artist herself. Her voice could transform itself in seconds from a warm whisper brushing the skin to a cold and damp wind on a stormy winter night to a tender embrace that enveloped the listener like a soft blanket. Even Matías got emotional every night as he listened to her. He never wanted to overshadow her with his tenuous piano notes. The double bass, almost imperceptible, let the tensions of his chords escape slowly, and the trumpet seemed far off, transparent. Billie’s voice shone with its own light and carried everyone away with its magic.

She had found an escape valve in writing songs. It was as if she had opened a spigot in her heart through which all her emotions could finally find a way out, not just the pain from the death of her son but many years of other repressed and accumulated feelings as well. Her songs spoke of loss, absence, pain, and the bitter acceptance of an inevitable and fatal destiny, of death as a yearning for freedom, as the only possible way of escaping life’s unbearable torment. As Billie performed those anguished songs, she took the hearts of listeners by storm, unwittingly creating a distinguished group of admirers that grew day by day.

News of the Cuban singer with the velvet, whispering voice spread through the city, and every night the room filled up with an audience anxious to experience this simple woman’s voice up close. They came to hear her shivering voice and to witness her almost imperceptible gestures as she sang, standing by the piano or sitting on a stool. Making no concessions to the audience, she sang as if she were alone in her living room, or, perhaps, with a small group of friends. Meanwhile, the audience drank up her words, recognizing in her voice feelings of their own that they had never known how to express so beautifully.

When Billie sang, a startled and respectful silence fell around her. Submerged in darkness, the room tensed with anticipation, and nobody moved from their seats. No one coughed or clinked glasses. No one uttered a word. The Havana Jazz Club had become a temple of music, a gathering place for the intelligentsia of Barcelona, and Billie was its muse, the goddess they all venerated.

Armando was surprised by how much happier Billie seemed and the positive consequences it brought. He was pleased for her. Without intending to, she had finally become an authentic jazz singer, admired and respected by her audience. He sometimes wondered whether keeping the pain so close to the surface wouldn’t be damaging for her in the long run, if it wouldn’t be better to forget. But when Billie finished her performance each night after baring her soul on stage, she stepped down renewed, as if she had released a heavy weight. Her face reflected a serenity that she didn’t seem to be able to find any other way. She appeared to be comforted by people’s admiration, which seemed to serve as a balm for her wounds, colluding with time—that other infallible anesthetic—which moved at its own unwavering pace, immune to human sorrows even as it soothed them.

As the pain in Billie’s heart began to recede, her songs moved almost imperceptibly away from the dismal tones that had consoled her. Soon, they started to glimmer lightly with a spark of hope. Billie was making peace with life.

When he saw that she was recovering, Armando reneged on his promise not to ask her to marry him again—just to keep each other company, he said. But Billie’s answer was always the same: a sweet smile, a caress, maybe even a hopeful yet demonstrably fanciful “We’ll see,” accompanied by a knowing wink. It became an inside joke that he repeated every once in a while just for fun. He would always be content with the beautiful friendship life had provided them both.

And then Gerardo appeared.

He was an older, attractive man with white hair and a neat beard, distinguished with a touch of the bohemian. He always wore jeans, which—along with his casual demeanor and serene expression—made him seem younger than he really was.

He came into the club one night and settled next to the bar. Billie served him a drink and retired to her usual corner, near the cash register, where she could watch over the room and listen to whichever jazz band was performing that night. They didn’t say another word to each other until Gerardo said good-bye as he left, but Billie recognized him immediately when he showed up at the club again a few days later.

Gerardo greeted her cheerfully, as if he was sure she would remember him, and Billie returned the greeting with an enthusiasm that surprised her. That night they didn’t chat about much of anything—he noted how welcoming the place was and remarked on the magnificent selection of bands. No, he wasn’t a big jazz expert, he clarified, but he liked it. Gerardo told Billie that he hadn’t been in Barcelona long. He had rented a studio nearby and stumbled across the Havana by chance. But as he left that night, he promised, with a lighthearted wink, that he would be back. And he did return. From then on, he came every night, always taking a seat next to the bar to chat with Billie when she wasn’t busy.

It didn’t take Armando long to notice him. He couldn’t help but notice Billie’s delighted smile when she saw him, how they chatted animatedly whenever Billie wasn’t busy, and how he followed her with his gaze when she was helping other customers. Suddenly, Billie’s eyes had taken on a new sheen, and Armando thought she was taking a little more care getting ready every day before she went to the club. He was shocked when he heard her giggling uncontrollably one night. Her laughter, novel and unknown to him, spiraled up over the conversation and music like a bell pealing. Gerardo was laughing too.

“She likes him,” Matías said, drawing nearer to Armando, who was watching the couple from the other side of the room.

“Seems like it,” Armando concurred, trying to feign indifference.

“What does he have that we don’t?” Matías asked, straight-faced.

“Come on man, he’s handsome.”

“But he’s an old man!”

“Just like you and me,” Armando replied. Matías gave a resigned sigh. Armando put an arm around his friend’s shoulders and added, “Come on, let’s have a drink.”

As they approached the bar, Billie welcomed them with a friendly smile. Armando went under the bar and started to prepare a couple of drinks for him and his friend. As he was putting ice in each glass, Matías settled down next to Gerardo, and studied him with ill-disguised suspicion.

“I’d like to introduce you to Gerardo,” Billie said to them, when she noticed the way the musician was watching him. Turning to Gerardo, she added, “This is Armando, the owner of the Havana, and this is Matías, our marvelous pianist.”

“Well,” Armando clarified, shaking Gerardo’s hand. “She’s really the owner and lady of the place. I’m just the meddling partner who can’t stay quietly at home enjoying his old age.”

“Come on, Armando,” Billie broke in. “Don’t be silly. You’re not that old, and you know perfectly well that I couldn’t do this without you.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Gerardo said, shaking first Armando’s hand and then Matías’s. The latter was still looking at him skeptically.

“Gerardo’s a painter,” Billie explained. “He has a studio near here.”

“Ah!” Matías exclaimed, then immediately added sarcastically, “And has he invited you to his studio to admire his paintings yet?”

Armando shot him a scolding look, and Gerardo tried to hold back a look of confusion after the malicious comment.

“No. But he’s brought some of them here for me to see,” Billie replied, purposely ignoring Matías’s provocative tone, which she recognized for what it was. “Look, I have one here that he gave me.”

“How kind of him!” Matías said in a mocking tone, as Billie took out a rolled canvas from under the bar and spread it out before them, searching for the best light.

It was a watercolor, in a surrealist style that vaguely recalled René Magritte, to which the artist had added a very personal naïve-art touch. It was a mountainous landscape under a blue sky populated by seahorses, beautiful sirens, and tiny fish, which gave the impression that the sky was the sea, and the mountains the sandy beach, as if they were looking at the painting upside down. The suggestive forms and tenuous colors were filled with movement and seemed to have a life of their own.

“What do you think?” Billie asked.

“It’s pretty,” Armando said with sincere admiration.

“It’s not bad,” Matías grumbled.

“I thought we could do an exhibit,” she suggested.

“Here?” This caught Armando off guard. “But it’s so dark . . . nobody will be able to see the paintings.”

“Gerardo and I talked about that,” Billie replied. “We could shine a spotlight on each of the canvases.”

“Of course, I would make sure it would cause you as little inconvenience as possible,” Gerardo intervened. “If you like the idea, that is.”

“They would be good decoration and give the place a different feeling,” Billie continued.

“I see you’ve thought of everything,” Armando said, feeling slightly resentful.

Billie caught Armando’s tone and tried to hold back her enthusiasm.

“Well, it’s just an idea. But if you don’t think we should . . .”

“No, no!” Armando said, offering Billie a smile of apology. “It seems like an excellent idea. We should always be finding ways to enhance the place! You know you have my support in anything you want to do.”

“Well, I have to go,” Gerardo said, clearing his throat and standing up. “Why don’t you all discuss it amongst yourselves and let me know what you’ve decided. No pressure, of course. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

He shook Armando’s and Matías’s hands again and gave Billie a friendly look, along with a percipient smile that she returned.

“He moves quickly, the shark,” Matías muttered, as he watched Gerardo leave.

“If you’re talking about the exhibition, I’m the one who thought of it,” Billie said. “I don’t know what bug bit the two of you, but neither of you has been especially kind lately.”

Armando looked down and said nothing. But Matías couldn’t hold back his opinion.

“Well, look. If you want the truth, I don’t think he’s the right guy for you.”

Billie let out a surprised giggle.

“What are you talking about? He’s just a friend,” she said and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be silly. There’s no reason to be jealous.”

Although Matías accepted the gesture, he remained disgruntled on the inside.