Havana Jazz Club (18 page)

CHAPTER 34

“Here, love,” the butcher said, handing Billie her purchases. “My husband and I are going to try to come to the Havana tonight to hear you sing. We have to go to the kids’ house for dinner. They just got back from their honeymoon, and they’ll probably come too.”

Billie nodded as she stepped aside to make way for a group of tourists. Hordes of them clogged the Boquería market every day to admire the attractive stands and take pictures.

“Great. We’d be happy to see you, Maria,” she said, and, smiling, added, “This place is getting impossible with all the people.”

“Yeah,” the woman agreed, “it’s like this every day. But always snapping pictures—pictures but no sales.”

“Come on, Maria. You’re always complaining.”

“Oh, if you only knew!”

At that very moment, a woman came up to the display and greeted Maria familiarly. Then a group of foreigners stopped to admire the products on display, looking as if they wanted to contradict the butcher’s complaints about them.

“Well,” Billie said with a smile, “I’ll leave you since you’re so busy. See you soon.”

“Bye, beautiful.”

Laden with shopping bags, Billie struggled through the crowd to the market’s exit. She was overwhelmed by all the people. When she had almost reached the street, she bumped into a young man, and one of her bags fell to the floor.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the boy said hurrying to pick it up and hand it to her.

After he went on his way, Billie couldn’t help but turn and follow him with her gaze until he disappeared from sight. He was a young man with dark skin and Caribbean features, the same age that Nicolás would be, if he were alive. She wondered if her son would look like him. Would he have changed when he became an adult? Would his nature have mellowed? Maybe he would have settled down, gotten a good job, and even a girlfriend. It’s possible that she would even be a grandmother by now. Now she would never be a grandmother, she thought bitterly. She would never know the immense tenderness brought on by holding a newborn in her arms, of recovering her own Nicolás through the baby.

As she traversed the crowded Ramblas, she felt herself suddenly drowning in sadness. It happened to her sometimes when she found herself alone and had time to think. Assaulted by memories, she felt the visceral pain of not seeing him grow up and mature into a man. Her despair penetrated her soul like a knife and became unbearable. Though she didn’t show it, the pain of losing Nicolás still lived in her, despite all the years that had passed. It had turned into a mute, dormant pain, like one caused by a chronic illness that you learn to live with but that is always present—insidious, obstinate, and piercing. And once in a while, it attacked with renewed vigor.

She took a deep breath, trying to overcome it. She smiled at a child who was staring at the slow and studied movements of the living statues who performed along the whole avenue, his expression caught somewhere between fear and curiosity as he clung to his mother’s hand. It was the life that she had been dealt, she told herself with resignation, returning to her thoughts. Destiny didn’t have any compassion for her. In spite of everything, she had achieved a certain balance, a comforting feeling of being at peace with herself. She had been strong and led a good life surrounded by her friends: Armando, Matías, Tatiana. She thanked heaven for having put them in her path. And now, there was Gerardo too. Her heart flipped in her chest when she thought about him. She couldn’t explain her feelings rationally. She just knew that she liked being with him. He made her laugh, and it wasn’t easy to make her laugh. Sometimes she thought she had left her smile behind in Cuba, caught in the foam of the waves crashing against the Malecón, along with the innocence of that twenty-year-old girl who left everything behind to follow her sun god. But that was all so long ago. Who knows? Maybe she could still learn to laugh again.

The day was sunny and pleasant, and the terraces on the Plaza Real were bursting with people of all nationalities. Barcelona had changed so much since she arrived almost thirty years before. It had been beautiful to her then, but it was much more so now. It had turned into a cosmopolitan, open, and liberal city, where all people and races had a place and lived together in harmony. She could pass practically unnoticed now, unlike in the past, when many faces turned to follow the steps of the young mixed-race woman. This was her city. She couldn’t live anywhere else in the world except, maybe, Havana. But she had cast aside the idea of returning to Cuba long ago. Her son was Spanish, he was buried in Barcelona, and she would never leave him. Her brother Eduardo and his wife and children were still in Havana with her mother. She had only had the opportunity to visit them once with Armando, on a tourist trip where they passed for a Spanish couple. They had wanted to bring Celia to Spain, but she had refused to even consider it. She said she was too old to travel so far. She wanted to die in her homeland and rest next to her husband.

Rubén had ended up wandering around the world. He had stayed in Barcelona with her for a bit, but then he continued on his way, chasing those birds that were always filling his head, as Billie always said.

“Excuse me,” someone said behind her just as she was putting her key into the lock at Armando’s house.

She turned. A very young boy and girl, holding each other by the waist, smiled at her timidly.

“Yes?” Billie inquired.

“I was telling my boyfriend that you’re Billie, the singer from Havana, right?”

“That’s right,” Billie replied, smiling at them.

“We just wanted to tell you we love listening to you,” the girl continued, overcome with excitement. “Once in a while we come see you, when we have enough money to buy a Cuba libre. You sing divinely.”

“Thank you,” Billie replied, made emotional by the sincere admiration reflected in the kids’ faces.

“Will you give us your autograph?” the boy dared to ask, offering her a pen and small notebook.

“Of course.”

“We’ll frame it and keep it always,” the girl said as Billie signed the book. “How come you haven’t recorded a CD?”

“Well . . . I don’t know. It’s been suggested, but I just never got around to it.”

“Well, you should,” the boy said. “We would love to be able to hear you whenever we want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised, slightly bewildered by so much admiration.

Though she loved singing, she had never considered the effect her music had on those who listened to it. She was accustomed to the praise she received each night, but the sincerity of these kids moved her.

“Come by one night soon and ask for me or Armando,” she said. “My treat.”

“Thank you so much!” they chorused.

Once inside Armando’s apartment, she was surprised to find it so silent. At this hour, he was usually awaiting her arrival, listening to music, or reading in the living room. Billie still came to her friend’s house every day to make lunch and eat with him. Armando hadn’t looked well lately, and she was worried about him.

“Armando?” she called.

There was no answer. She thought he must have gotten up later than usual and was out buying the paper. She went to the kitchen and unloaded her groceries. Suddenly, she had a premonition. A thought struggled to the front of her brain and left her paralyzed for a few seconds. Not really knowing why, her heart pounding in her chest, she headed to Armando’s bedroom and knocked on the door.

“Armando?”

Nobody answered. She turned the knob and opened the door. Armando was lying in his bed, and a strange and oppressive quiet filled the room. Billie felt a shiver go up her spine. She called to him again from the door.

“Armando,” she whispered, with the terrible conviction that he wouldn’t respond.

She walked slowly to the head of the bed and observed his pallid face. It was tinged blue, his features still. She studied his closed eyelids for the almost imperceptible movement that they made in sleep, and saw nothing. She put her hand on his very slowly, knowing she would find it cold, the breath of life gone.

She sat down gently on the edge of the bed as if she were afraid of disturbing him, as if she were still hoping he would open his eyes and smile at her in his tender way.

Then, she embraced him, sobbing.

EPILOGUE

Tatiana applauded enthusiastically when Billie finished singing “Lover Man,” a Billie Holiday song that was one of her favorites. She requested it every night, and Billie always sang it in her honor at the end of her act.

Billie contemplated the empty room from the stage.

“We’re all alone,” she said.

“Looks like it,” Matías confirmed, squinting into the darkness. On days like this, you feel it more than ever.”

“Well,” Tatiana said, “at least we have each other.”

“But we’re missing Armando,” Billie said.

The other two nodded silently, lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes. It was the first Christmas without Armando. They had celebrated the holidays together for years in his apartment on the Plaza Real. “The Christmas for lost souls,” the host had joked. Still, the four of them—five when Nicolás was still with them—had a good time sharing the human warmth and joy of the holiday together. It resembled a family reunion in every way. Though they weren’t bound by blood ties, something more authentic—friendship—united them. But that night, without Armando, no one felt like celebrating.

They had stayed at the Havana later than usual, since none of them wanted to go home to their own houses, to find themselves face-to-face with their loneliness, their ghosts, the pain of the absences in their lives.

“We should be closing,” Billie said, with a sigh.

“Yup,” Matías sighed as well, stood up, and lowered the piano lid.

Tatiana stood up and crammed herself into what had once been a fabulous mink coat. Billie and Matías collected a few glasses from the tables and left them on the bar. She counted the money in the register, put it in an envelope, and put it in her purse.

“Well, I’m going,” Tatiana announced, heading to the door. “Good night. And Merry Christmas.”

“Wait,” Billie stopped her. “I’ll walk you home. It’s too late for you to walk alone around here.”

“Don’t worry, Billie,” the Russian replied. “It’s so close.”

“Come on. We’ll walk you. I insist. Right, Matías?”

“Of course! It’s on our way.”

Tatiana shrugged and waited by the door for them to grab their stuff and put on their coats. Billie flipped off the lights and the place went dark. She locked the door, and Matías helped her drag down the metal gate, which was profusely decorated with elaborate graffiti. She knew it would be useless to try to get rid of it. A new painting would be up the next day. They closed the padlock and started to walk unhurriedly through the solitary streets. It was cold, the ground was wet, and they felt the damp in their bones. It was drizzling. No, it was snowing. They smiled when they realized the snowflakes were flitting on their shoulders and then melting right away.

“It’s snowing!” Billie exclaimed.

“It’s not sticking,” Matías said, stopping to contemplate the snow falling slowly and silently, then disappearing immediately among the cobblestones. “It almost never sticks in Barcelona.”

“Well, in Russia it snows a lot,” Tatiana said. “The snow piles up in the streets and stays there for months. You wouldn’t think it was so exciting if it snowed the way it does in Moscow.”

“In my country, it never snows,” Billie said, smiling at how obvious her comment was. “There are hurricanes, typhoons, everything. But no snow.”

“In Barcelona there was a blizzard once,” Matías recalled. “It was in 1962. The city was paralyzed—we weren’t prepared for anything like that. Highways were closed; there was no public transit or communication. It was a disaster! The kids loved it, since school was closed for a few days. But it was total chaos.”

They had arrived at Tatiana’s door. After saying good-bye to her, they continued on toward Billie’s house.

“Where’s Gerardo?” Matías asked.

“He went to spend Christmas with his children.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“He’ll be here for New Year’s,” Billie said, looking at Matías. “He has two grandchildren. Did you know that? He hasn’t even met one of them yet. He was really excited.”

“It’s going well with him, right?”

Billie made an evasive gesture and smiled timidly.

“I’m happy for you, Billie. Armando would be too. He already was. I think he liked Gerardo from the beginning.”

“Unlike you.”

“I’ll admit I didn’t trust him much at first. But then I realized he was a good person. And he loves you, Billie. You can tell from a mile away that he’s crazy about you.”

“You think so?” Billie asked, averting her gaze. “It’s hard to believe that someone could be attracted to me at this point. I’m old and fat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Matías exclaimed, stopping to look her in the eye. “You’re still beautiful, Billie. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

And he said the words so emphatically that Billie blushed.

“You’re such a drama queen, Matías!” she said, trying to make light of it. “But I appreciate it. It’s always nice to hear things like that.”

“I’m being completely serious! You’ve always been a very beautiful woman, and you still are. And more importantly: you have a heart that doesn’t fit in your chest.”

“Alright, alright! Get out of here and go to sleep,” Billie said, laughing as she cut him off.

They had arrived at her house, and Matías gave her a kiss good-bye.

“Merry Christmas, beautiful.”

“See you tomorrow, Matías. Merry Christmas.” Billie kissed his other cheek and opened the door. She watched him walk away under the snow, hunched against the cold and stooped by years. She felt a stab of sadness. Matías was getting pretty old as well.

When she went into her house, the light on her answering machine was blinking. She pressed the button to listen to the message:

“Hello, Billie,” said Gerardo’s voice. “I just wanted to say good night and tell you that I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Billie whispered, a smile playing on her lips.

She went over to the window. Outside, the snow was still falling, placid and steady.