Havana Jazz Club (9 page)

CHAPTER 16

They spent the whole day on the highway. Mario drove calmly, chatting animatedly and managing, whether he meant to or not, to clear the ghosts from Billie’s head.

Mario told her that he made this trip all the time for work, and he always drove because he was afraid of planes. He was thirty-four years old, married, and the father of a three-year-old girl and a five-year-old boy. Billie listened with interest and a sliver of envy, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a family like his—a home, a job, a calm life among his own people. That was the life she had dreamed of when she married Orlando. But her dreams had been destroyed—and in a more brutal way than she ever could have imagined. She was starting to think she was cursed, that tragedy would always follow her, and she would never be happy. Why? She wondered. What had she done wrong?

Mario didn’t ask her any more questions or pry further into her life, despite his curiosity and his desire to help her. But it was obvious that she didn’t want to—or couldn’t—speak about it. In fact, she barely opened her mouth the entire way except to respond politely from time to time. She seemed to relax a bit when he told her stories about his children and when he spoke about places he had visited, his job, the things he liked to do. She smiled slightly and nodded every once in a while, inviting him to keep talking. In her frightened eyes and sad smile, Mario could read a mute plea—“Please don’t ask”—as well as a shadow of gratitude for respecting her silence. When she seemed absent, Mario kept talking, watching her out of the corner of his eye even when he knew she wasn’t listening to him. Occasionally, her face darkened and her eyes shone as if they were brimming with tears, but Billie clenched her jaw, breathed deeply, and swallowed the tears, turning her face to the window until she had contained her emotions. When he saw this, Mario wanted to tell her to cry, to scream, to explode, that talking would help her feel better, but he was afraid to upset her further and so just tried to distract her with his chatter.

They stopped to eat halfway through the trip, and when they got back on the road again, Billie fell asleep. She didn’t open her eyes again until they got to Barcelona. Then she startled awake, as if she had intuited that the sweet truce had come to an end. She would soon have to go her own way, leaving the only person of clean mind and good heart she had crossed paths with in a long time. He would reunite with his charming family in his warm house full of love and children’s laughter, and she would have to face an uncertain destiny alone.

Night was starting to fall over the city.

“We’re here,” Mario announced when he realized she was awake. “Where would you like me to drop you?”

“Wherever you’re going,” she replied doubtfully, shrugging her shoulders.

“Do you have somewhere to go? Do you know anyone here?”

Though Billie nodded, Mario knew she was lying. He felt so sorry for her, but what could he do?

“If you like I can leave you downtown. From there, it’ll be easy to get . . . wherever you’re going.”

“Okay,” Billie said, and felt tears forming in her eyes again. She didn’t want to cry. She had to be strong. At least until she got away from Mario. She didn’t want to make him more uncomfortable.

They both stayed silent as the car passed through the dense city traffic. Both curious and nervous, Billie studied the streets, watching the crowds rushing around, though they didn’t seem to move quite as quickly as in Madrid. The heat was humid and settled on her skin. She swallowed the despair that pressed against her chest. At least the hell she had lived through was behind her, many miles away. Maybe it would be easier to forget that way . . .

Mario stopped the car at the corner of Catedral Avenue and Via Laietana.

“Well,” Mario said, turning toward Billie and forcing a smile, “I think you’ll be fine here. It’s a nice central spot with plenty of metros and buses. I have to turn off here.”

The man pointed to the left, toward Princesa Street.

“Okay,” Billie said, her voice wavering as she prepared to get out of the car.

“My wife and children are waiting for me,” he added as though to justify himself.

She nodded again and hurried to get out.

“Thank you so much for everything,” she said from the sidewalk, through the window.

“Wait,” Mario handed her a folded slip of paper. “Here’s my phone number. Call me if you need anything. Good luck, Billie.”

She took the paper and nodded with a weak smile as Mario gave a final wave and his car disappeared in traffic. Billie unfolded the paper and discovered that, along with a phone number, it contained a thousand-peso bill. She looked up with a protest on her lips, but his car was already out of sight. “Thank you,” she muttered. She folded the bill and the paper again and clenched it in her fist. Then she took a deep breath and turned toward Catedral Avenue. As her gaze landed on the magnificent Gothic facade of the illuminated church, she felt overwhelmed by its beauty.

Unable to take her eyes off the cathedral’s front doors, she walked decisively toward the wide stairs, as if drawn by a magnet.

As she stepped into the dimly lit interior and inhaled the scent of incense and wax, she felt an immediate sense of calm. She dipped her fingers in the stoup of holy water and blessed herself fervently. Billie had inherited her mother’s religious syncretism, and since there was no venerated image of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, who presided over the family home in her house in Cuba, she prostrated in front of the sorrowful Holy Christ of Lepanto. Many candles lit by the pious burned at the image’s feet, and she lamented not having any coins to light her own. Instead, she murmured a prayer to ask the good Lord to light one for her to change her luck.

She felt calm and safe there, the silence broken only by the respectful whispers of prayers.

“Excuse me,” a voice whispered to her.

She looked up. A young priest in a black cassock was leaning toward her with a friendly smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but we’re closing soon.”

Billie looked around. The church had completely emptied out.

“Father, I need to confess,” she said impulsively.

“I’m sorry, my daughter, but that’s not possible now. Come back tomorrow. And be calm. Jesus has already forgiven you and is with you.”

Billie stood up from the bench and headed toward the exit after giving the priest a small wave.

What did she want to confess? she asked herself once she was back in the street. What sin had she committed? Guilty or not, the fact was that she felt dirty. She needed to clean her soul the way she had cleaned her body at that service station on the highway. She needed to tell someone everything that had happened, to wrench it out of her guts so that she could put it behind her and get her life back, a life in which nobody would abuse or rape her ever again.

The sound of burbling water got her attention. She went over to the iron fence where the noise was coming from and discovered a beautiful patio with a pool in the middle. A few geese were flapping around and gliding through the water, harmonious and quiet. It was the cathedral’s cloister.

She wandered through the Gothic Quarter, feeling small in the midst of such beautiful buildings. But she also realized that she felt protected by the streets’ walls, safe in this strange city. She zigzagged through the streets and plazas, letting herself wander, pleasantly surprised by the charm of the neighborhood, which somehow reminded her of Old Havana. Maybe it was the proximity to the sea or the humidity. She even thought she could smell salt in the air. She crossed Ferran Street and kept walking through the narrow, dimly lit alleys, but her exhaustion began to catch up with her, and she had to find a room for the night. She saw a few signs that advertised rooms and chose one that looked simple and cheap.

She pushed open the old door, ascended a creaking wooden staircase, and knocked on a door with a sign that read “Pension.” A middle-aged woman opened the door. She had a vulgar look about her—too much makeup for the robe and slippers she was wearing—and a cigarette lodged between her lips. She squinted to avoid getting smoke in her eyes. She looked at Billie with surprise, then suspicion.

“Yes?” she asked disdainfully.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Billie said. “I would like a room.”

“You don’t have any luggage,” the woman said, sticking her head out into the stairwell and then clamping her small, astute eyes back on the girl. “Not even a purse.”

“I-I was robbed,” Billie improvised.

“Did you go to the police?” the woman said, sounding skeptical.

“No,” she answered, bowing her head discouraged.

She was half-dead with exhaustion. She needed to shower, to rest. She couldn’t go to the police. If she did, she would have to tell them the whole truth, and she knew it would turn out wrong. Quiroga had made it very clear that it would be her word against his and that nobody would believe her. She would be the one to end up in prison. But she understood the woman’s suspicion.

“Please,” she insisted, holding out the thousand-peso note. “I have money.”

The sight of the money seemed to decide the matter.

“Come in,” she said, closing the door behind the girl. “I could get into trouble for lodging you without papers. I’ll only give you a room for tonight, and it will cost you extra. I’m sure you understand.”

Billie nodded and thanked the woman. After being shown the room, she took a long shower in the shared bathroom. As she tried to erase the last traces of the outrage she had suffered the night before, the memories of it all came flooding back. But it somehow felt like a distant memory, as if a lot of time had passed. The distance acted like a balm. She let out a deep sigh as the water spilled over her and washed away the terrible images. She had to put it behind her. The important thing was to find a job that would help her move forward and get back home to Cuba as soon as she could.

But once she was in bed, she couldn’t fall asleep. She knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to find a job. She remembered the hostel owner’s suspicious demeanor and thought the same thing would happen everywhere she went. Suddenly, she became aware of her true situation: she didn’t have any papers or documentation—nothing to prove her identity—and that worried her. She didn’t know how to resolve the issue, how she would explain it. It was like she didn’t exist at all.

CHAPTER 17

Billie tossed and turned, impatiently awaiting the first light of dawn. As soon as it filtered into the room, she jumped out of bed. She had hardly slept, but she couldn’t stand the anxiety any longer. She needed to get up and do something. She freshened up a little and left her room.

“You’re up awfully early . . .”

The owner came out to the hall with curlers in her hair and a threadbare robe whose colors were faded from years of washing.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Billie said. “Yes, I’m leaving now. Thank you for everything.”

“Wait a minute.” The woman went into one of the rooms and returned with some clothes that she held out to Billie. “I found these. Someone forgot them. They’re clean. I thought you might like a change of clothes.”

Her words came with a meaningful look up and down Billie, who was still wearing the short, low-cut dress she had worn when she left Madrid. She hesitated for a minute, a little ashamed, but quickly decided that she was more likely to pass unnoticed in more discreet clothes.

“I really appreciate it,” she said, surprised by the owner’s kindness. The woman gave her a friendly, almost affectionate smile and patted Billie on the back.

“You can change here,” she said, pointing to the room where she had gotten the clothes.

Billie went into the room and closed the door. She put on the long hippie skirt and the white, short-sleeved blouse. She didn’t care how she looked, but she did feel more comfortable.

“You’re very kind,” she said to the woman, coming out of the room with her dress in her hand.

“You look great,” the owner observed, contemplating her with admiration. “Though you’d look good in a potato sack. Do you want me to put your dress in a bag?”

“No,” Billie replied with what must have seemed like surprising vehemence. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to throw it in the trash.”

The woman shrugged, took the dress, and gave Billie a scrutinizing look.

“I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in,” she said, “but you’d better try not to attract too much attention around here if you don’t want problems with the police.”

“I promise I didn’t do anything wrong,” Billie said. “All I want is to find a job and—”

“Nobody will give you a job without papers,” the woman said. “But I have a friend who can help you. He has good contacts and finds documents and jobs for girls like you.”

“Girls like me?” Billie asked.

“You know,” said the woman with an oblique smile. “Young, pretty girls who need money right away. He can introduce you to some people, distinguished gentlemen, you know what I’m saying . . . He could earn you a lot of money. And I could put you up here. I’d give you the best room in the house, and it’d be a win-win for both of us.”

“I don’t . . .” Billie trailed off, finally understanding what the woman was insinuating.

“Well, then you’re a fool,” the woman said coldly. “With that face and that body you could live like a queen.”

Billie shook her head frantically and hurried toward the door.

“I have to go. Thank you for your help, ma’am. Good-bye.”

The woman followed her to the stairwell.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me!” she yelled down the stairs as Billie ran out.

Billie found a café and ate a light breakfast with the little money she had left. Then she walked around the neighborhood and went into all the bars, restaurants, and businesses that had “Help Wanted” signs by the door. The answer was always the same: they wouldn’t mind training her for a couple days. All she had to do was present her ID and social security card. Billie thanked them and told them she would, and then moved on to try her luck elsewhere.

When night fell, demoralized and with aching feet, she bought a sandwich with her last coins and sat down on the stairs by the port, with her back to the statue of Columbus pointing to the Americas. Her eyes damp with tears, she searched the dark sea, trying to imagine where Cuba was.

She didn’t have money for a room, and she didn’t know where to go. So she spent the night loitering around the port, resting on a bench occasionally and starting to walk again whenever she noticed someone—usually a man—staring at her. It was summer, the weather was good, and there were lots of people out strolling and sitting on café terraces. Dawn had started to break when, exhausted, she went down to the beach and fell asleep on the sand.

She awoke to the sound of people around her. The beach was packed with swimmers. Children were laughing and splashing in the water. Adults were watching them, sunbathing, dozing on their towels, reading, or chatting with their friends. It was very hot, so Billie assumed it must be midday.

Billie stood up and stretched. She would have liked to go for a swim to clear her mind and freshen up a little, but she didn’t have a bathing suit. She was starving, but didn’t have a cent left. She thought about what she could do, where she should go. She didn’t have the strength to keep futilely knocking on doors. She decided that her only option was to call Mario. She was ashamed to do it, but she needed help. That’s when she discovered that she had lost the slip of paper with his telephone number. She let herself crumple back down on the sand. What was she going to do now? Who could she turn to? She couldn’t go back to the woman in the pension. Billie knew she would only help her if she accepted her proposition.

Suddenly, a memory popped into her head, of that man, the client from the New York. What was his name? She didn’t remember, but he had said he owned a jazz club in Barcelona. He had seemed like a good person. But she had never even glanced at the card he gave her. There must be dozens of jazz clubs . . . But she recalled that he had said his club was in the old city. It could be nearby, in any of the little alleys she had wandered down the evening before. Maybe she would be lucky and find it. She stood up again, suddenly hopeful, and left the beach.

She wandered around the neighborhood called El Born in search of jazz clubs, but the metal gates that protected the entrances made it impossible for her to guess what type of business was hiding behind them. She would have to return in the evening, when they were open. She walked up and down Princesa Street, as that was the direction Mario had gone after dropping her off. She prayed to her saints to give her a miracle and make them run into each other, but the saints were very far away, on the other side of the ocean, and they couldn’t hear her. Exhausted and suffocated by the heat, she decided to stop at Santa Maria del Mar church. She knelt before the image of the virgin and prayed to Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre. Although the saint went by a different name here, it was the same virgin she prayed to at home. She rested for a while on one of the benches, enjoying the cool provided by the stone walls and admiring the majesty of the place. She watched the tourists coming and going, whispering and snapping photographs. She envied their carefree way. She knew they were staying in comfortable hotels and eating in good restaurants. Her stomach rumbled and ached from hunger. As she left the church, a profusion of delicious aromas penetrated her nose and made her taste buds prick up. The restaurant patios were starting to fill up with customers, and appetizing plates were coming and going in waiters’ hands. When she got to Pla del Palau, her eyes fell on one of the stone benches. Someone had left a tray with a barely nibbled hamburger on it. She walked toward it and glanced around. There was hardly anyone in the plaza right then, just a woman with a child and some men chatting nearby. Billie sat down on the bench and looked at the food out of the corner of her eye. Her mouth was watering and nausea was rising in her throat. She snatched up the feast and devoured it with simultaneous yearning and disgust, feeling like she could vomit at any moment.

Tears of shame and disdain for herself trickled down her cheeks as she ate.