Havana Jazz Club (10 page)

CHAPTER 18

She didn’t find the jazz club, and destiny didn’t bring her across Mario’s path. She tried her luck in bars and stores, heading to places managed by foreigners in hopes that they would be less strict about the rules, but her efforts were in vain. Without papers there was nothing they could do. She tried for several days, growing weaker and more disheartened as time passed. Billie knew that she looked worse each day. Though she tried to freshen up in the bathrooms of bars, her clothes carried the footprint of long days wandering the streets, nights on the beach, and sitting on park benches waiting for dawn. They could read the hunger, desperation, and exhaustion in her eyes.

She lost track of how many days she had spent wandering aimlessly around the streets. She always moved in circles within the same small areas, afraid of crossing beyond that perimeter of security and getting lost. She felt like this was the only place she could survive, that there was still some hope of finding her guardian angels here. Reality was growing increasingly vague, and her life began to feel more and more like a bad dream.

She grew accustomed to going to the tranquil little plaza near the port with the fountain in the center. Whenever she got tired of walking, she sat on one of the benches and contemplated the pigeons, cooing placidly as they searched the ground for crumbs and pecked at puddles. They were more fortunate than she was. They enjoyed a simple life, without worries of any kind. They spent all day enjoying the sun and then retreated to the eaves of the roofs at night.

An old woman came punctually every afternoon and gave them bread crumbs. They recognized her, rushing over to her as soon as she appeared and fluttering around her head. As soon as she sat down on a bench, the plaza was suddenly full of birds. They sat on her lap and her shoulders, eating from her hand and trying to peck at the bag she brought. She scolded them sweetly and brushed them off gently as if they could understand her. When the food was gone, the woman would leave, and most of the birds flew off.

Billie was tempted to ask her for help more than once. If she was kindhearted enough to care for these little creatures, maybe she would take pity on her. She was surely alone as well, and the pigeons were her only company. But Billie never dared approach her. She was afraid of scaring the woman. She was also ashamed. Whenever she had made the firm decision to go over to her, she broke out in a cold sweat and her heart started racing. So she remained quietly on her bench and averted her gaze. The woman never gave the slightest indication of having noticed her.

When it had gotten completely dark and the park was empty, Billie tried to freshen up at the fountain, glancing around uneasily and hiding if someone walked by. Then, she prowled around the nearby restaurants, where she always found some leftovers that had been tossed in the trash. At first, the old food made her retch, but her hunger soon overcame her queasiness. She pulled clothes out of the dumpster as well. Summer was having its last flings and the nights were getting chilly.

There were other people drifting around the streets as well. She began to recognize them by sight, though she usually acted as if she didn’t see them. A few tried to strike up conversations with her, especially the men. They offered her their company and protection. The nighttime streets were dangerous, they said, even more so for a girl as young and pretty as her. But Billie refused and kept her distance. She felt that hanging out with the homeless was like giving up. She refused to accept that her situation was a permanent way of life, and preferred to figure things out alone. In spite of everything, she still clung to a sliver of hope, a spark of dignity that stopped her from giving up. She tried to convince herself that she would eventually escape this underworld. She didn’t know when or how, but she would do it.

In the meantime, she spent her nights at the end of a dark alley, hiding behind a huge dumpster. She hardly slept, always fearful of being discovered or attacked.

One night, when she was on her way to her hiding spot, she felt a sudden need to vomit. She ran to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned over the curb. The little she had eaten—a few black, mushy bananas—hadn’t settled well. She had felt disgusted eating them, but she was starving. After ridding her stomach of its scarce contents, she kept vomiting bile until the retching stopped. A cold sweat drenched her body, and she was afraid she might faint in the middle of the street. Swaying, she went to a doorway and huddled in the corner. She was shivering from cold, and she was frightened. She didn’t know what was going on—she could have poisoned herself, or caught some disease and would die right here, in a shadowy alley in the middle of the night, abandoned like a dog.

“Billie? Is that you, Billie?”

Who was calling her by her name? She hadn’t told anyone her name.

A man was kneeling down in front of her, breathing laboriously. Frightened, Billie curled further into her corner.

“It’s Armando! Do you remember me? We met in Madrid, at the New York.”

She looked up incredulously. It was him! Her guardian angel! He was fatter than before, but she recognized his kind, round face. With the same excitement she would have felt reuniting with her best friend, Billie reached out her arms, trembling. She touched him as if she doubted he was real and then ended up collapsing onto his chest and bursting into tears. Armando wrapped his arms around her.

“Little angel! But, what’s happened to you? What are you doing here in this cold?”

“I have nowhere to go . . .”

“You don’t have a home? You live in the street?” Armando was scandalized. “How long have you been like this?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured in a helpless voice.

“Come on. Get up. I’m taking you to my house. It’s nearby. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I didn’t have your number.”

Armando stood up with difficulty, still holding onto Billie who was a feather in his arms. He put his arm around her waist and took her hand to help her walk, and, slowly, they walked a few blocks until they stopped in front of a magnificent door.

“We’re here,” he announced.

He took keys from his pocket and opened the door. As they went up in the stately elevator, Billie stared at Armando, still clinging to him, incapable of believing how lucky she was. Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, whom she prayed to every night, had put him in her path to rescue her from the ashes.

Armando’s apartment was old and huge, with colorful carpets on the floor and high, coffered ceilings that sparkled with sumptuous chandeliers. Armando took her straight to the kitchen and sat her down on a chair.

“The first thing you must do is have something to eat. You must be dying of hunger,” he said. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out all kinds of food, piling it up on the table. “Then you’ll take a nice, hot bath and go to bed. Who knows how long it’s been since you slept in a good bed. Eat as much as you like while I get everything ready.”

When Armando left the kitchen, she stared at all the food he had put out, not knowing where to start. She nibbled at some boiled ham, soft cheese, and a chunk of bread. Then she drank a glass of milk. Her stomach, shrunk by lack of food, wouldn’t let her eat more. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She heard her benefactor tiptoeing through the house.

Later, she took a long bath and then put on a pajama top of Armando’s that reached her knees. The sleeves practically dragged across the floor.

“I don’t have anything else,” he said by way of apology, “but it should do for tonight.”

He accompanied her to the room he had prepared for her and said good night.

“Rest, Billie,” he said kindly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Good night.”

“Good night, little one.”

Armando closed the door behind him, and Billie climbed carefully into that wonderful bed with its clean, perfumed sheets, as though afraid of destroying it or getting it dirty. Then she remembered that she was clean, that she had been able to take a bath after . . . how long? The last time she had showered was in that pension, when she first arrived in Barcelona. How much time had passed since then? She had lost track, but it seemed like decades had passed since she had fallen into that dark tunnel that led to hell itself.

She didn’t want to go to sleep—she was afraid of waking up and finding herself back in that dank alley—but she was so exhausted that sleep took no time conquering her resistance.

CHAPTER 19

When she woke up she didn’t dare open her eyes right away. She was afraid it had all been a beautiful dream and that reality would smack her in the face as soon as she opened them. Sharpening her senses, she felt the pleasant softness of the sheets, smelled the refreshing scent of lavender, listened for the deafening noise of traffic and the bustle of trucks, but she heard only peace and silence . . . She squinted through her eyelids and saw crystal tear drops hanging from an ancient chandelier, thick curtains covering the windows, the same aquamarine as the bedspread, filtering the light from outside. It hadn’t been a dream. She was saved.

Feeling nauseated again, she jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, but it was only a false alarm and passed after a few seconds. When she emerged from the bathroom, she called to Armando, but nobody responded. She wandered the house in search of him but found it empty and silent. She crossed the dimly lit living room, drawn by the muffled noise of voices and laughter coming from the street. Looking down from the balcony, she recognized Plaza Real. The night before, she had been so wrecked that she hadn’t even noticed where Armando was taking her. Evening was falling over the palm trees and the café terraces, and the outlines of the arches that surrounded the plaza were blurring in the vacillating dusk light. Around the central fountain, groups of kids were smoking and chatting. A tall, thin man who looked like a hippie was playing the violin in front of one of the café terraces. At another, a waiter was shooing away a drunken beggar so he wouldn’t bother his customers.

She heard the door close behind her and spun around. Armando entered the living room, laden with packages. He smiled with delight when he saw she was awake.

“You’re up,” he said. “I was starting to get worried about you.”

“What time is it?” Billie asked.

“Seven in the evening.”

“I slept all day?”

“Yes. You must have needed it. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine.” Billie smiled, and added timidly, “I’m so grateful to you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“There’s nothing to be grateful for,” Armando said. He gestured to the packages with his hand. “I bought you some things I think you’ll need. I don’t know if I got the right sizes . . . The clerk was a young girl who had a similar figure to yours, and I asked her to give me everything in her size.”

He started to pull things out of the bags and spread them out on the dining room table: pajamas, a robe, slippers, underwear, a couple of sweaters, some jeans, a skirt, shoes and boots, a leather jacket, some personal hygiene products, even a bottle of perfume and a blow-dryer.

“I wasn’t really sure what you’d need,” he continued, embarrassed. “The girl from the store told me that if something doesn’t fit you or you don’t like it, we can exchange it. And if you need anything else all you have to do is tell me.”

“My God, Armando!” Billie exclaimed, overwhelmed. “You didn’t have to buy all this.”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d want to put back on the clothes you were wearing . . .”

Billie fell silent, suddenly ashamed as she recalled the situation Armando had found her in.

“I need to explain—” Billie said, perching on the edge of the sofa.

“Don’t worry,” Armando broke in, settling down next to her. “You don’t owe me any explanations. All that matters is that you rest and recuperate. There will be time to talk, if you want.”

“But I can’t stay here.”

“Why not? Do you have somewhere better to be?” He smiled, teasing. Billie shook her head and looked down. “Well then, say no more. You’ll stay here as long as you need. I’m going to make some dinner. You must be hungry, yes?”

Not waiting for her answer, he gave her a few affectionate pats on the shoulder and headed into the kitchen.

As they ate dinner, Billie came clean and told Armando everything, or almost. She explained that she had accompanied him to his hotel that night in Madrid because her own husband, and Gregorio, the manager of the New York, had made her. She told him about the way Orlando had changed after they got to Spain. She told him how he had become aggressive and malicious, so unscrupulous that he had forced his own wife to prostitute herself. She told him, with tears in her eyes, that she had no choice but to leave him. She told him about working for the Quirogas, but she didn’t go into the details of what had happened there. It was still too terrible, too shameful. In spite of the time that had passed, that wound was still too raw. She didn’t feel capable of talking about it out loud to someone who was still a complete stranger to her. She didn’t lie exactly. She just softened the story, telling him that Mr. Quiroga had sexually assaulted her and threatened to accuse her of stealing if she didn’t do as he demanded. So she had fled with nothing but the clothes on her back. She mentioned Mario, the young man who had brought her to Barcelona in his car and offered her his help, but then she had lost his number. She told him that she had thought of Armando, and the offer he had made her in Madrid, but she didn’t have his address or remember the name of the club. She described her fruitless attempts to find work and her desperation, which had left her so downtrodden and disheartened that she was afraid she would lose her mind.

“Poor girl! That must have been horrible for you . . . You’ve had some terrible luck with the men in your life. You should report that Quiroga and your husband too.”

Billie shook her head.

“I’d rather just forget about Orlando. As for Quiroga, it would be useless to try anything. He’s a rich and powerful man, and I’m just a black immigrant with no papers. I would never be able to prove anything, and he told me till he was blue in the face that if I reported him, I would only be bringing trouble upon myself.”

“Maybe I could talk to him and put the screws to him a bit, at least persuade him to compensate you and return your belongings. I know people too. I can make some calls and make sure this pig gets the punishment he deserves.”

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Billie said with a vehemence that surprised him.

“Alright,” Armando said. “But you can’t be without documentation. If you’re worried about going to the police and having to give explanations, I’ll take care of everything. I have friends on the squad who owe me some favors. In the meantime, you’d better avoid being seen too much.”

“Whatever you say,” Billie said.

“Have you heard any news about your husband in all this time?”

“No . . .”

“Do you still love him? Are you still in love with him?”

Although Billie shook her head, Armando thought it looked more like an attempt to convince herself than the truth.

“He hurt me,” Billie said timidly, shunning Armando’s gaze.

Armando understood that it was a delicate topic for her and changed the subject.

Armando told her a bit about himself as well. He had spent most of his life working as a civil servant in the Barcelona courts, where he ended up in a pretty high position. But he had felt a great emptiness inside him, a personal dissatisfaction that was only soothed by music, especially jazz. He often went to live concerts or listened to his favorite records at home, where he spent many evenings alone. One day, on his way to work, he noticed the sign on a bar he passed every day. It was an old jazz club he had gone to all the time when he was young. A crazy idea started to tumble around in his head. Why not? he asked himself. After mulling it over for a few days, he decided to ask for a sabbatical from work and try his luck. And he’d never looked back.

After dinner, Armando announced to Billie that he had to go out. He had to take care of his business.

“The club is called Dixieland. It’s right around the corner. As soon as we get your papers sorted out, you can come with me if you’d like.”

Billie nodded.

“Everything will work out okay, Billie,” he assured her before he left.

“Thank you.” She smiled. And wondered how many times she had thanked him since meeting him in Madrid.

When Armando left, Billie cleaned the kitchen. She wanted to do the same with the rest of the house—to pay back Armando’s generosity in some way—but the place was immaculate. Armando appeared to be very organized and kept everything in perfect condition. Maybe he had hired someone to take care of the cleaning, Billie thought. She would tell him that she would take care of everything as long as she was staying there. She gathered up the things Armando had brought her and stacked them all carefully in the wardrobe in her room.

Since she had slept all day, she wasn’t tired. She went back to the living room and examined the enormous collection of records and cassettes piled up around the stereo. Armando really did have a magnificent collection of jazz from all ages. She thought about how her mother would have marveled at it. She chose Charlie Parker’s saxophone and put it on very low, not wanting to bother the neighbors, then she went over to the balcony and looked down at the plaza. It was lit up by the warm, orangey glow of the streetlamps and fairy lights strung from palm trees and railings. The hubbub had died down, and the cold had driven the customers indoors, but the flow of people crossing the plaza and wandering in and out of the shops continued.

When she got tired of people watching, she sat on the sofa and picked up a magazine from the coffee table. She smiled. There was no doubt that Armando was a genuine jazz enthusiast: it was a foreign specialty magazine. Inside she recognized photos of many of her idols, but she hadn’t mastered English and couldn’t read the articles.

Billie sighed and curled up on the sofa. She let herself be cradled by the sweet lament of the sax and drifted off to sleep.

Armando smiled when he saw her, contemplating her with a mixture of tenderness and sadness as he thought about everything that the poor girl had endured. Then he took her in his arms, taking the utmost care not to wake her, and carried her to her room. He covered her with a blanket and, after turning out the light, closed the door without a sound.

He went back to the living room. A record was still turning on the plate and the needle was making a persistent and monotonous sound, stuck on the last groove. He turned off the record player with a small smile. It was pleasant to come home and have someone to take care of.

In the morning, he awoke to strange sounds coming from the bathroom. Alarmed at the thought that something was wrong with Billie, he got out of bed and ran to see what was going on. He found her lying on the floor next to the toilet, vomiting.

“Billie, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed, going over to her and putting his hand on her sweaty forehead. “Don’t worry, don’t worry . . .”

When the crisis had passed, Billie was pallid and trembling. Armando, frightened, didn’t know what to do. He helped her into her robe and led her to the living room.

“I’ll make you some chamomile tea. That’ll make you feel better.”

Billie was frightened too. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and she was afraid her system had been ravaged by her time in the streets. She took the hot chamomile tea that Armando offered her, and the color gradually returned to her cheeks.

“That’s happened to me a few times now,” she confessed to her friend. “I don’t know, maybe I caught some infection.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing,” Armando said, trying to calm her down. “You probably have some little bug. We’ll go see a doctor today.”

Armando got on the phone and made an appointment for that same morning.

Later, Armando accompanied her to see a doctor he trusted, who examined her exhaustively without asking her any questions. After the exam, he met both of them in his office. He glanced at Armando with a disconcertingly sarcastic smile, then he turned to Billie and grew serious.

“Well, Billie, you have nothing to worry about. It’s entirely natural for you to be feeling this way. You’re pregnant,” the physician explained. “Congratulations to you both.”

The words fell like a bomb, and a thick silence filled the air. The doctor, surprised by the couple’s reaction, cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Well, I see you weren’t expecting this . . .”

“No . . .” Armando stammered. “I’m not . . . we’re not . . .”

“It can’t be,” Billie moaned.

“Are you sure?” Armando asked.

“Of course I’m sure,” the doctor responded, offended.

“I’m sorry,” Armando said, trying to force a smile. “It’s just that you took us by surprise.”

“I can see that,” the doctor replied, smiling back. “In any case, you should go see a gynecologist as soon as possible. For now, Billie, you needn’t worry. Your symptoms are all normal in the first three months. Try to stay calm and don’t exert yourself physically. You’ll feel much better soon.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Billie managed to respond, as Armando took her by the arm and helped her to her feet.

“Thank you,” Armando repeated, his brow furrowed, still grasping Billie by the arm. She was too stunned to let go of him.

“I don’t understand,” Armando said almost to himself, and then turned to her with an inquisitive expression. “Is it your husband’s? I thought you hadn’t seen him in more than a year . . .”

Billie couldn’t say a word. The earth had opened up under her feet, and fat tears were rolling down her cheeks. Was she never going to have a little peace?