—Come right on in, Cuba said, talking through the mirror in her dressing room. She was putting on her makeup and had thrown a dressing gown over her stage costume. She was prettier than ever with her pouting lips wet and full and red, and the blue shadow around her eyes which made them bigger and blacker and more brilliant, and her hair styled a little like a mulatto version of Veronica Lake and her legs crossed showing through her gown open up to her thighs, taut and dark and smooth, almost edible.
What’s new with Verónica Laguna? I said. She smiled, so as to show off her large round white teeth which were a row of cowries over her pink gums. They were so even and perfect they looked like dentures.
—Ready for Freddy, she said, widening the corner of her eyes with a black pencil.
—What’s the matter?
—With me? I’m sick.
I went up to her and held her by the shoulders, without kissing her or anything. But she was very cool and got up and slipped out of the gown and with the gown out of my hands: she didn’t so much slip out of my hands as she was taking me off like a piece of clothing.
—Let’s go someplace after the show.
—Can’t, she said. —I have the curse.
—Only to Las Vegas, I mean.
—The thing is, I think I’m running a temperature.
I went to the door and balanced in the void that came through it, holding onto the edge of the door with my hands. I had to push myself forward with both my arms to go out, when I heard her calling me.
—I’m sorry, love.
I made some kind of gesture with my head. Sic transit Gloria Pérez.
I went to meet Vivian at the Focsa building three hours later. As I was going in the doorman already came toward me, but I heard Vivian calling me. She was sitting in the darkness of the lobby, or rather she was sitting on a sofa in the darkness.
—What’s the matter?
—It’s that Balbina, the servant, was awake when I went up and I came down to tell you to wait for me here.
—What are you laughing at?
—Balbina wasn’t awake, but I knocked over a lamp in the dark and woke her up. I was trying not to wake her, and as a result I woke her up completely and that’s not the only thing, I also broke a lamp that Mummy was very fond of.
—The matter is there . . .
—Only the form is lost. Hey, what’s with these gross comments?
—You forget I’m a bongo player.
—You’re an artist.
—Yes, of the drumheads between the legs.
—That’s really dirty. It’s the sort of thing Balbina would say.
—The servant, I said.
—What’s wrong with that? It would be worse if I called her a maid.
—Is she a Negro?
—What are you talking about!
—Is she black or isn’t she?
—All right, yes.
I didn’t say anything.
—No, she’s not black. She’s Spanish.
—It’s always one or the other.
—You’re neither one nor the other.
—You just don’t know how right you are, sweetie.
—How about coming outside with me and exchanging a few punches?
She was joking of course and then I saw that behind the evening dress she was still a little girl and I remembered the day I had gone to the Focsa to see if I could see her (it was five in the afternoon) with the pretext of having a bite in the pastry shop. I saw her come in in her school uniform, a school for rich girls, and nobody would have thought of her as being more than thirteen or fourteen as she tried to protect her young body with the schoolbooks she held in front of her and standing there almost bending over forward to cover up for the embarrassment of her full breasts.
—Didn’t you know my friends call me Bile the Kid? I said and she laughed back but it was slightly forced, not because she didn’t think it was funny but because she wasn’t used to laughing out loud and at the same time as she wanted to show me she understood the joke and that she appreciated it and that she was really a common pleb herself, she felt her laughter was vulgar because she was taught to believe that well-bred people don’t laugh out loud. If all this sounds complicated it’s because it is complicated.
I tried another joke:
—Or Billy the Bilious.
—Basta! Once you get started there’s no knowing when you’ll stop.
—Are we going out or not?
—Yes, let’s go out. I’m glad I came down, because the doorman wouldn’t have let you in.
—How’ll we manage it then?
—Wait for me at the corner of Club 21. I’ll join you in a few minutes.
One thing I was sure of was that I didn’t feel like going out with her anymore. I can’t quite say if it was because of the
doorman or if it was because I was convinced we wouldn’t get anywhere. There was more than one street to cross between me and Vivian. I left the street of metaphor, crossed the street of reality and thought about the street of memory, on that same street of the night I had first met Vivian, and where I had run into Silvestre and Cué, who were returning from seeing Vivian and Sibila back to their homes.
—How’s the poor man’s Gounod? Cué said, showing off his knowledge of music, of European music. —Did you know that Gounod, yes, the Gounod of the “Ave Maria,” was a drummer?
—No, I didn’t.
—But you know Gunó, no? Silvestre said. He was drunk and falling all over the place.
—Gunonó? I said. —No, who was Gunonó?
I didn’t say Gunonó, I said Gunó.
Arsenio Cué laughed.
—He’s pulling your leg lamely, mon vieux. I’ll bet you a hundred pesos against a cold cigar butt that this fellow knows who Gounod was. He is something of a tin drummer himself, he said. —Like Gounod, alias Gunó.
I hadn’t said anything. Not yet. But I would say it, Cué, mon vieux.
—Arsenio, I said and I was about to say Silvestre when I heard a belch behind my back and there was Silvestre almost falling over backward—and Silvestre. The duet.
Were they laughing? Was the duet laughing? I would have blown them apart with a belly laugh, with a smile even. Duets are like that. I know because I’m a musician. There’s always a primo and a second fiddle and even in unison they are fragile.
—Silvestre, you know that Cué just laid an egg?
—No kidding? Silvestre said, almost sobering up. —Tell me, tell me.
—I will.
Cué glanced at me. Was he amused?
—Arsenio Monvieux, I’ve got something very sad to tell you. Gounod never played the drums. The drummer with whom you fuse or confuse him was Hector Berlioz, the author of “Les Valseskyries.”
I thought for a minute that Cué wanted to be as drunk as Silvestre and Silvestre as sober as Cué. Or the other way around, as the two of them would say or one or other of the two. If this was the case I happen to know why. Arsenio Cué was in a taxi once and the driver was listening to music on the radio and Silvestre and Cué started discussing whether what they were listening to (it was classical music) was Haydn or Handel, and the driver let them go on talking awhile and then he said:
—Folks, it ain’t one nor the other. It’s Mozart.
Cué must have betrayed the same surprise in his face then as now.
—How do you know? Cué asked.
—Because the announcer said so.
Cué couldn’t let the matter drop.
—Are you, a taxi driver, interested in music?
But the driver had the last word, as usual.
—And you like music, you, a passenger?
Cué didn’t know I knew this story a long time before I knew him. Silvestre did, however. It was he who had told me some time ago and now he must have been remembering the incident, and laughing to himself, almost collapsing, doubly intoxicated in body and soul. But Cué was good at getting out of a tight corner. He knew all the stage tricks. He wasn�
��t an actor for nothing. Now he was aping the common Cuban.
—Mon vieux, you’ve just crushed my musical backbone. It’s in the drink.
—Tiger’s pit, Silvestre said, meaning tiger spit meaning bad rum. Alcohol was turning him into a true disciple of Bustrófedon and instead of a tongue he had tongue twisters.
I saw Cué was looking at me curiously, deliberately. He was conferring with his pard. Top and second bananas. It was burlesque not theater. Oh sweet misery of life.
—Silvestre, I’ll lay my pay check against a spent match that I know what Vincent is going to say next.
I gave a start. Not because he said Vincent, he could easily have overheard that one.
—I bet I know what you want to know.
I didn’t say a thing. I just stared at him.
—Does he know? Silvestre said.
He knew I knew. He’s a cunning bastard. I had seen it from the time I first met him. In any case I couldn’t help admiring him.
—See low say, Cué said. He seemed to be talking in some fake American accent and Silvestre laughed or snickered to himself before asking moronically:
—Whawhawhat?
—Keep it to yourself, I told Cué.
—Keep what? Silvestre said. —I don’t get you.
Why? I’m not a ñáñigo. I’m not even a silent drum.
—Come on, what you mean? Silvestre said.
—We don’t mean anything, I said. I don’t know if I said it rudely. —Just words.
—Quite the reverse, Cué said. —We do mean, words don’t.
—Reverse of what? said Silvestre, ritardando.
—Of everything, Cué said.
—What everything? said Silvestre.
I said nothing.
—Silvestre, Cué said, —this fellah (pointing to me) wants to know if it’s true or not.
It was a game of cat and mouse. Of mice and cat.
—Is what true? said Silvestre. I continued to say nothing. I kept my arms folded mentally and physically.
—If it’s true that Vivian is an easy lay or bedable. Or if she isn’t. As Trotsky said to Mornard: Take your pick!
—I don’t care either way.
—She’s an easy lay, Silvestre said, pounding an imaginary table with his fist. —Extremely bedable.
—Oh no, she’s not so easy. She’s not easy at all, Cué said, sneering at him.
—She is, you fucker, she is, Silvestre said.
—I don’t give a fuck either way, I heard myself say wearily.
—Yes you do. And I’ll tell you something else. You’re getting mixed up with Vivian and she’s not a woman. . . .
—She’s just a girl, I said.
—What’s wrong with that? Silvestre asked. He was almost coherent again.
—No, she isn’t just a girl or anything like it, Cué said. He was speaking to me alone now. —That’s one thing she ain’t. She’s a typewriter.
—What you mean? said Silvestre. He was forgetting one of his many maestros, he had drunk so much. —Explain what you mean.
Arsenio Cué, always the actor, looked at Silvestre and then looked at me condescendingly. Finally he spoke:
—Have you ever seen a typewriter in love?
Silvestre seemed to give the matter a moment of thought and then said, —Me, never. I didn’t say anything.
—La Smith-Corona is a typewriter. What’s in a name? Everything. She’s a perfect typewriter. But she’s a display typewriter like you see in a window saying please don’t touch. She isn’t for sale, nobody can buy her, nobody can use her. They are just there to look pretty. Sometimes you don’t know if they’re for real or just a copy of something real. A dummy typewriter Silvestre would say now if he were capable of saying it.
—I can, of course I can, said Silvestre.
—Let’s hear it then.
—A dumb writer.
Cué laughed.
—You’re definitely coming on.
Silvestre smiled gratefully.
—Who would fall in love with a typewriter?
—Me, me, Silvestre said.
—In your case that’s understandable. But you’re not the only one, if you know what I mean, Cué said, looking at me.
Silvestre jettisoned his ballast of laughter and almost keeled over. I didn’t say anything. I did nothing except tighten my lips and stare straight into Arsenio Cué’s eyes. I think he took a step backward or at least removed his foot. He had stamped on my fingers but he knew that I wasn’t Tony. It was Silvestre who spoke, trying to act as peacemaker.
—The point settled, let’s go someplace. Do you want to come?
Cué repeated the invitation. It was better that way. I decided that I would also be sybilized, as Silvestre would say.
—Where? I said.
—Right here around the corner. To San Michel. To look at the men of wo.
But not as civilized as all that.
—It doesn’t appeal to me.
Silvestre seized my arm.
—Come on, don’t be silly. With a bit of luck we’ll see some of the old familiar faces.
—It’s quite likely, Cué said. —You meet all sorts in the night.
—Could be, I said doubtfully. —But it doesn’t appeal to me to see the fairies in action.
—Auction is the word, said Silvestre.
—These ones are very gentle, Cué said. —They’re followers of Mamma Gandhi. They’re passive to a man.
They don’t interest me. Neither passive or active, peaceful or aggressive.
—They call themselves satiaggrahassives.
—Thank you no.
—You don’t know who you’re missing, said Silvestre.
—This fellahtio here does, Cué said, laughing spitefully.
—No I don’t, you cunt! Silvestre said. —I’m going there just for the put-on, that’s all.
—What are you going to do then? Cué asked. I hesitated a moment.
—Mysteriouso as ever.
—I’m going to the Nacional to see some people.
—Some girl. Same boy, said Silvestre. —Don’t you ever get bored with seeing Gene Kelly dancing with Cyd Charisse?
Cué laughed. —Oh sweet mystery of love!
Silvestre laughed. They both laughed, then they shook hands. Silvestre went on his way singing, his voice growing fainter, a parody of a song: “Mister Mystery wants to rule over us / And I just keep on doing what he says / Because I don’t want to hear people say / That Mister Mystery wants to rule over us.”
—Nico Saquito, Arsenio Cué shouted. —Opus Cule de Sax-Kultur 1958.
VI
I didn’t go anyplace that night. I stayed where I was standing on the corner under the street light just as I am now. I could have gone to look for a chorus girl after the second show at the Casino Parisien. But that would have meant going on from there to a club and buying drinks, and then going to a hotel and finally waking up in the morning with a tongue like a tombstone, in a strange bed, with a woman who I would hardly be able to recognize because she would have left all her makeup on the sheets and on my body and my mouth, with a knock on the door and a voice off telling me it’s time to get up and having to go to the shower by myself and wash and rid myself of the smell of bed and of sex and of sleep, and then wake up that unknown woman, who would speak to me as though we had been married ten years, with the same voice, the same monotonous certainty. Do you love me, sweetie, she’d say, when what she should be doing would be to ask me what my name was, my name which she wouldn’t know any more than I would know hers, and so I would say, I love you very much, sweetie.
I was standing there now thinking that playing the bongo drums or the tumbadora or just the drums (or Cuban percussion vulgo timbales as Cué would say to show how cultivated and brilliant he was and also knowledgeable in sex/folklore) was to be alone, but not to be alone exactly like flying, I thought, I who have never flown in a plane except to Isle of Pines and as a passenger at that, flying, I mean like a pilot,
in a plane, seeing the whole countryside flat, one-dimensional beneath one, but knowing that one is enveloped in dimensions and that the machine, the plane, the drums, are the relation which enables one to fly low and see the houses and people or to fly high and see the clouds and to move between the sky and the earth, suspended, without dimension, but in all the dimensions, and there I am swooping and hovering and diving the double drum-plane, counterpointing, stabilizing the beat with my feet, measuring the rhythm in my mind, keeping an eye on those interior slave sticks which play all the time, playing like against the claves although they’re not in the band anyway, counting the silences, my silence while I listen to the sound of the band, doing stunts: banging and twirling and looping the loop first with the left-hand drum, then with the right, then with both, imitating a collision, or a nose-dive, playing possum for the cowbell or the trumpet or the bass fiddle, cutting across then without letting on that I’m off beat, making believe I’m cutting across them, returning to the time, moving in line, straightening up the machine and finally touching down: playing games with the music, playing and drawing music out of that double goatskin nailed to a cube or dice of wood, immortalized kid, its kidding bleat turned into music by its skin between the thighs in form of drumheads the balls of music going with the band staying with it and of course so far away from my solitude and from company and from the world: in music. Flying.
Anyway there I was, standing by myself on the night I left Cué and Silvestre walking to the exhibition of ladybirds in the musical cage of the San Michel, when a convertible passed rapidly and I thought I saw Cuba in it, at the back, with a man who may or may not have been my friend Códac and another couple in front, all of them sitting very close to each other. The car drove on and came to a stop. In the gardens of the Nacional and I thought it wasn’t her, that it couldn’t be her because Cuba must have been at home, already asleep: Cuba needed some sleep: she had to be in bed early: she didn’t feel well: she was sick, she said: these were my training thoughts when I heard a car coming up N Street and it was the same convertible that had now halted half a block away, in the dark under the elevated car park, and I heard footsteps coming along the sidewalk and toward the corner and passing behind me and I turned around and there was Cuba with a man I didn’t know, and I was very pleased that it wasn’t Códac. Of course she saw me there. They all went into the Club 21. I didn’t do a thing, I didn’t even move.
Three Trapped Tigers Page 11
