No Matter How Much You Promise

by Edgardo Vega

  The dinner was loud and the chattering constant, all of them trying to teach Wyndell how to pronounce various words and phrases, and laughing when instead of chuletas he kept calling the pork chops chulitas. This caused such hilarity that Flaco nearly choked and Tumba Santiago had to get up and hit him on the back, because, as they explained, chulitas are “sexy girls,” and you better be careful when eating chulitas.

  After the meal they returned to the living room, and Vidamía said that her grandmother had told her that he’d gotten the nickname Tumba because he played congas. At the mention of Ursula Santiago, her grandfather got a funny look on his face and, shifting his eyes toward the kitchen, put a finger to his lips and urged her not to mention her grandmother. Vidamía nodded, then said she wanted to hear him play.

  Her grandfather went into another room and Flaco followed. When they returned they brought three different-sized congas, the heads of the drums aged and dark where they had been played. Flaco held two cylindrical pieces of wood. Vidamía watched Tumba Santiago’s dark, thickly veined, and powerful hands as he brought a chair from the kitchen into the living room and sat down behind the drums. His fingers barely touching the skins of the drums, the instruments immediately responded with several tones which lingered in the air. Vidamía had once attempted to play Sammy Polanco’s conga in the park, but all that had come out of the drum were dull thuds. Her grandfather seemed to caress the head of each drum, and immediately the air was filled with resonance, a resonance that felt like speech, like a greeting of some sort, so that later on, when Wyndell had gotten over his dark mood, she discussed it with him. He explained that Africans used drums to communicate with each other, and perhaps her grandfather was saying something to her, to see if she understood.

  46. Clave

  Her grandfather, Tumba Santiago, had been warming up with little flourishes of rhythms. Suddenly he was playing full out, his head turned to the side and his face producing a number of expressions which to her looked like the African masks she had seen in the museum. Before too long, Flaco began to hit the sticks together, setting up a steady rhythm over which her grandfather played his congas, making the room fill up with the sounds. There was a texture to the rhythms, the simplicity of the clacking of the sticks—which Flaco explained as clave and let her try the sticks, instructing her—one-two-three (pause), one-two, over and over, the rhythm invading her soul until she recognized it from dancing salsa and then she was totally into it and playing with her grandfather, standing up and moving naturally as they played together, the subtle but strong thuds of fingers and palms upon the drumheads weaving a palpable fabric of musicality, so that deep within the rhythms she could hear a melody. She couldn’t help moving to the rhythms and watched Wyndell thoughtfully nodding and tapping his foot gently on the linoleum floor. When her grandfather was finished, his face was glistening with perspiration and he was laughing.

  “You play Latin?” Tumba Santiago said with a heavy Spanish accent, looking first down at the case of Wyndell’s tenor sax and then up at him.

  “I can play some things. Caribbean things.”

  “Like what?”

  “‘St. Thomas.’”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Wyndell scatted the tune and Tumba Santiago played the melody back to him on the smallest of the drums. Wyndell recalled his father’s friend Howard Dryer, a musicologist who had studied African rhythms in Nigeria, describing the relationship between rhythm, melody, and the spoken word. Howard had said that some of the languages could be played on drums exactly as one heard the words, so that there was no difference between the beats of the drums and a person’s speech. “Go ahead and play it,” Tumba said.

  As Wyndell removed the guard from the mouthpiece, the old man sat in front of the congas and with his eyes told Flaco to begin. Flaco, holding the two rounded pieces of wood, one cradled in the palm of his left hand and the other poised above it, nodded, his lower lip turning down and showing pink on his black face. In another second the room was filled with the sharp wooden sound of the clave: ONE-TWO-THREE, ONE-TWO. ONE-TWO-THREE, ONE-TWO. ONE-TWO-THREE, ONE-TWO. Over and over, about ten times, until Tumba Santiago came in on the congas: PACATUN-PATUN. PACATUN-PATUN. PACATUN-PATUN. PACATUN-PATUN. PACATUN-PATUN. PACATUN-PATUN. ONE-TWO-THREE, ONE-TWO. ONE-TWO-THREE, ONE-TWO. And then Wyndell joined in, playing the tune easily and thinking the words in his head: “I came to St. Thomas but I ain’t going back. I came to St. Thomas but I ain’t going back going back. You can yell, you can shout, you can do your stuff, but you can’t kick me out.” They played together for about ten minutes with Wyndell improvising on the melody and making it swing, Tumba Santiago keeping the tempo even when Wyndell became more intricate in his playing and then trading fours with the old man on the smaller of the congas, which he explained later was the quinto and actually carried the melody, with the tumbadora, the bass one, and the medium-sized drum, making up the rhythm. The old man’s virtuosity surprised Wyndell. Tumba Santiago knew exactly what he was doing and the smaller drum had sounded unlike a percussion instrument, perhaps a bass flute.

  When they were done playing, Wyndell bowed his saxophone to the old man and Tumba Santiago nodded slightly and turned to Flaco, who was nodding. He asked him in Spanish if he liked what he’d heard and Flaco, his face becoming thoughtful, said he sounded a little like Dexter Gordon, except that he pronounced it “Destel Goldon,” but it was close enough for Wyndell to think he heard the name. He was dismantling the horn in order to put it back in its case, but stopped himself and grabbed Vidamía’s arm.

  “What did he say?” he whispered to her.

  “Who?”

  “Your grandfather’s friend. I think he said Dexter Gordon.”

  “Ask him.”

  “They were speaking Spanish.”

  “Yeah, but they understand English.”

  “Yeah, right,” Wyndell said, as he finished putting the saxophone away and closed the case. “Excuse me.”

  “Sure,” Tumba said.

  “Your friend, Mr. Flaco …” Wyndell began, and the two old men began laughing and slapping their thighs. “What’s the matter?”

  “You call him Mr. Flaco,” Tumba said.

  “That’s right,” Flaco said. “I’m Mr. Flaco from now on. No more of this ‘Flaco’ stuff.”

  “What’s so funny?” Wyndell said, embarrassed and looking back and forth, from the two men to Vidamía, who now had a mischievous look in her eyes and was about to burst out laughing herself. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Vidamía said and collapsed laughing on the couch.

  Tumba and Flaco were now poking at each other.

  “You gotta call me Mr. Flaco.”

  “Then you gotta call me Mr. Tumba.”

  Vidamía finally stopped laughing long enough to explain that Flaco was her grandfather’s friend’s nickname and all it meant was “skinny” in Spanish.

  “His name’s Pascual Quintana,” Tumba Santiago said. “My name is Justino Santiago.”

  “Oh,” Wyndell said. “Anyway, did he mention Dexter Gordon?”

  “Ask him,” Vidamía said, “or are you going to act like some sort of American jíbaro?”

  “I ain’t no HEEbaro,” Wyndell said. “Whatever that is.”

  He was about to address Flaco when Tumba Santiago said that his friend Flaco had said he sounded a little like Dexter Gordon. Wyndell then asked if they knew Dexter Gordon, and they both nodded their heads and said yes, but just from listening to records and hearing him in clubs down in the Village when they were young men. They then began to talk about the old days and it became obvious that Tumba Santiago had played with many of the big bands of the forties, fifties, and sixties. Miguelito Valdez, Machito, Perez Prado, Tito Puente.

  And then they lapsed totally into extremely complicated, rapidly spoken Spanish with the peculiar lilt of the Puerto Ricans, flavored by the New York experience and garnished with the musical patois of their experiences and a perfect example of ling
uistic salsa, so that even Vidamía had a difficult time understanding.

  They reminisced like that until it got dark and Vidamía said she had to go and she and Wyndell got up and began getting ready. Vidamía threw her arms around Tumba Santiago and kissed him on the cheek. She was nearly a head taller than him and for the first time she realized how small and old he really was. Tumba laughed and said she should come back and see him from time to time. She asked for his telephone number and he called Panchita and she gave Vidamía the number.

  When she and Wyndell were back on the subway she snuggled against him, aware that people were looking at them, this supposedly white girl with this beautiful moreno. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pleasure of being with him as the train rumbled through the Bronx and then Manhattan, until they changed at Forty-second Street to continue downtown to his apartment.

  Once there she fell into bed and allowed him to undress her, feeling sleepy and warm. As she drifted in and out of sleep while Wyndell caressed her body, she saw once again her grandfather’s dark face. The notion of being related to him gave her an unusual, almost sexual pleasure. She knew she was being romantic, but she felt brave and as if she were now part of a wonderful history that connected her to all the African people who had struggled in the United States. Wyndell went into her fiercely. When she protested he apologized, and then he was going in and out of her slowly, gently, the length of him nearly coming out of her before once again entering her so that she began feeling more and more and grasped him to her, wanting him with greater urgency until in his desperation he came and she held him as he shuddered. After he fell asleep she got up and eventually left.

  As she walked home across Houston Street she felt as if she had crossed into another world. She had finally met her grandfather and although she couldn’t think of him as a moreno, because he spoke Spanish, he was certainly dark and African enough to qualify as one. Did his presence in her life make her an African-American? The notion appeared ludicrous and she worried that others would ridicule her for it. The feeling of pride in her grandfather turned to confusion interspersed with anger. What was she now, she thought as she turned the key to enter the loft.

  She came in, greeted everyone, and started to go into her room when the phone rang. Lurleen called out that it was for her.

  “Who is it, Mama?”

  “Wyn.” Lurleen smiled across at her.

  “Okay, I’ll take it in the back.”

  She made her way to the back room which served as a kind of library and quiet place where family members went when they wanted privacy but didn’t want to be in their room. As she walked by, she saw her father staring at the television screen, shaking his head and mumbling. She picked up the phone and told Lurleen she could hang up. Later on she asked Lurleen what her father had been shaking his head about and Lurleen said that he was worried that the United States would go to war in the Middle East.

  “Wyn?”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why did you leave?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I wanted to think and be alone. Kind of sort things out about my grandfather. Did you like him?”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s great. Listen, I got great news.”

  “What? Tell me, tell me,” she said, suddenly excited.

  “I got the gig at the Village Gate.”

  “Oh, Wyn, that’s great. When?”

  “August twenty-third, -fourth, and -fifth. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. It’s part of the Summer Jazz Festival. It was set up to give new musicians a chance. I left the CD and they called me back. Now all I gotta do is get myself the rest of the musicians. What’s today’s date? Wait, I got a calendar.”

  “It’s July thirtieth,” she said. “Almost the thirty-first.”

  “That’s just three weeks away. I told them I had a quintet.”

  “Wyn, please ask my father. Please.”

  “I don’t know. We can talk about it.”

  “No, really. He’s ready. You have to hear him. Maybe we can go to the Cornelia Street Café and hear him next Tuesday.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Please, Wyn. It’s really important.”

  “I know it is, Vee, but I gotta figure everything out. Give me a couple of days.”

  “And Cliff.”

  “I was thinking of a trumpet. Tony Betancourt called me. I went to school with him.”

  “I know, Wyn. But Cliff’s great. Everybody says so.”

  “He’s a kid, Vee. I don’t even know if they’ll let him play down there.”

  “They can make an exception.”

  “We’ll see, baby. Just slow down a little. I just wanted to call you to let you know. You’re the first person I called. What time is it?”

  “It’s almost midnight.”

  “Good, let me call home and tell my folks. I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be at the store in the afternoon. I love you, hunk.”

  “Did you say ‘hung’?”

  “Go to hell, you conceited creep.”

  “Hey, I love you too, morning star.”

  “What? What did you call me?”

  “Morning star.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I love you a whole lot.”

  “I know you do, you crazy man. I love you, too. See you tomorrow.”

  She hung up the phone, feeling dreamy and weepy and wanting to curl up right there on the worn couch with all the books around her and the prints on the bare brick walls, framed carefully by Lurleen and hung carefully by her father at her behest. He did everything Lurleen asked, obediently, following all her directions like a dutiful child, trusting her totally or as much as one human being could trust another. Inside her now, as she roused herself from the oncoming somnolence, there emerged a powerful determination to convince Wyn that her father was capable of playing the piano with him, and that it would be beneficial for Wyndell as well as for her father.

  She fell asleep visualizing the bandstand with her father sitting at the piano, hunched over it, humming as he did, his hands working the keys in rapid-fire progressions of color and sound, the music flowing as if by magic, his hands barely seeming to touch the keys. It was the same sensation she had experienced with her grandfather, who seemed merely to wave his hands over the drums and the mere energy of the fingertips coaxed wonderful rhythms from the taut skins. Inside her there burned a fierce wish to see her father play again publicly, as she had heard Mr. Butterworth describe. Lurleen had explained it to her.

  “Playing the piano,” she said, “is a skill like any other.”

  “It seems like a lot more than just skill.”

  “You’re right, it is more than skill. Playing jazz piano takes strength, stamina, willpower, a great memory for tunes, a whole bunch of creativity, and something else that some people call temperament and makes you go forward. Like a scientist or an explorer. These people come along once in a lifetime.”

  “Does Daddy have all those things?”

  “He sure does, honey.” Lurleen had nodded seriously. “He’s got all of them and then some. Please believe me, little girl, your daddy’s one in a million.”

  Vidamía had never wished for anything so much in her life. Her father would play with Wyn. She knew it had to happen, but didn’t know how. She fell asleep imagining her father and her lover playing music together and she dreamed that at some point they began to blend into one, the black and white skin making stripes like chocolate and vanilla ice cream melting on the same dish, and then she was naked and dancing, her skin smooth and in stripes like ice cream, and the sound of the clave repeated within the music. She was dancing wildly, the beat of the drums insistent and her life bursting forth like a large flower. Later, she looked in the big Spanish dictionary and had seen that clave meant the treble clef, and that it also meant key as in a code. So she had found the key and her life was now opening up to all possibilities.
The feeling made her spirit soar.

  47. The Return

  After nearly forty years, Alfred Butterworth had come home that Christmas of 1963, the year that President Kennedy was shot, summoned there not because of his stepfather’s death a month prior, but because his mother had fallen down and broken her arm. The old house the Reverend Lockwood had built still looked impressive, although badly in need of painting. The trees had grown taller, shading the house and garden and the hedges were nearly six feet high. Butterworth felt the same tensions he’d always felt going down south, but this time it was different. This time there was an edge of frustrated anger that he couldn’t decipher. It seemed like the black people finally understood that they had been mistreated and were angry. And whites, realizing that they could no longer afford to treat blacks as they had, were equally upset. It wasn’t until he began to factor in Martin Luther King Jr.’s impact on the country and the inspiration that blacks were getting from him and people like Malcolm X that he understood the new tensions that he experienced in going home. Dr. King himself had been arrested in Birmingham earlier in the year.

  When he stepped up on the porch and said, “Hi, Mama, I’m Alfred,” Cornelia Butterworth Lockwood just looked at him, hardly able to believe her eyes, because in spite of letters and photos he’d sent over the years, it wasn’t the same as having someone right in front of you. Here was her son, now grown and a man, dressed in a suit, looking quite handsome, if still a little frail of body, and evidently doing well. The letters and pictures always went to her sister’s and were kept a secret from her husband, Reverend Lockwood, all those years for fear that he’d set the police after Alfred because of what he’d done.