Cubop City Blues

by Pablo Medina

  Then the trumpet sounded outside, the one I heard when Mama died, playing a tune as softly as a horn can play. I lay by the bed listening, a cool breeze accompanying the music, bringing the promise of warm weather. It was a song called “Ausencia,” Mama’s favorite, which she sang to me on a day when she was breathing well enough to feel nostalgic. It told of birds returning to the nest and of other birds who love and leave and never come back. I’d had enough of birds. You know how song lyrics are. They never make sense when you need them to. I left the bedroom. I heard the click of the bedroom door behind me and I walked quietly away. In the living room the horn was muffled, almost inaudible. I couldn’t stay in the apartment. The world had many doors to pass through.

  In the lobby I heard the super calling after me, asking if there was anything he could get me. I knew where I was going. On the street I could hear the music clearly again. I followed the tune as if I were reeling in the big fish, the one I’d so wanted to catch all the time by the river, pole in hand, head in the clouds, eyes on the waters of my imagining. I went down the street to the corner and waited for someone to help me cross. Cars swished by me and trucks with their murderous engines. There were sirens and horns, drunks and derelicts, men and women passing by, invisible, unknowable. A taxi stopped, thinking I needed a ride. Beyond the river of traffic was the horn player, blaring out his tune. I sensed someone next to me waiting for the light to change. I was afraid to ask for help, thinking I’d be discovered, rebuffed, sent back where I belonged. I fought myself hard, as one fights the counteraction of a fish trying to throw the hook.

  Could you tell me when the light is green? I asked, sounding timid and slow minded, the king’s English lurking just under each word.

  Wassat? he said in Cubop City speech, no breath wasted.

  I’m blind, I said.

  Where’s your stick?

  I don’t have one.

  Light’s green, the man said.

  I expected him to grab my arm and help me across but he was already gone. I put my arms out and stepped off the curb, following the taut line of sound. I must have appeared like a sleepwalker or a zombie to the drivers. I could feel the heat of their motors, the glow of their metal. When I reached the other side of the street, I tripped on the curb and fell against a newspaper box. I lay on the sidewalk struggling

  to get up as people walked past me. I could hear them chattering, their soles slapping the sidewalk. I took a deep breath and got myself up with the aid of the box and kept going, still with arms outstretched until I was right in front of the music man.

  Hey, music man, where are you from? I thought nothing of asking.

  The playing stopped. I was at the edge of the world, about to fall off.

  I’m Rican. What of it?

  At that moment I knew I’d caught the big fish, the one I hoped to bring my parents in their sickness. There was no way I was going back to the apartment now.

  You were playing my mother’s favorite song.

  Oh yea? She a romantic woman?

  She’s dead.

  Sorry about that, Papo. We all gotta go sometime. Listen, I’m wondering if you could help me out and count the money that’s in the case, you know? I’m blind and I can’t see if I got five cents or fifty dollars in there.

  I was about to move toward the music man and I let out a laugh. It was more like a whinny.

  Whoa there, he said. What’s so funny?

  I’m blind, too, I said.

  That’s a coincidence, the music man said.

  Well, almost. I can see a little. I have to get very close to see what’s in your case.

  Do it. We might have enough in there for a couple of beers.

  I did as I was told. Anywhere else people would be wondering what that man was doing looking into the blind man’s horn case. Stealing his money? Hey you, get away from that poor blind man. Might even throw a karate kick in my direction. But here in Cubop City? I could be strangling the blind man and no one would care. Blow that horn and let it happen. Nothing personal.

  Nineteen dollars and seventy-three cents.

  That’ll buy us a few.

  The music man packed his horn. He got his stick and stood. He told me to grab his arm and I did.

  Hey, Papo, he said, you smell terrible. Where you been?

  Hiding, I said.

  I got a shower in my place. My woman’s blind, too, but she can smell a rat’s asshole a mile away. Vente, Papo. We’ll clean you up.

  I didn’t respond but let the Puerto Rican lead me to the subway entrance at the corner. We stood at the top of the stairs a moment, grabbed the handrail, and descended into the underworld.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Earlier versions of parts of this book originally appeared in the following publications: Cerise Press, Havana Noir, Las Vegas Noir, The Normal School, Shaking Like a Mountain, Switchback, and Water-Stone Review.

  This book would not exist in its present form without the intelligent and careful editorial suggestions of Elisabeth Schmitz, my editor at Grove/Atlantic, her associate, Jessica Monahan, and Michael Hornburg, managing editor; Mark Statman and Rufi Cole, who read the manuscript and offered valuable advice; and my agent, Elaine Markson, whose encouragement, support, and friendship over the years has been invaluable.

  My son, Pablo A., has acted in his usual capacity as sounding board and tuning fork. I show him everything I write. Arístides Falcón Paradí provided much of the information about Cuban music and folklore. My colleagues at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, and Emerson College in Boston, offered me their trust and friendship. Without them I would be bereft. I also wish to thank Dylan Everdell and Heather Fabrizzi, for their island hospitality and warmth.