Havana Jazz Club

by Mariné, Lola

  “No, my love. This is the color of your skin, and it can’t change.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be different from the rest of the kids,” he insisted. “Why don’t we move to Cuba then?”

  “One day, sweet pea, one day.”

  She hugged her son, suddenly propelled by a desire to abandon everything and return to her country. She had no doubt that Armando would help her if she decided to leave. But her own mother dispelled the idea whenever she mentioned it. They wanted nothing more than to have them near, she said, but things were very complicated on the island. It was better to wait a little longer.

  Billie regretted being unable to liberate her son from bitter and undeserved rejection. She would have liked to be able to do more than console him when he felt wounded and show him how to be strong and composed. As she reflected on her life in Spain, she realized that she had never felt looked down on for the color of her skin. She had gotten an occasional impertinent look, but those didn’t bother her much. Adults, she thought, knew how to hide their prejudices—if they had them—even if they were just being polite. But children hadn’t acquired that habit yet and weren’t conscious of the pain they could cause. She trusted that her son would eventually learn to accept his skin color and wouldn’t be offended by allusions to it. In time, he would be treated with the consideration and respect he deserved.

  CHAPTER 22

  Then Billie met Tatiana.

  One morning, when Billie was signing for deliveries in front of the Dixieland, an unusual commotion in the street caught her attention. A man was pushing a woman around in front of a nearby building. She, in turn, tried to pepper him with punches and kicks.

  “This is my house! You can’t throw me out!” she yelled at the man.

  “Of course I can,” the man retorted. “It’s not your house, Tatiana. I’ve been warning you for ages that if you didn’t pay me you’d be out in the street.”

  “But you know that I’ve been sick. I’m going back to work soon, and then I’ll settle my debt, I promise.”

  “I’ve heard that too many times before,” the man replied. “I’m sorry, Tatiana, I’m not buying it this time. I have a judge’s order, and you have to go, whether you like it or not.”

  “What about my things? Everything I own is inside. You need to return my things! Rat! Thief!”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t want your rags or your junk. I’ll bring it all down right now. You’re going back in there over my dead body.”

  “It’s not junk!” she protested indignantly. “I insist that you speak to me more respectfully!”

  “Oh! Excuse me, duchess!” the man replied in a mocking tone.

  “And where am I supposed to keep my things if you’re throwing me out of my house?” she asked, ignoring his facetious tone.

  “That’s your problem, darling,” the man said. “I’m sorry, Tatiana, but I don’t have a choice.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch!” she screamed with renewed energy, trying once more to hit the man, who easily dodged her clumsy blows. “You can’t do this to me!”

  The street had filled up with a crowd of nosy onlookers by the time the police arrived. The woman continued screaming, ignoring the officers, who were trying to get her to calm down. The woman then turned on them and insisted that they detain this soulless man who had kicked her out of her home.

  “He’s the one you should be arresting!” she screamed, pointing at her landlord. “He’s an unscrupulous delinquent! He won’t even let me back into the house to get my things!”

  The officers turned to the man. After identifying himself, he explained the situation and showed them the judicial order. The woman continued rebuking him, trying to gain the sympathy of those present. Some were nodding sadly, while others looked on with suspicion.

  “Ma’am,” one of the policemen said, turning back toward Tatiana. “This gentleman is within his rights. You need to calm down and be on your way. Once you’ve gotten your temper under control, you can come back to collect your belongings.”

  “And where do you want me to go? Isn’t anyone going to take pity on a poor, helpless woman?” she inquired dramatically, turning to the people gathered around her. Several people averted their gaze.

  She had a thick foreign accent, and Billie was surprised that even contorted with rage, her face had a singular beauty. That’s when she realized that she recognized the woman. It was Tatiana Petrov, a celebrated actress famous for her extraordinary beauty. Billie had seen the posters for her movies in the theaters on Gran Via in Madrid when she first arrived in Spain with Orlando. Billie had been fascinated by her incredible magnetism. What could have happened to her? How did she find herself in this predicament?

  “Ma’am,” the other policeman said in a threatening tone. “You are provoking an altercation and disturbing the peace. If you don’t calm down, we’re going to be forced to arrest you and take you down to the station.”

  Tatiana Petrov, frightened by the officers’ lack of compassion, lowered her voice and backed away down the street.

  “This isn’t right. You can’t do this to me. Where am I supposed to go now?” she muttered loudly enough for Billie to hear.

  Billie felt sorry for her. She knew how cruel life could be. It seemed unbelievable that this poor woman was the same one who—not so long ago—had smiled provocatively from the illuminated facades of the best movie theaters in Madrid, her long blonde mane, beautiful green eyes, and curvaceous body on display for one and all.

  The wagging tongues had claimed she wasn’t a very good actress, but the theaters were packed whenever she appeared on screen. Billie remembered then that she had read something in one of Mrs. Quiroga’s magazines about a scandal the star had been implicated in. It was rumored that she had ended up being committed to a psychiatric hospital, and Billie hadn’t heard anything about her since then.

  After Tatiana had left, the onlookers dispersed and the police left. A moment later, the street had regained its usual calm, and Billie returned to her chores.

  That night, however, when she left the club to head home, she discovered Tatiana surrounded by bags and suitcases, sitting in front of the door to what had been her house. Suddenly, Billie recalled the visceral anxiety and desperation she had felt when she was forced to live in the street. She asked herself what would have become of her if Armando hadn’t discovered her in that doorway and taken pity on her.

  It was January and the night was cold. Billie felt a chill at the sight of this poor, helpless woman. Without hesitating for a moment, Billie headed over to her.

  “Good evening,” she said, crouching down in front of the woman.

  Tatiana lifted her incredible green eyes to Billie and looked at her dully, her expression clouded with exhaustion.

  “You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?” Billie asked, though she already knew the answer. Tatiana shook her head slowly, as if it cost her a great effort to make the slightest movement.

  “They threw me out of my house …”

  “I know. I saw what happened this morning. I work in that jazz club,” Billie explained, pointing to the entrance.

  The woman glanced up at the Dixieland.

  “I haven’t been in there in a long time,” she said, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “I used to go a lot. I liked it. That music really gets inside you, warms your heart.”

  Billie nodded with a heartbroken smile. Tatiana didn’t seem to be much older than she was. Though it was clear she was trying to maintain a dignified appearance even in this situation, her despair made her look much older than her years. She looked defeated, as though she had reached the end of her strength.

  But Billie wasn’t ready to let her give up.

  “Let’s go,” she said, getting to her feet and starting to gather Tatiana’s things. “I live near here. You can spend the night at my house. Tomorrow we’ll talk to a good friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll find a way to help you.”

  The woman looked at her, mome
ntarily perplexed, then jumped up as if she were afraid Billie was going to change her mind and leave her there. Without a word, she snatched up the rest of her bags and followed Billie through the Gothic Quarter’s deserted streets. In the frigid winter dawn, their footsteps echoed on the damp cobblestones, and their breath rose like columns of smoke, dissipating in the darkness.

  Billie lived on the fourth floor with no elevator, so it wasn’t easy for them to get all of Tatiana’s belongings up the narrow, steep staircase. Stopping at each landing to catch their breath, they finally reached the small apartment.

  The woman who took care of Nicolás while Billie was at the club came out to meet them when she heard the door open. She looked surprised to see Tatiana and all the bags and shabby suitcases she had with her. Not giving her any explanation, Billie told the girl she would see her the next day.

  “You’ll have to sleep on the sofa,” she said apologetically to Tatiana. “I don’t have a spare room to offer you.”

  “I’ll be very happy here, thank you,” Tatiana replied, glancing around the cozy living room. She turned back to Billie and took her hands, her eyes damp with tears. “You don’t know how much I appreciate you doing this for me. You don’t even know me … People today never worry about anyone other than themselves. They couldn’t care less what happens to anyone else.”

  “Don’t worry,” Billie said, smiling and squeezing Tatiana’s hands. She struggled to contain her own emotions—if this woman only knew how well she understood! “I’ll bring you some blankets. You must be tired. You’ve had a very hard day.”

  Billie first went to Nicolás’s room to make sure he was sleeping, pulled a blanket over him, and kissed him on the forehead. Then she pulled some blankets from the wardrobe and returned to the living room.

  “Are you hungry?” she called quietly from the hall. “I could heat up some soup for you …”

  When she went into the living room, she stopped. Tatiana had curled up on the sofa and seemed to be already sound asleep. When Billie crept over to her and covered her with one of the blankets, Tatiana opened her eyes a crack and smiled.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she murmured.

  “Billie.”

  “That’s a dude’s name,” the woman said dryly, her eyes drooping shut again. “My name is Tatiana. Thank you, Billie.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replied softly, aware that Tatiana had already fallen back asleep.

  Billie turned off the light in the living room and went to her bedroom. When she lay down, she felt good. Tatiana wouldn’t be cold that night, or any other night if she could help it. Nobody should have to be cold or live in the street. But life in big cities could be ruthless, especially when it came to the weakest and most defenseless beings.

  When she fell asleep, she had nightmares. She found herself back in that dark, narrow alley, hiding behind a huge dumpster that suddenly disappeared and left her exposed, at the mercy of a sinister, giant figure with no face who loomed over her threateningly. Terrified, she tried to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound. She wanted to flee, but there was no escape … She jolted awake and breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized her cozy room. She felt an urge to get out of bed and go see her son. Watching him sleeping peacefully soothed her. She stroked his curly hair and stretched out next to him. Careful not to wake him up, she snuggled against his small body. Cradled by his tranquil breathing, warmed by his heat, she fell back to sleep and was saved from her bad dreams.

  CHAPTER 23

  “How could you have invited her into your house? With your son there!” Armando was scandalized when Billie told him about Tatiana.

  “How could you have let me in yours?” Billie replied.

  “That was different. I knew you.”

  “Is that so? You didn’t know the first thing about me. Only that I was a singer in a cabaret who had accompanied you to your hotel in Madrid—a prostitute, for God’s sake. And a homeless person you ran into on a Barcelona street. Those don’t seem like very good references …”

  “You’re not a prostitute,” Armando protested. “Or a homeless person. You just had a run of bad luck …”

  “She’s had some bad luck too. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been sitting in the street.”

  “But, do you know who she is?”

  “Yes, she’s Tatiana Petrov, a famous actress who’s struggling.”

  “Nobody remembers the famous actress anymore, Billie. That was a long time ago. Her recklessness is what got her where she is now. She’s been committed to several psychiatric hospitals, in case you didn’t know. They call her ‘the fire nymph.’ Do you know why? Because she started a fire that put many people’s lives in danger. She’s unbalanced and dangerous.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” Billie reproached him coldly. “I had no idea you could be like this, Armando. I didn’t think you were so prejudiced, or that you were capable of judging someone without even meeting her.”

  “Well …” Armando faltered, suddenly ashamed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. But I’m worried about your safety and Nicolás’s.”

  “I know,” Billie said, offering him a conciliatory smile. “But you needn’t worry. She’s just a poor woman who needs a helping hand like the one you offered me years ago. What else could I do? I couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t go home and get in my nice warm bed, knowing that she was freezing to death under the stars.”

  “Fine. But don’t leave her alone with the boy. We’ll look for a room and see what we can do.”

  Billie’s face split into a wide smile, and she threw her arms around Armando. She gave him a loud kiss on the cheek to show her appreciation. He laughed, enchanted.

  “Alright, alright, get out of here, you charmer.”

  Armando found Tatiana a room in the house of an old woman who lived alone. In exchange for the room, Tatiana would take care of her and keep her company. He also tried to find some kind of subsidy for her. Billie had promised she would watch over her vigilantly to make sure she didn’t do anything crazy. Billie visited the two women every day. Little by little, Tatiana revealed the story of her life to her and the fascinated older woman.

  She was born in Moscow, the eldest of nine siblings. Ever since she was very little, she had been obligated to work wherever she could to help her family, who were scraping by in one of the poorest and most sordid neighborhoods in the Russian capital. One day, she was trying to sell some half-dead flowers in Red Square and approached a couple to offer her posies in exchange for a few rubles. As luck would have it, the man turned out to be an important Spanish movie producer who instantly spotted the girl’s unusual beauty beneath her dirty rags. He bought the entire bunch of flowers and took a great interest in her. Not long after, Tatiana moved to Spain. Her parents didn’t try to stop her. On the contrary, they were happy to have one less mouth to feed and accepted—their eyes popping out of their heads—the large sum of money that the producer offered them, along with the promise of a better future for their daughter. The whole family would benefit from her good fortune.

  Once in Madrid, Tatiana was subjected to rigorous schooling that included classes in Spanish, drama, and manners. Upon completion, her protector and patron launched his protégée to stardom.

  For the next several years, her movies were huge hits. Basking in a whirlwind of parties, luxury, excess, and lovers, Tatiana was the subject of continuous scandals, all of which were the result of her lack of worldliness and maturity.

  It didn’t occur to anyone to give her lessons on how to assimilate all the dizzying changes in her life. Going from absolute poverty to such abundance in the blink of an eye, she was utterly overwhelmed. She didn’t even know how much money she was earning, but she didn’t care. She just had to snap her fingers, and the world was at her feet, ready to fulfill her most extravagant caprices.

  Her life gradually started to feel empty. Making movies bored her, and she n
o longer enjoyed the splendor of the parties as she had early on. None of her lovers stuck around for long. They were attracted only by her beauty and had no interest in her as a human being. In fact, she was quite convinced that they didn’t even see her as a person: Tatiana Petrov was no mere mortal. She was a goddess.

  But a goddess with mud feet and a clay heart that yearned to be molded by loving hands and joined with another soul forever. Tatiana felt alone. She no longer even found solace in drinking because being drunk had become her natural state. So she looked to drugs to help her keep responding to the demands of those who only saw her as a moneymaking machine. Unable to withstand the pressure, she had a nervous breakdown and attempted suicide. A cry for attention, some said. She couldn’t live without the spotlight.

  But in reality, they were desperate screams of despair and loneliness. Tatiana wanted to be loved for who she was, not just as a product that could provide juicy returns. But she didn’t know how to express her feelings in a way that didn’t make her sound like an eccentric diva or a spoiled little girl. Her complaints only caused the people around her to flee, leaving her even more solitary than before. Eventually, when she had fallen into a deep depression, she was committed to a sanatorium and abandoned there.

  During her last hospital confinement, she had come up with a plan.

  A few days after leaving the hospital, she picked up her car and drove north. At dusk, on a remote, regional highway, she found what she was looking for: a lush pine forest that stretched to the edge of a solitary mountain. She stopped the car next to a tiny, isolated inn and tavern. She didn’t think anyone would recognize her in this inhospitable place. Even so, she put on her sunglasses before going in. But when she pushed open the door, every pair of eyes turned toward her and silence fell. Although they didn’t recognize her as the famous Tatiana Petrov, she was a stranger there, and with her spectacular physique, it was impossible for her to go unnoticed.

  She headed straight to the counter, haughtily ignoring the excitement awoken among the spectators. Without preamble, she ordered two bottles of French champagne.