She paused a moment and looked up. Why not another husband story? Armando loved the husbands, after all. And her stories about them had worked before to teach a lesson with a light touch. The husbands. So they called them, “husbands” being short for “husbands-to-be.” Twenty-six of them, one for every letter of the alphabet. She had first named them after mathematicians. Then for sailors across the globe. Then Armando had suggested Biblical names. When they got to N and Armando suggested “Noah,” she had blurted out, “No, Noah wasn’t one of them.” Then she had caught herself and said, “Oh, yes, of course. Noah. Noah’s Ark.” She had rambled on about the animals, two by two. It was a good name, wasn’t it? Noah. Yes, indeed. Armando hadn’t seemed to notice anything odd in her response. Still she had not suggested they rename the husbands again after that. But she had continued with the stories. It would have seemed strange if she hadn’t.
So which husband would it be today? Perhaps the one who got locked in the wine closet the day they were to wed. She had never known for sure if he was hiding that day or just wanted a glass or two of his favorite Château Margaux. He often passed the time in the closet. No one but he and his wine steward knew of its whereabouts. Not even she, his intended, though he had said he had a surprise for her on their wedding night. Unfortunately, the wine steward was off in Bordeaux, and by the time they found the closet behind the bookshelves in her fiancé’s study, it was too late. He had been pale, but smiling.
She glanced down the callejón and saw a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses talking with a neighbor at the foot of the stairs. If they cornered her, she would be late for sure meeting Armando. Luckily, from the looks of it, they hadn’t seen her, and they wouldn’t, if she was quick. She ran down a few more stairs and entered a passage she had avoided since she had encountered escaped geese there, flapping their wings, thrusting out their necks, and honking hysterically. She paused a moment to catch her breath, then went on. Better to risk the geese than be cornered by Jehovah’s Witnesses.
What was it with them, anyway? No matter how many times she said she was not interested, they kept knocking at her door. Maybe she should put up a “We are Catholics” sign, as Armando had suggested. Her father would turn over in his grave, having given up Catholicism and the drink for her mother. But then he had not seen Catholicism as practiced in Mexico. The festivals with rockets, carnival rides, and Aztec dancers.
That gave her an idea. What if the Jehovah’s Witnesses were to dance like Aztecs to her door, rattling seedpod ankle bracelets and shimmering peacock feather headdresses? Then she would invite them in. But not as they were. Smug ladies in nylons and pumps. Well-washed young men in shirts and ties. All of them seeking some vulnerability to exploit.
They never asked what she needed. Not that she needed anything. She could take care of herself. It was a simple question of keeping her house in order and meeting her translation deadlines. But what about Armando? If they really wanted to help, they could convince him to come out.
As she approached the property where the geese had lived, she slowed and held her breath, but the passage was clear. In fact, the whole place looked different. The yard, which had been bare, was alive with wild marigolds and cosmos. A new ornate iron fence ran along the callejón.
Odd, putting up an expensive fence. Most properties were walled in the colonial fashion. Only the very poor fenced their yards, and then it was with battered chicken wire or rusty bed springs. She leaned forward. The front door was open, but the house sat too far back for her to see inside.
A low, guttural sound came from within. She jumped. Could the geese be in there? She turned away and took a step down the callejón. Whatever it was sounded again, but more smoothly this time and in a different pitch. She tilted her head to one side. Not geese. But something familiar. And then it came to her. Someone was playing the trumpet. “Pedal tones” her father had called the low bass tones. To Callie and her mother, they were the sound of safety.
Three
ALREADY IN THE PLAZA WHEN CALLIE ENTERED, Armando ran over to kiss her on the cheek before blurting out, “Tavelé disappeared following a lady with a cake on her head!”
A lady with a cake on her head. Callie smiled thinking how odd that would have sounded to her before moving to Guanajuato where people balanced all manner of things on their heads, including, as was likely in this case, a frosted sheet cake resting on a piece of cardboard. She recalled, too, how risky those balancing acts once looked to her.
“Un gateau, Chou.” Armando tapped the top of his head with one of his drumsticks. “Sur la tête.” He held the sticks two feet apart. “A cake this big on her head.”
Her gaze lingered on the dark circles under his eyes. He looked more worried than usual when he couldn’t reach Claude. He would feel better if Claude were here. But it didn’t seem like the time to say so—or even to bring up a husband story, not with Armando looking so sad. He might end up feeling worse. Better to focus on Tavelé. If she couldn’t bring Claude and Armando together, she could at least distract him from the anxiety of their separation. “Where was the woman with the cake?”
He directed a stick toward the south side of the plaza. “Over there.”
She wanted to ask how in the world the woman got out of his sight, but her throat felt tight. She would sound accusatory. Still, he should keep Tavelé near, the way she did when Tavelé stayed with her. It was the height of the summer rains, after all. He would regret it if Tavelé were carried off in a flash flood. Oh, dear, she had once said that, and not with good results. But it bothered her, the risks Armando took. Now her entire chest felt tight. She needed to get off this line of thought. She sighed. This wasn’t the first time Tavelé had spent a night on the town. Before Armando adopted him, he was a true callejonero, born and raised in the callejones. A rascal and a charmer. Someone would have taken him in. Maybe the woman with the cake herself. She felt her chest relax. But how did Tavelé get out of Armando’s sight? She raised her hands to the sides of her head and wobbled them there, as if holding a jiggling sheet cake.
“Was the bakery woman jogging?”
“With a cake on her head?” He laughed and made a little check in the air with a stick.
She shrugged and held her hands out, palms up. “So … ?”
“A boy had fallen off the fountain rim, Chou. I stopped to see if he was all right.”
Armando jumped on the fountain and started walking around, his arms and the sticks held out from his sides for balance.
She started walking beside him, feeling protective, but trying to look nonchalant. She had to think of a story. “Hmm. Did I ever tell you about the husband who used chopsticks for balancing after dining on Mandarin duck?”
“Like this,” he said, scraping his sticks together as if cleaning them and then holding them straight out on both sides of his body.
“Well, yes, but it can be dangerous, you know, climbing with chopsticks. After that evening I never ate duck again. In fact, I became a vegetarian.”
Armando continued walking around the fountain. “So what happened?”
“Well, it was such a lovely evening that he wanted to walk, and so he asked the limo driver to follow us.”
“Limo driver?”
“Yes, that intended was wealthy. I didn’t discriminate, you see. Gave my hand as freely to a banker as to a bohemian. You remember the one who lived on rice in a garret, don’t you?”
“Didn’t he fall, too?”
“Stretching out too far to see la Tour Eiffel. I was in the room below, putting on my gown. I heard him cry ‘Je t’aime’ as he passed by.”
“Men who love you seem unusually susceptible to falling.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Her father had fallen, too, but that was a different kind of story.
“And the rich guy?”
“He was crooning ‘Singing in the Rain,’ conducting himself with his chopsticks.”
“Didn’t you say it was a lovely evening?”
“Well, if you like rain, as he did, and I didn’t mind. It was a soft rain. No thunder or lightning.”
He stopped a moment. “And so?”
She stopped walking, too. “He had on an ankle-length gabardine coat, and when he stepped up onto a retaining wall to continue his serenade from on high, he tripped on his coat and fell. His engraved chopsticks did him in.”
“On your wedding day, I suppose.”
“Not quite. The night before.”
“Well, all right, I get the message.” He jumped down from the fountain, put his sticks in his shoulder bag, and took out a bottle of water, which he handed to Callie. “Have a drink on me.”
She scanned the plaza while taking sips. On the near side, a vendor sat behind a card table stacked with wrapped candies and little plastic bags of freshly made potato chips. On the far side, beyond the fountain, children gathered around an English tutor and her portable blackboard.
She put the bottle in her backpack. “Was the candy stand here yesterday?”
“No. Neither was the English teacher.”
“Well, someone must have seen Tavelé. Have you checked with the people in the copy shop or the grocery?”
“Everyone was watching the boy who had fallen. I tell you, Chou. He looked dead.”
She gasped. “Dead!”
“He was fine, Chou. Jumped right up when his mother arrived. But until then all eyes were upon him.”
“Then you don’t know if Tavelé followed the woman carrying the cake or someone else?”
“I know Tavelé, Choucita. It was orange cake with cream cheese frosting. His favorite.”
“And here all along I thought his favorite was vanilla.”
He laughed and made another check in the air.
A gust of wind swirled through the plaza, lifting dust and candy wrappers. She hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms. “Should we call off the search?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked in her eyes. “I need your help.”
Lightning split the sky above their heads.
The roar in her head matched the ensuing thunder. Yes, he needed her help. But he would not take her advice. If he used a leash, like she had suggested more than once, Tavelé would not have run off. She felt her throat constrict again. She shook herself. Here she was again on the verge of chastising Armando, when she just wanted him to be happy. What was wrong with her?
The first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth sounded from his shoulder bag. He flung it open, and pawed around inside, handing her the sticks, sheets of music, a half-eaten chocolate bar, a compact umbrella, and Du côté de chez Swann, before pulling out the cell. “Bueno.” He listened a while, laughing, and then nodded his head. “Oui, à Veracruz.” He clicked off the phone, did a pirouette, and said, “Claude’s meeting me in Veracruz. I’ll be there at least all of July and the first week of August. Claude, too. If I can get a ticket, I’ll leave after Friday’s concert, so I’ll have a few days there in June, too. That way I can find the perfect hotel by the time Claude arrives.”
She smiled. As usual on hearing Claude’s voice, Armando had made a spontaneous recovery from catastrophizing.
He took his things from Callie and stuffed them back into his bag. “It’ll be pouring soon. You need to get home.”
“But … but what about Tavelé?”
He kissed her on both cheeks. “Don’t worry, Chou.” Then he took off, calling back over his shoulder. “He always finds shelter somewhere.” He was in such a rush, he returned only three times. First, to tell her again that Doña Petra should be doing her laundry. Then, to say he needed to talk with her about a personnel problem in the orchestra. And finally, to insist she take his umbrella. No, he didn’t need it. He would outrun the rain.
She stood there, looking at the umbrella and pondering Armando’s sudden change of course, which even for him seemed surprising. But was it so surprising? Hadn’t it been Claude, not Tavelé, who had triggered Armando’s anxiety all along? When she looked up, she noticed a line of teenage girls wearing backpacks with rolled sleeping bags and carrying what looked like trumpet cases. They came into the plaza along one callejón, rounded the corner, and went out of sight up the callejón of the geese. At the end of the line and carrying only a bouquet of lilies was a tall, lithe woman who looked vaguely familiar, apart from her soft downy curls with corkscrew tips that glowed copper when a stream of sunlight broke through the clouds. The woman, happening to glance beyond Callie, froze. Callie followed her gaze and saw she was staring at Armando, who was exiting the plaza. When she turned back, she saw the woman disappear up the callejón.
Why did that young woman freeze on seeing Armando? He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And, besides, the woman looked like she could handle anything. Her posture exuded confidence. And her hair. Daring. And elegant, as if styled for the Ebony Fashion Fair. Her boots, flowing black skirt, and fitted teal jacket were elegant, too. Armando would love her style. Callie shrugged. So the woman had rushed off after seeing him. She was probably just trying to keep up with the girls. Who were they? Not local students. That was for sure. Not with their quick-dry shorts and hiking boots. She heard her mother’s voice. Curiosity killed the cat. Well, this cat was in no danger of getting close enough to be killed. Still, no harm in following them. She would get home just as quickly. And maybe she would find Tavelé. She hastened her pace. He had loved barking at the geese. He could be there now, looking for them.
This time at the house where the geese had lived, she heard several trumpets. Well, they got right down to it. Must still have their backpacks on. They hadn’t taken the time to close the gate either. Was Tavelé inside? She crept through the gate. No need to talk to the young woman or the girls.
She had never felt comfortable meeting new people. One summer during her college years, she had trained to sell vacuums door to door. She learned the spiel easily enough, but when the day came to begin sales, she’d retreated to a park across from the first house. She’d sat cross-legged under a tree all morning repeating “nothing ventured, nothing gained” and then quit at lunch.
That was a long time ago. But she could still feel the prickly grass and her legs unwilling to uncross. They would be stiffer now. She sighed. Well, she didn’t need to knock here. The door was wide open. She could see the young woman and one of the girls seated at a music stand. Both with raised trumpets. The young woman would play a note, and then the girl would play it. When the girl’s note sounded weak or wobbly, the young woman would point to her ear and play the note again. The girl’s next note would sing out pure and clear. I could watch them all day, Callie thought, and then reminded herself she was there for Tavelé. All she had to do was whistle and if he was there, he would come running. She made a loop with her thumb and middle finger, the way her father had taught her, and raised it to her lips. Then she froze. The trumpet teacher would surely come out, too.
But she should try. For Armando. Besides, it was time she got over her nerves about strangers. She leaned toward the door, and then drew back when she felt her heart hammering against her ribs. What was wrong with her? She had nothing to be afraid of. No need to take flight. Even if she had seen the woman before somewhere, she had not let her down in any way. Not her. She knew that, though her breath caught, recalling the young woman’s complexion, the color of caramel.
Scattered raindrops began falling again. She opened the umbrella and held it in front of her as she made her escape, backwards, through the gate.
Four
CALLIE HAD NO SOONER GOTTEN HOME THAN Armando had called. Luckily, given the sporadic sprinkles and her laundry still hanging, the conversation had been short. He only wanted to report, laughing, that Claude had said he was handsome—for a drummer. She had laughed, too, delighted with Armando’s good mood and pleased that she would get her linens down before the deluge.
She lifted a pillowcase from the basket and shook it, looking around the rooftop laundry room while she did so. Everything on the storage shelves n
eeded attention. The two-foot-tall stone angel, for instance. One of Juanito’s recent sales. She eyed the wing tip that had chipped off. Secure it with Elmer’s glue? No way it would hold. She held the pillowcase with one hand and reached out with the other toward a mirror in a hand-painted tin frame. She touched the crack along the top of the mirror. Juanito’s first sale. She recalled that day when Juanito came knocking on her door. She had opened the high peep window in her terrace door and, at first, had thought no one was there. But then she looked down and saw the little neighbor boy who had led her to the philosopher’s house, now her house. Then just seven years old and already a salesman, the boy offered the mirror as if it were a prize—granted, one that came with a price. “No pasa nada,” he had said, when she touched the crack. The crack wouldn’t be a problem. She couldn’t help but agree and gave him a fifty-peso bill, which he had kissed, and then he’d made the sign of the cross. He called out, “Gracias, Señora, gracias,” when he left.
She wiped her dusty fingers on her pants and then folded the sheet. If she were still living in Chicago, she would pile the angel, the mirror, and Juanito’s other sales into her aunt’s car and drive away to Goodwill. But here, on her callejón, someone would have to carry them off. Juanito would be sure to find out. And he had been so proud of his sales. Especially the stone angel, which he had managed to get to her house using Armando’s dolly. Besides, if she did get rid of Juanito’s sales, wouldn’t she miss seeing them? Chipped, cracked, or paint-splattered, each, in its own way, touched her heart.
She folded the pillowcase and took out another. There were still boxes of the philosopher’s books gathering dust. The philosopher had left everything when she moved out. Clothes hanging in the closets. Staples in the pantry. Books on the shelves. Slippers under the bed. Her toothbrush by the bathroom sink. Her things had been part of the deal. “If you take the house, you must take everything,” the philosopher had said. She was moving to a mountain village in the neighboring state of Michoacán or, as she put it, “crossing the border to Buddhism.”
The Trumpet Lesson Page 2