I started to lead her to the couch, but she went straight to the bedroom where she sat daintily on the edge of the bed, motioning for me to join her as she made a show of crossing her legs.
“Yiolanda, I—”
“Don’t talk. Come. And don’t tell me that you’re not attracted to me because I’ll know you’re lying.”
I leaned against the doorjamb. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to thank you for saving my life. Surely you accept gratitude?”
“No need to thank me.”
“Don’t you want to join me, Andy?”
“I ... I’m expecting someone.” It was the first lie I could think of.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? I can’t guess what your schedule is.” She stood and crossed over to me. When she reached to kiss me, she leaned her whole body against mine, and I had the sudden vision that we were a perfect match. Then I got a vision of Rolando and pulled away.
“Yiolanda, I—”
“I understand Andy,” she said, caressing my chin. “Don’t feel bad. I’ll come back another time.”
“There’s no need—”
“Even if I can’t ever thank you enough, I can try.”
While I stayed anchored to the doorjamb, she let herself out, mementos tucked under her arm. Her heels clicked all the way down the hall. Even after I took a shower, her scent enveloped the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
At the restaurant that night, I cornered Yiolanda at the bar. “I appreciate your stopping by,” I said under my breath, looking away so people wouldn’t think we were exchanging secrets, “but you’ve done quite enough to thank me.”
“Really?” She grinned and drew a red fingernail under my chin. “Do you know what I think?” She patted the bar. “You’d make love to me right here, right now, if I would let you.” She sauntered off, swinging her hips.
I went to my safe perch on the stage and played desultorily.
“What’s the matter?” Pablo asked. He’d waited until Sergio was out of earshot, busy flirting with a group of tourists. “You don’t seem like yourself again.”
For a long, uncomfortable moment, I wondered if what he suspected was anything close to what had happened and decided it wasn’t. “Ever have one of those days when you’re unsure about everything?”
“Second thoughts about Stefani?”
“Not one. But do you know what I’m mad at? Passion. It’s a pain in the ass.”
Pablo pointed to Yiolanda with his eyes. “Another encounter?”
I was stunned, not only by the accuracy of his appraisal but by his speed. “What, it’s written on my face?”
“Invisible ink. I’m the only one who can read it.”
I cleared my throat an extra two times. “She showed up at my apartment. Uninvited.”
“That dry spell in jail must have been brutal.”
“I got rid of her, but it wasn’t easy.”
“Don’t worry about it. Without passion, we’d have nothing to sing about.”
“So shut up and sing?”
Pablo grinned. “Something like that.” He whistled at Sergio, who was busy toasting with all four of his new friends. “Hey, compadre! The stage is over this way.”
Sergio stood mid-sentence, kissed each girl good-bye, and sashayed to the stage.
“Thanks, Pablo! Otherwise I couldn’t have gotten away.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it looked like.”
“Sweet girls. Scottish. It’s their first time to the States, and let me tell you, they’re loving it!” Momentarily his attention was diverted towards the center of the room. “Hey, look!”
A man and two women approached an empty table near the stage. They giggled as if drunk but moved in a straight line.
Sergio and Hernando immediately greeted them. Pablo did the same. He elbowed me sharply before whispering, “Pretend to know them. The taller woman is Greek. The woman in the white blouse is a mariachi player from Tucson. Her first name is Rachel.”
Thank God for Joey’s and Pablo’s warnings. Otherwise I couldn’t have pulled it off, or I would have acted so edgy they would have thought I was weird. Medium-edgy was bad enough.
The man was of average height, perhaps my age, and darker skinned. He had a full set of jet-black hair that shot off his face like a fountain gone wrong. Holding his hand was a woman in a navy-blue dress, and then came the woman in black dress shorts and a white blouse. Rachel had a deep tan, sun-streaked brown hair, and an easy smile. She also had a sleek, compact body, but she didn’t advertise it.
When the newcomers reached the stage, we shook hands all around. Pablo asked Rachel what she wanted to sing, but she protested that she wanted to warm up with a drink.
“I’m glad to see her,” Pablo said after the trio took their seats. “Last time she livened things up.”
“Certainly he can remember from two nights ago,” Sergio laughed, slapping me, “even if he was so drunk he was delirious!”
“Certainly,” Pablo said.
But I knew Pablo didn’t mean “certainly,” so I was anxious to start playing. While I decided on the next song, I held my violin against my chest as a shield.
***
The rest of the evening was so smooth I had to remind myself I was being paid. The right elements were in place. Instead of the usual lull between the tourist crowd and the Hispanic locals, the tourists stayed late and the Mexicans trickled in, leaving a seamless transition. The locals asked for particular songs, but we were able to comply with their requests. When we sang Sonora querida, the Mexican patrons joined in on the chorus that was an homage to the huge Mexican state bordering the U.S. When we played cumbias, which were popular dance tunes, customers migrated to the makeshift dance floor in front of the stage.
Rachel was as engaging as Joey had suggested, and each time I passed her table I created an excuse to stop and chat. Since her joie de vivre transcended vacationing, her sparkle permeated the room. When she came to the stage, she avoided the well-known tunes from the Linda Ronstadt albums. She preferred the faster style of the corridos and the humor that went along with it. She started with No me casaré, in which the singer proclaims she’ll never marry, and continued with Serían las dos, in which the singer rejects her lover after catching him at another woman’s window in the middle of the night. Rachel had a pleasant voice rather than a studied one, but she sang in tune and smiled as she performed, savoring the moment. Her stage presence erased imperfections, and the women in the audience were happy to hear songs that poked fun at men.
Rachel thanked us profusely for accompanying her, but before she could sit down, the customers clamored so loudly for another number that she switched gears and chose Alma, corazón, y vida. Heart, Life, and Soul was an old bolero from South America that we rarely performed. When Sergio got lost in the middle of the first verse, Rachel indicated the proper chords with hand signals. Rather than look disgusted at our lack of knowledge as would-be professional singers usually did, she calmly supplied cues. When she thanked us again, I could tell she was sincere.
Just as the evening was slowing down, a group of new customers sauntered in with enough tip money to keep us playing and for us to be happy about it. Rachel and the couple stayed on as well. Rachel listened to us as carefully: catching nuances, feeling for us when we scrambled for chords, laughing when Hernando stopped to adjust a string and it snapped at his nose.
When we finally quit playing, I strolled up to Rachel’s table, thanking her for helping us out and for her unique choice of songs. Yiolanda passed behind me. With a wave of her hip, she pushed me into Rachel’s table so hard that the water glasses shook.
“Later,” Yiolanda said.
I apologized to Rachel and her friends, but they were more interested in asking me about the season’s business. When they offered to buy me a drink, I sat with them.
“You sing well in Spanish,” I told Rachel.
“I ought to. My grandmother was Mexican.�
��
“That’s nothing,” said the other woman, whose name was Katrina. “You should hear her sing in Greek!”
The trio laughed.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s a long story,” Rachel said. “Maybe some night I’ll tell you about it.”
“I’ve got time.”
“Stop tantalizing him,” said the man, whose name was Zenen. He turned to me. “My wife grew up on a small island in Greece. Rachel was visiting when the musicians at the local taverna suddenly lost half their group. She offered to fill in.”
“And play Greek music?”
“I hacked my way through on guitar,” Rachel explained. “Greek folk music is not that different from mariachi. The chord patterns aren’t complicated, and the accordion player dictated the chords as we went along.”
“She was amazing,” Katrina said.
“I knew some Greek music already,” Rachel explained. “It helped that they were desperate.”
Because I was patient and kept asking, I got the details: Amiros had only one taverna with live music, but when two of the members quit on the same night, the other two rebelled. They were prepared to walk out on their jobs when Rachel, their most loyal fan, offered to sit in with them. She helped them limp through the night, and since the musicians on the other islands were already booked, the taverna owner enticed her into staying for the rest of the season.
I looked at the woman with admiration. I’d done something similar by joining a mariachi without adequate preparation, but at least I knew some basic songs. Rachel downplayed her accomplishments, but the couple insisted that she’d saved the taverna from bankruptcy and played matchmaker for Katrina’s sister at the same time.
Dennis came and stood behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“We better leave,” Zenen said. “Otherwise we’ll never be welcomed back!”
Dennis thanked them and returned to the cashier’s desk. When I looked around, I was surprised to see that all the chairs had already been turned upside down on the tables so that the busboys could do a thorough sweeping, and all the other customers had left.
“I really enjoyed listening to you,” I told the woman. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow night and sing a few more tunes?”
Rachel killed off her soft drink. “By tomorrow night I’ll be halfway to Amiros. They hired me back for the tourist season.”
“It sounds like a dream job.”
She winked. “Come and see for yourself. Have you ever been to Greece?”
Right now the country sounded perfectly far away. “I’ve been to Europe, but I’ve never gotten that far east.”
“Then you’re missing out.” She dug into a shapeless black purse and handed me a business card. “If you take a vacation this summer, you should stop by.”
“Maybe I will.”
When we shook hands, she gave mine an extra squeeze.
I caught up with Pablo as he headed out the door, and we started up Flower Street together. I slowed down to match his pace. “Fun night, wasn’t it?”
“Sure.” The electric lights bounced off his teeth as he smiled. “Almost as good as Friday.”
We turned down Adeline. All the other establishments were closed by now, so our shoes sounded loud against the empty street.
“I give up,” I said. “How did you know?”
Pablo grinned accomplishment. “It took me all night to figure it out.”
We went a block in silence, Pablo creating suspense because he enjoyed making me squirm. “Your brother did a commendable job. It helps that you’re so identical.”
“I’m older, but he’s heavier.”
“Men’s weight I don’t pay attention to.”
We reached St. Michael’s Square, which was peaceful in its nighttime silence. “Come up for a brandy?” I asked.
“As long as it’s yours.”
By the time I brought two snifters of Presidente to the balcony, Pablo was peering over the rails. “Great place for people watching.”
“I like being this high. Gives me a sense of perspective.”
“Is that so?” Pablo sampled the brandy. “They say perspective is useful.”
I got up the courage to meet his eyes. “You were going to tell me how you knew.”
“I was?”
“I was hoping.”
He wrapped his fingers around the snifter. “But then you’d know how to foil me the next time.”
“I am sorry for deceiving you.”
Pablo made a set of small circles with his right arm to say enough already. “Maybe you were in a hurry, so you didn’t have time to do things any other way.”
“That’s true. The chance came up suddenly. And I had to be discreet.”
“This has to do with Yiolanda?”
“She needed me to retrieve some evidence.”
Pablo swished his drink. “Did you?”
I nodded.
“I wondered how she got released so fast.”
“I had to—”
Pablo thrust out his hand like a bullish cop directing traffic. “I don’t want to know more than that.”
“Did Rolando catch on?”
“The excessive drinking was out of character, but he wasn’t paying attention.” Pablo held up his brandy glass, and I poured until he stopped me.
“What tipped you off?”
He pursed his lips in a wry expression of memory. “When you go to the washroom, you always walk down the center aisle to the middle of the room and turn left.”
“I suppose I do. So?”
“Joey walks along the wall. If he’d only done it once, I wouldn’t have noticed. Granted, sometimes you go past a certain table to say hello to someone or to avoid someone else. But not twice.”
Such a small, telling detail. I felt dense for not thinking about it.
“I was suspicious before that, of course. You usually play well even when you’re not concentrating, let alone if you’re a bit drunk. Remember New Year’s Eve two years ago? You didn’t miss a chord. Naturally your brother couldn’t keep up. He almost hurt himself trying.”
“Pablo, thanks for not saying anything.”
He nodded. “I figured you had a reason.” He patted my shoulder. “Now that Yiolanda is out of jail, why not steer clear of her for a little while? Let the air settle.”
“I will.”
“Try getting involved with a nice girl instead. How about your new friend from Arizona?”
“Are you sure she’s a nice girl?”
Pablo drained his glass and set it beside his chair. “She doesn’t paint her nails blood red or spit fire. I think there’s a chance.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Pablo’s visit cheered me up because I’d felt wrong about deceiving him. Even if I hadn’t quite leveled, at least he knew that my strange actions had to do with Yiolanda, not with him or anyone else. He was wise enough to let me make my own mistakes, and he realized that where Yiolanda was concerned, logic was liable to go astray. I slept like a rock until, hours later, I heard a pounding at the door. I turned over, determined to ignore it.
“Open this door or I’ll beat it down!” shouted Yiolanda.
Even the neighbors on the first floor would have heard. Wearing only briefs, I ran to admit her. Yiolanda lunged into the apartment and beat on my chest, her leather purse prancing on her hips. “How dare you offend me in my own restaurant!”
I was so startled that it took me a moment to recover my senses and grab her hands. She wasn’t very strong, so as soon as I got a firm hold, I pushed her hands against the wall, using my left leg to block her from kicking.
“If you don’t let loose, I’ll scream.”
“Scream then. See if I care.”
Her siren was so piercing I immediately let go. She sniffed at me indignantly and straightened out the lime green pantsuit she was wearing. The color didn’t suit her. Too much yellow in the green.
I thought she was going to start punching
me again, so I held my hands out, ready. Instead she sidestepped me and dropped on the couch just as I heard another knock.
Mrs. Sfirakis’ face was covered with soapy bubbles. “Is anything the matter? I thought I heard a woman scream.”
I opened the door so she could see Yiolanda, who by now had draped her arm around the cushions as if she owned them and daintily curled her legs beneath her.
“He invites me for coffee,” Yiolanda said. “I make a special trip across town. And do you know what?” She leaned forward. “He has no cream—not even milk! How am I to have a proper coffee? But of course, that’s a typical man, thinking only of himself.”
“Mrs. Sfirakis,” I said, taking her arm and drawing her into the room, “come meet Yiolanda. Her husband owns Noche Azul.”
“I own as much of it as he does.” Yiolanda took Mrs. Sfirakis’ hand and smiled as widely as her cheekbones allowed.
Mrs. Sfirakis processed Yiolanda’s identity with no noticeable change in expression. “I’m sure it’s exciting to run a restaurant.”
“I can’t even tell you,” Yiolanda yawned. “And now I can’t get a decent cup of coffee.”
“I’ll bring over some milk, dear. That might help.”
I held the door open for my neighbor, thanking her. She raised her eyebrows at me; she’d only needed one moment to take a definite dislike to Yiolanda. I wondered if it were a record.
I waited until Mrs. Sfirakis had gone back into her apartment to face my uninvited guest. “What’s wrong with you?”
“With me? Nothing. What’s wrong with you?”
I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms. “I’m confident you’ll tell me.”
Yiolanda stretched her legs. “I’m not sure I have that much energy.”
We stared at each other until Mrs. Sfirakis returned with a small pitcher of milk and pressed it into my hands.
“Thanks so much,” I said. “Silly of me not to check for it earlier.”
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