When the festival ended, most of the participating artists, including the American and Russian, promptly left Seville. The German, however, decided to stay a bit longer, and Domostroy wondered whether the man had made this decision on his own or at the woman’s request.
In another week the German left too, and Domostroy looked forward to seeing the woman abandon her last disguise. But she did not. One night she came to his room so well disguised that he could have passed her on the street without recognizing her—although he certainly would have wanted to meet her.
“And for whom are you wearing this costume?” he asked.
She came close to him. “It’s for you,” she said. “Aren’t you about to compose your Octaves?”
Years later he met the woman again, and it was then that her name was linked with his in a trashy magazine article about a weekend he spent with her at a couples’ club.
“Why don’t you call her?” Andrea’s words reverberated in Domostroy’s mind all day. When he got home that night, he wrote a note to Donna Downes, care of Juilliard, asking if he could see her. But when several days passed and she did not respond, he assumed she had decided against seeing him, and once again he resigned himself to his routine—but he thought of her often.
Donna was young, beautiful, gifted. And now he also knew that she was drawn to him because of his art—he remembered all too well what Andrea had said—that Donna had been carrying one of his albums. If Donna found his music fertile, then he had already gained access to her as an artist. But he desired her, and what he now wanted as a man was to gain access to Donna as a woman.
On occasion Domostroy went after odd jobs to supplement his income and to break the routine of his solitary existence. Going out into the world somehow recharged him. He would photocopy his capsule biographies in Who’s Who in America and Who’s Who in the World and send them out with brief notes, saying that he was available for special engagements. These notes went only to nightclub and hotel managers, dance hall operators and small-time agents who would know little and probably care less about his failure of the last decade.
Through one of the Cuban waiters at Kreutzer’s, Domostroy had also made contact with some members of the Free Cuba Fighters, a loosely organized group of Cuban patriots living in America, ranging from well-to-do businessmen to aged veterans of the Bay of Pigs invasion. Hardworking professionals for the most part, of quick intelligence and uncanny commercial drive, these Cubans proudly declared themselves the “Jews of Latin America,” a claim they supported by their vigorous work habits. Although they had often asked Domostroy to play at weddings and small parties, he was surprised when one of them called and offered him an unusual amount of money for playing at their annual formal party, which was to be held at the Harmony, one of Manhattan’s newest and most elegant hotels.
Dressed in his tuxedo, Domostroy arrived at the hotel on the appointed evening and left his car, an oddity in the long line of double-parked chauffeur-driven limousines, in the care of one of the uniformed attendants. Then he made his way through the vast marble lobby, feeling a bit intimidated by the crowd of expensively dressed men and ostentatiously bejeweled women who mingled there.
After reporting to the manager, he was promptly escorted by a security guard to a suite on one of the hotel’s top tower floors. He had to show identification at the door, and after two powerfully built, tuxedo-clad Cubans frisked him thoroughly, he was allowed to proceed into the magnificent suite where the Free Cuba Fighters were gathering for an evening of amusement. One spectacular salon led to the next, and since the doors between them all were open, he was free to wander from room to room, although as he did so he realized that security guards were stationed throughout at regular intervals.
In the center of the largest room, Domostroy saw a white fiberglass enclosure, some twenty feet in diameter, its sides about three feet high, with a floor of spongy rubber matting. Nearby stood a portable scale in a wooden case, and the room’s corners were filled with clusters of empty cardboard carrying cases. At the room’s far end stood a Paganini console, which, Domostroy realized, was brought there for him. He had played such an instrument only once before, the previous year, at the Music Fair Exhibition where its versatility and sound fidelity had surprised him.
More and more Free Cuba Fighters continued to arrive, the men in tuxedos, the women in extravagant evening gowns. A number of the men carried extra-wide attaché cases made of wicker or polished wood and equipped with combination locks. Domostroy watched each of the men calmly open the case he had brought with him and transfer its contents into one of the larger carrying cases grouped in the corners of the room. The contents were all the same—fighting cocks, the evening’s only serious fighters, their feathers rainbows of red, orange, black, yellow, and beige with iridescent ruffs billowing around their necks, their legs and beaks tied to prevent them from hurting themselves.
Helpers tended the birds, carefully affixing spurs and identification bands to the legs of each rooster. A man beside Domostroy took it upon himself to explain that these spurs were of different sorts, depending on the kind of fight the bird was bred and trained for. Some spurs were made from dead roosters’ legs, honed to razor-sharpness and cured for strength, designed to slide in and out of the opponent’s body. Others were made of metal; of these, the “gaffs” looked like bayonets, while the “slashers” were single-edged and sickle-shaped.
At a table near the pit, the helpers neatly laid out assorted cockfighting paraphernalia; pads for cleansing and healing, waxed nylon strings, leg bands, leather gaff sheaths, moleskin tapes, additional rubber mats, sponges, plastic garbage bags for the dead cocks, as well as supplies of dextrose for injecting strength into wounded birds and antibiotics to guard them against infection.
Waiters in white jackets circulated with trays of drinks. Domostroy helped himself to a Cuba Libre, and as he watched the activity in the room he recalled hearing once that with bettors shouting, pitmen screaming, and bystanders cheering on the birds, cockfighting was a noisy sport. His reason for being hired for the evening now became clear to him: with the help of the Paganini—which could sound like a whole band—he was supposed to drown out the sounds of the cockfight and declare to guests on the floors above and below that patriotic Cubans were dancing and cheering and singing to the music of a native combo.
As the birds were outfitted for battle, their owners argued the pros and cons of using gaffs and slashers. Two men near Domostroy talked about the fighting cock’s extraordinary instinct to battle other cocks—always, everywhere, without any apparent reason. It was an instinct so deep, constant, and overpowering that no human, however savage or motivated, could comprehend it. One of the men described an incident that had occurred at his cousin’s cock-breeding farm in Florida. During a violent hailstorm, heavy winds blew down most of the pens and coops, freeing the birds, and by the time the storm was over, most of the birds were dead. Freed from their prisons, they had fought each other to death on the spot.
Domostroy walked around, listening as the women in the room chatted with each other about jewelry and fashion, exercise classes and rejuvenating cosmetics, and the men talked intently about fighting cocks.
Most of the men at the party were middle-aged, a few already gray or bald, generally of average height and slightly heavy around the hips, with firmly masculine features and energetic, flamboyant mannerisms. The women, shorter than the men, their plump round figures exaggerated by tight gowns, were vivacious and feminine, with elaborate hairdos, heavy makeup, and bright shades of red lipstick. The men’s excitement over the coming cockfight soon spread to most of the women, particularly as the initial bets began to be placed. Several of the younger women eyed the Paganini, anticipating the time when the fights would be over and the men would turn their attention to women, music, and dancing.
The man who was to act as referee stepped forward and called for the first two pitmen, and two men with aprons over their tuxedos and fighting cocks in th
eir hands got into the fiberglass enclosure, the cocks twitching, readying themselves for battle. A stir of excitement filled the room, and at that moment the referee gave Domostroy the signal that it was time for music.
As Domostroy struck the first chord, the pitmen handed their roosters over to the referee, who examined the spurs on their legs, weighed them, and declared them eligible and properly matched according to regulations. From his position behind the console, Domostroy then saw the cocks struggling to peck each other, as the guests, screaming and shouting and placing last-minute bets, crowded around the pit. The pitmen set the cocks down a few feet apart on the spongy mat floor and scurried out of the pen; instantly, tails stiffly erect, feathers ruffled in fury, the birds moved in on each other, circling, staring angrily. Then they collided. Savagely tearing and exchanging blows with their beaks and spurs, they beat their wings frantically and became airborne for an instant, their legs stretched out like those of attacking eagles. As they came down, they rebounded, sinking their spurs into each other, until blood began to seep through the feathers on their necks and torsos. They went on raking each other, landing blows, hooking their spurs, wrestling each other sideways to the ground, flying up, falling down, and half blinded by blood and torn feathers, tipping over,, colliding again, their torn muscles hanging out, until one bird suddenly collapsed, barely twitching in the pool of its own blood, and its opponent, in the final rage of victory, rushed to it and with one faultlessly aimed strike of its beak dealt the prostrated enemy a mortal blow. With the fight over, the guests collected on bets, and the owner of the winning bird scooped it up triumphantly and carried it off to examine its injuries, while helpers tossed the dead bird into a refuse bag. Just then, the pitmen introduced two new birds for the next fight.
To smother the continued clamor of excitement around the pit, Domostroy was asked to play louder, so he turned the Paganini up to full volume and began to improvise. Soon, a sound indistinguishable from that of a rock combo was blasting through the console’s six stereo speakers, and by means of its preset tone selectors and autorhythms—Latin rock, patchanga, merengue, bossa nova—Domostroy was giving the Cubans every romantic song he knew, rendered with a Latin flavor in a variety of instrumental voices including flute and celesta. Although the noise around the pit did not diminish, and the rounds of fighting and betting and cleaning up went right on, a group of the Cuban women began to gather around Domostroy and dance with each other, applauding the player for his best selections.
He was in the middle of a slow dance piece when a pair of strong hands covered his eyes from behind, a scent of delicate perfume invaded him, and a woman’s voice menacingly whispered in his ear, “Guess who?” He pressed the foot pedal that automatically maintained his preset beat and said, “I can’t!” but even as he said it he knew there was something familiar about the voice, although he couldn’t conjure up the image of the woman who went with it.
“Well, try,” she said, and that was enough.
A flash of excitement burst within him. “Is it Donna Downes?” he asked.
“That’s me!” she said, laughing happily and removing her hands. She told him to keep playing, and as he turned toward her he saw her in her full splendor—her hair piled on top of her head and fixed with little sprigs of fresh flowers, her neck and shoulders bare—wearing a long violet gown that wrapped her body snugly down to the middle of her thighs and then fell loosely over her knees and ankles. Before he could think of what to say to her, another fight climaxed in the pit and a roar of excitement filled the room. Domostroy automatically increased the volume of what he was playing and speeded up the tempo, and unexpectedly, Donna sat down next to him and began to play along. Under their four-handed improvisation, the music blasted the room.
Soon an intermission was announced, and everyone was invited to the buffet supper in the next room. In the pit, men replaced the rubber floor covering and tied up the plastic bags containing the bloody corpses of dead roosters. Still uncertain of what to say to Donna and timid in her presence, Domostroy offered to escort her to the room where the buffet was laid out.
In the next room a gray-haired Cuban beckoned to them. Whispering that he was her date for the evening, completely at ease, Donna introduced Domostroy to him and to her other friends as someone whose music she had known for years. In the party’s din the word music must have been lost, for her friends all seemed to assume she and Domostroy had known each other for years.
The Cuban was a retired widower who lived near Donna’s parents. He had met Donna through them soon after he moved to America, but, he added quickly, only recently had he thought of asking her out. Cocknghting was his great passion, he confessed, and that was the reason he lived in the South Bronx, an area where cock-fighting had become so popular that the local state assemblyman, to please his Hispanic constituency, had tried several times—unsuccessfully—to introduce into the New York State legislature a bill aimed at legalizing the sport.
Their conversation was interrupted by an announcement that the second round of fights was about to begin, and Domostroy excused himself and returned to his post at the Paganini. Much later, when Donna and her friends were leaving, she came over to say good-bye. She told him that she had received his note and intended to call him soon; she was thinking of entering the upcoming Chopin competition in Poland, she said, and wanted to talk to him about it, as well as about Warsaw, where, she remembered reading, he had studied music at the Academy as a young man. Even though she said it with warmth and feeling, Domostroy felt she was simply being polite and would probably not call. After all, why would she respond to his desire?
A few nights later, he was having a nightcap at the bar in Kreutzer’s when Donna showed up looking for him.
With her figure outlined by her faded jeans and pullover and her hair falling freely over her shoulders, she looked girlish and free.
They moved to a corner table in the empty dining room, and for several moments Domostroy remained silent, feeling intimidated by her presence. When she told him that she had often been tempted to call him after their initial meeting at the Etude party, he became braver and loosened up enough to tell her that he had often thought about her too. He had been surprised, he said, to see her at the cockfights, and he asked whether she regularly attended such bizarre events. She answered that, given the life she had been born to, very little struck her as bizarre or extreme. The cock’s rage to kill was its whole life, she said, so it was only natural that the cockfighting pit should be its means to death. What was bizarre to her, she said, was that there were so many black people, born into the countless ghettos of America, whose rage to live could never be fulfilled, at least not in the pits of Harlem or the South Bronx.
When he did not answer, she began to talk about her life, as if to explain herself to him. She told him that she was presently living—on and off—with Jimmy Osten. Then she asked Domostroy why he had written her the note and what he wanted from her. He replied that he wanted to talk to her because he had a sense that his music was not remote to her; that, through her, he too might arrive at a point where he no longer felt remote from it—or from himself.
“What is it that you want to know about me?” she asked, and he sensed that she expected him to ask her about her musicianship, her studies, or her piano-playing plans, but for some obscure reason that was not at all malevolent, he went straight to the truth.
“Tell me about your life with that actor.”
Taken aback by his words, she stared at him for a sign of hostility, but when she found none, she appeared miserable, overcome by disgust.
“Who told you about him?” she asked sullenly, then checked herself. “I’m sorry—it doesn’t matter, does it? But why do you ask?”
“I want to know you, Donna,” he said quietly, “and because I might not have another chance, I feel it’s important to ask you about someone you cared about.”
She searched his face for signs that she could trust him. Then she composed her
self and began to speak, her voice calm, her eyes resting on his, gauging his reaction as she surrendered herself to her past.
“Please keep in mind, Patrick, that I can’t explain what I’m about to tell you,” she said, placing her hand on his, unconsciously smoothing his skin with the pads of her fingertips as she spoke.
“Recently, leafing through some magazines in the Juilliard library, I came across a scientific article about female sexuality. It said that when a woman gets excited sexually, whether by physical contact or through her imagination—the amount of vaginal blood and the rate of her vaginal pulse both increase. Yet the researchers found that during orgasm, although the rate of the vaginal pulse increases, the amount of blood decreases, and even though this information was obtained by the use of sophisticated research techniques, medicine has not been able to offer an explanation for it.”
She stroked his hand, as if expecting him to answer her, and she stared at him. But he did not answer. He watched her hand on his, and the thought that she would soon go home filled him with anxiety.
“If such a simple physical thing is still a mystery to science,” she said, “I guess I’ll never know what it was about Marcello that made me love him.”
Domostroy felt the incomprehensible world of her past rise like a barrier between them. Her green eyes stared at him without expression, and meeting her gaze, he wondered whether that barrier would ever crumble before the groundswell of his feeling for her.
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