Havana Jazz Club

by Mariné, Lola

  The innkeeper stammered as he explained that they didn’t have champagne, but he could offer her a bottle of cider. She rejected his suggestion with an elegant flick of the wrist. The man hurried to send the bellboy to the store in the village, to see if they had any bottles left from last Christmas. The boy came back a few minutes later with two bottles of cava, the only thing he could find. Tatiana made a tiny grimace of disgust but accepted the bottles. After paying the man and giving the boy a good tip, she left, crossed the road, and plunged into the forest, followed by every eye in the tavern.

  Tatiana walked for a long time, looking for the most inaccessible spot she could find. She had her bubbly and a ton of sedatives in her bag. This time, nobody would be able to say she was just crying for attention. By the time they found her, it would be too late. She had given the matter a great deal of thought. She couldn’t bear her life any longer. Abandoned by those who claimed to be her friends, she had never felt so alone. She wasn’t getting as many movie roles as she once had, and she knew that her beauty was starting to wither. What would become of her? She preferred to disappear at the height of her success, becoming a legend who would be forever engraved in the minds of those who knew her, with her youth and beauty intact.

  She arrived at a clearing in the woods with a brook running next to it. The last rays of sun were filtering through the branches of the trees, the silence broken only by a few chirping birds. This was the place. She spread her beautiful silk scarf over the dry leaves and sat down to rest. She wasn’t in a rush. Not anymore. She had achieved a state of internal peace that came from being the master of her own destiny. It wouldn’t take long for her to obtain eternity.

  She took off her shoes and opened one of the bottles. It wasn’t cold, and she didn’t have a fine crystal glass to drink from, but she didn’t care. She was exhausted, having driven all day and then walked a long way through the woods. When night fell, she succumbed to a deep sleep next to the two empty bottles, only waking up as morning dawned.

  Tatiana stretched. For the first time in years, she greeted the dawn with happiness. She had forgotten the sedatives and felt light, free, unburdened … She threw off her clothes and plunged into the cold river. After swimming a little, she stretched out, still nude, on the fallen leaves. She spread her long blonde mane around her head and offered herself up to the sun. She knew that she was magnificent. It would have been a splendid cover for a glamorous magazine. “Tatiana Petrov au naturel,” the headline would read. She smiled. She wanted to stay there the rest of her life.

  Suddenly, she felt a tiny prick on her stomach and discovered that one of the bottles was acting as a magnifying glass between the sun and her body. She moved a little and stared, bewitched, as the incandescent point of light moved to her silk scarf. A small column of smoke began curling up. She squinted and glimpsed a tiny flame blackening the center of the fabric, growing until it turned her scarf into a flaming banner. Giggling delightedly like a child, she took her torch of silk and fire by one end and ran through the woods singing to herself, dancing and cackling, a fiery trail following in her wake.

  The firemen found her in a clearing, surrounded by flames. She was dancing naked and laughing hysterically, an absent expression on her face, lost in the sinuous dance of those red-hot tongues …

  It took two days and two nights to put the fire out. When it was over, all that remained of the woods were the ghostly figures of the blackened trunks, grotesquely petrified in an expression of terror.

  Tatiana was detained and then driven to a psychiatric hospital where she stayed for a long time. News of her escapade spread quickly, and a tabloid nicknamed her “the fire nymph.” From then on, every newspaper and magazine tacked it on to her real name.

  When she left the hospital, no one was waiting for her. She knocked on many doors, but all were slammed in her face. To her supposed friends and acquaintances, Tatiana Petrov had died in that fire. “The fire nymph” had devoured the star, and nobody trusted her anymore.

  She decided to move to Barcelona. One of her old lovers was a rich businessman with connections to the film world. Despite being married with three children, he had declared his eternal love for her and reiterated his desire to offer her a life fit for a princess. Tatiana didn’t dare to hope for that much. At that point, she just wanted to get away from Madrid and start over in a new place. But when she finally came face-to-face with her ardent lover, he didn’t appear quite so inclined to help. Tatiana’s looks had faded, and he was afraid that any associations with the disgraced actress could land him in hot water with his family. So he hurried to find her an apartment as far as possible from his home and gave her a small monthly allowance in exchange for a firm promise that she would never, under any circumstances, call him or come anywhere near him or his family again.

  Although she was disappointed, she felt she had no choice but to accept his humiliating conditions. She thanked her old friend for his help and promised him that he had nothing to fear from her. All she wanted was to rebuild her life, put the drugs and alcohol behind her, and get back to work.

  She cut her hair, dyed it darker, and took a stage name so that no one would connect her with the extravagant star fallen from grace. By the time she was done with her makeover, she was sure that no one would recognize the faded old woman she had become as the spectacular Tatiana Petrov.

  She tirelessly made the rounds of all the film producers in the city, but it wasn’t easy for a supposedly unknown actress in her thirties with a thick foreign accent to gain a foothold in that exclusive world. Eventually, once her ex-lover was sure she wasn’t a danger anymore, he cut her off. She found herself forced to accept small roles in movies or ads just to survive. When some young, conceited little two-bit actress treated her disdainfully, she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming in her face that she was the famous Tatiana Petrov, and she had more success and fame in her pinky than that stupid snot-nosed pip-squeak could ever even dream of.

  She couldn’t keep her promise of staying away from drugs and alcohol. Drinking whatever cheap wine she could get her hands on was her only refuge against the unbearable sadness and frustration of her life. Loneliness, the meaninglessness of her life, and the memory of times past—which she recalled with fondness in retrospect—made her think that everything was over for her. She began to lose hope. Why keep fighting?

  It wasn’t long before another suicide attempt landed her back in the hospital.

  If she had thought that her situation couldn’t get any worse, she was mistaken. When she left the hospital, she found she had been evicted. She no longer even had a roof over her head.

  However, on that occasion, fate took pity on her and put Billie in her path.

  CHAPTER 24

  Armando did all the necessary paperwork so that the government would provide Tatiana with a small pension for her years working in cinema. Taking into account her clinical history, plagued by suicide attempts, he managed to have her declared incapable of holding a conventional job. The money she had earned from her films seemed to have all vanished. When all was said and done, Tatiana would receive a small monthly payment and some extra royalties for her movies.

  Tatiana was overjoyed and incredibly grateful to Armando and Billie, whom she considered her guardian angels. She didn’t give up her efforts to rebuild her career, and kept the hope of recovering her lost splendor alive. Billie softened at the sight of her friend trying to hide the ravages that time and excess had drawn on her beautiful face, watching as she put on elegant but threadbare dresses and went out every day, unfazed by discouragement, in search of new opportunities. Billie watched her vigilantly, afraid that the ongoing rejections would send her spiraling into a new bout of depression, but Tatiana seemed stronger now, surrounded by her new friends and saved by her fantasy world, in which a better future was always possible.

  Every night, she got painstakingly dolled up and went to the Dixieland to listen to Billie sing. With the same arrogance as a Holl
ywood star who knew that everyone present was admiring her, she would have a drink while smoking one cigarette after another. Armando never wanted to charge her—“You can pay me tomorrow,” he would usually say—but Tatiana insisted stubbornly, declaring haughtily that she could pay for her own drinks and that if they didn’t charge her she would never set foot in the place again.

  After Billie’s act, they would leave together and head to their respective homes, which were very close to each other, while Armando stayed behind to say good night to the late-night customers and close up the register. He often chatted with Matías, the old pianist and now a dear friend, who had practically come with the place.

  He had popped up as soon as they started construction while the workers labored under Armando’s supervision.

  “Did you need something?” Armando had asked the skinny little man when he’d poked his head in the door.

  “I used to play that piano,” Matías replied, not looking at him, his eyes locked on the gray blanket protecting the instrument in the center of the tiny stage.

  To Armando it sounded like he really meant, “That piano is mine.”

  “Really?” he asked.

  The man gave a few short nods, looking lost in his memories.

  “I worked here for many years, until it closed,” he explained, finally looking at Armando. “Do you need a pianist?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I haven’t decided what my approach is going to be—”

  “I’m good,” Matías broke in. “May I?”

  Before Armando could respond, the man had entered the bar and was making his way resolutely toward the stage. He climbed the platform and pulled back the cloth covering on the piano with the utmost care. He gazed at the lid for a few seconds, stroking it gently as if reuniting with an old friend who had been sorely missed. Then he lifted it very slowly and ran his fingers along the keys, barely brushing them.

  “It’s probably out of tune,” said Armando, who had followed him over to the stage.

  The man didn’t respond. He simply pressed one key, then another, and another. Then he looked at Armando and smiled. He sat down on the bench and took a deep breath as he shook out his hands. Suddenly his left hand fell on the keyboard, pulling a chord out of it followed lightly by other happy notes. His right hand joined his left and the pianist’s fingers danced over the keys with surprising agility, as if they had a life of their own. Armando immediately recognized Fantaisie-Impromptu, op. 66, by Chopin. It was one of his favorite pieces, and he had had the opportunity to hear it recently in a concert by the acclaimed pianist Arthur Rubinstein given at the Palau de la Música. He realized then that this little man reminded him of Rubinstein: though short and seemingly fragile, he grew larger before the piano. The music seemed to possess him and give him a halo of greatness.

  When he finished his performance, enthusiastic applause exploded behind Armando. When he looked back, he saw that all the workers had stopped their work to listen to the pianist in respectful silence.

  “Gentlemen, please, get back to work,” the boss said cheerfully.

  The musician shot Armando a questioning look, awaiting his verdict.

  “You’re very good, it’s true,” Armando began. “But this is a jazz club …”

  “I’m sorry,” Matías said. “It’s just that it’s been so long since I played, and I let myself get carried away.”

  Having said that, he attacked a jazz classic by Oscar Peterson. And with that, Armando understood, without the slightest doubt, that this man and this piano were made for each other.

  Many years had passed since that first meeting. Matías and Armando had become great friends. And on one of those dawns that drew out secrets, Armando revealed the true nature of his relationship with Billie and the feelings he had for her. Although Matías never confessed that he too was hopelessly in love with her, he didn’t need to. Armando saw it shining in his eyes; he noticed it in the way he said her name, in the way he followed her with his eyes around the room and drank in each of her gestures, in the almost-religious veneration with which he accompanied her on the piano, and in the way he went into a kind of ecstasy when he listened to her sing.

  But Matías would never reveal his dearest and bitterest secret, not to Armando, nor to Billie herself. He knew that she was everything to his friend, and he wouldn’t get in his way for anything in the world. Besides, they were both aware that as beautiful as Billie was—and she was only growing more so as she aged gracefully—she had no interest in romantic matters. The only man in her life was her son, Nicolás, and she had eyes for no one but him.

  Late one night, while Matías and Armando were chatting as they closed up the register and flipped chairs up onto the tables, a sharp pain in his chest caused Armando to fall silent. Suddenly, he doubled over and fainted, crashing to the floor before Matías could do anything to help.

  “Armando! What’s happened to you, Armando?” Matías exclaimed as he ran over to him.

  Armando appeared to be unconscious, so Matías slapped him lightly on the face a few times. When Armando didn’t come to, Matías ran to the phone and called 911, then returned to his comrade and begged him to open his eyes.

  “Armando, say something. For the love of God, don’t do this to me …”

  In the distance, the strident howl of a siren shattered the quiet of the night.

  CHAPTER 25

  Matías climbed into the ambulance with Armando and accompanied him to the hospital. He had suffered a heart attack, they said. Poor Matías collapsed in a chair in the waiting room while his friend was treated and prayed that he would recover. Then he realized he ought to call Billie.

  “Billie, it’s Matías,” he said to the sleepy and slightly disoriented voice that answered. “I don’t want to scare you, but I’m with Armando at the Hospital del Mar.”

  “What happened?” she asked, sounding suddenly more alert.

  “Armando had a heart attack, but I think he’s going to be fine,” he ventured, stating what he hoped to be true.

  “Dear God! Is he really okay, Matías? You’re not just trying to make me feel better?”

  “Really, Billie. I probably should have waited till morning to tell you, but I thought you should know right away.”

  “You did the right thing, Matías. I’ll be right over. I’ll call Tatiana and have her stay with Nicolás.”

  Barely half an hour later, Billie rushed into the hospital lobby. Matías threw himself into her arms sobbing like a child.

  “It was so scary, Billie! I didn’t know what to do!”

  “It’s okay, Matías,” Billie said, trying to console him, though she was actually quite overwrought with anxiety herself. “How did it happen? What have the doctors told you? Where is he?”

  They spent the rest of the night waiting in the cold hallway of the hospital while doctors and nurses hurried in and out of the Intensive Care Unit, never offering them the reassuring news they so yearned for. They were doing tests, they said. They had to wait.

  As dawn broke, one of the doctors relayed to them that Armando was out of danger, but he had to stay under observation. Then they moved him to a permanent room, and they could go in and see him. Billie and Matías exchanged an emotional embrace.

  As they headed to his room, Matías started to get nervous, stammering clumsily and repeating over and over what had happened in the club and the agonizing moments he had endured fearing for Armando’s life. But Billie wasn’t listening. She could see only the closed door behind which lay her dear friend. When she opened it, she was shocked by the sight of Armando’s formidable body, lying immobile and defenseless in a bed that looked much too small for him. He was sleeping. Billie sat at the head of the bed and took his hand tenderly. Matías placed his trembling hand on her shoulder, and she patted it a few times to comfort him. They both remained by Armando’s side, observing him attentively, not saying a word until he woke up, when the sun was already high.

  Once Armando had recovered, he bec
ame preoccupied by a singular thought: he wasn’t afraid of dying, he said, but he was suddenly worried about Billie and her son’s situation should something happen to him.

  “I don’t have much, Billie, but I want to make a will and leave it all to you and Nicolás. You two are my only family. You also have to resolve the situation with your husband. I don’t want him to show up one day, when I’m not around to protect you, and try to make trouble.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Armando!” Billie said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. We all have many years together ahead of us.”

  “Billie, be reasonable. I’m fifty-five years old, and I just had a heart attack. It was a warning. There’s no reason for it to happen again, that’s true, but I would feel better if your personal situation were clear. You haven’t heard anything about Orlando for years, but he’s still your husband, and he really doesn’t seem like a trustworthy fellow. Who knows what kind of mess he’s gotten himself into, and you’re still officially his wife. Plus, you’re still very young and very beautiful.” He smiled tenderly. “One day someone will appear, and you’ll fall in love. You’ll want to start over. You don’t have to worry about me: I’m not going to ask you to marry me again, not even if you got down on your knees and begged me to.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Billie said, laughing at Armando’s joke. “I don’t have any intention of starting over. I like my life just the way it is, and I don’t need a man. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll divorce Orlando. I don’t want to hear any more talk about wills though. Better not to name la pelona. It’s bad luck.”

  “Who is la pelona?”

  “The …” Billie began. “You know!”

  “La pelona is death?” Armando laughed as Billie shivered at the word. “Fine, if you promise to listen to me, I promise I won’t die.”

  “Deal,” Billie answered with a smile, reaching out a hand to seal their agreement.