by Mariné, Lola
“Lots of people get lonely,” Billie replied, with a resigned air. “They come here, and they’re grateful they can talk to someone.”
Though Gerardo didn’t belong to that group, he hadn’t escaped Billie’s enveloping empathy.
That’s how she knew the painter had arrived in Barcelona a year ago from a small Castilian village, fulfilling a dream he had postponed for many years, to dedicate his life to art. She knew that he had two children and a grandson and that the reason he left the club early was because he liked to paint at night, when the city was sleeping and took on a special, almost surreal quiet, a peaceful silence only occasionally broken by some distant, muffled sound. That’s when he felt most inspired, free to let his imagination run wild, to distill the outside world and let the paintbrushes talk and slide wherever they wanted on the white surface of the canvas or page. Sometimes he worked all night and then awoke, surprised that the day was already well under way. When he glimpsed the picture he had painted, he sometimes didn’t recognize it as his. He remembered snatches, brushstrokes, short flashes of inspiration, as if he had painted it in a state of trance, of ecstasy. The colors looked dull and false under the artificial light of the studio, but outside, they shone like the sun. The inspiration for the paintings seemed to come out of a world of dreams, out of a universe that only manifested under the enigmatic influence of the moon.
What Billie didn’t know was that she was starting to appear in Gerardo’s paintings. She emerged in this dreamy and nocturnal world, surrounded by exotic landscapes depicting the Cuba she loved so much, as imagined by Gerardo, whose only references were books and the tourist brochures piled up in his study to relieve his absolute ignorance about the faraway island. Billie appeared in his paintings alongside a Malecón lashed by waves, nostalgically contemplating an infinite sea, her hair and dress whipped by the wind. She appeared evanescent and ethereal in front of colonial houses that Gerardo had copied from travel magazines; smiling in a Caribbean dress surrounded by people of all colors singing and dancing to the sound of tambourines; and suddenly in the shadows, mysterious and dark since the night Gerardo finally heard her sing …
A tight deadline on several paintings that he had promised to buyers forced him to break his routine and work long hours for several days in a row. He barely had time to eat and sleep, so for a time, he had to give up his daily visit to the Havana Jazz Club. After a few days of working tirelessly, he suddenly felt compelled one night to take a break and go to the club, even though it was almost closing time.
When he went in, the trumpet was spreading its golden, vibrant sound in the first notes of “Strange Fruit,” that heartrending, controversial song that had made Billie Holiday famous throughout the world. It spoke of the lynching of black men, in the southern United States, hanging from the trees like “strange fruit,” turning them into a grotesque and bitter harvest.
On the stage, Billie noticed his arrival but kept her eyes down, working hard not to show that she recognized him. At first, Gerardo didn’t notice her. The Billie he knew was familiar and close. The one he saw now, under the stage lights, was enveloped in a surreal halo, wrapped in a profound and private sadness that made her seem inaccessible, like a wounded goddess on her elevated pedestal. Her voice flowed densely, whispering and dark, her emotions contained. She seemed to be on the verge of bursting into tears. A furtive tear may have slipped down her cheek—it was hard to tell for sure—but the tears were certainly visible on the women in the audience who were listening in overwhelmed silence.
At the end of the song, enthusiastic applause jolted him back to the reality of the crowded room. Billie thanked the crowd with a light nod of her head and waited for the clapping to die down before she got down from the stage, transformed again into the unassuming and simple woman Gerardo knew. She responded naturally to the congratulations she received as she passed. When she got to the painter—who was staring at her with his mouth hanging open—she greeted him with a familiar gesture.
“I didn’t know you sang like that … Well, I didn’t even know you sang—you never told me,” he babbled, admiring and scolding all at once, as he trailed her to the bar. “That was … incredible, Billie. Marvelous, sublime. You left me speechless.”
“Doesn’t seem that way,” Billie laughed. “I highly doubt you could be left speechless.”
“It was … majestic, divine,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, and added, half serious, half joking, “I’m never going to forgive you for hiding this until now.”
“I didn’t hide it,” Billie said. “I sing every night. You just weren’t here, and it never came up.”
“It never came up?” Gerardo said incredulously, slapping his forehead. “Of course! Because I’m an idiot who only talks about himself. That’s why it never came up. I must have seemed like a moron acting like an artist when the one who really deserves admiration here is you.”
“Come on, don’t be silly.”
“What’s silly? That I’m an imbecile or that you’re amazing?”
“Are you guys fighting?” Armando broke in from across the bar, with a teasing smile.
“Billie never told me that she could sing so marvelously,” Gerardo said. “It’s the first time I’ve heard her, and I’m still recovering.”
“Well, that’s how she is. You’ll get to know her. Isn’t her voice incredible?”
Gerardo nodded, and the two men looked at her smitten for a few seconds, until she turned to them awkwardly with a nervous smile.
“What are you two looking at with those dopey faces? Give me a break!” she protested. All three burst into laughter.
A few months later, they had the inaugural exhibition of Gerardo’s work at the Havana Jazz Club, with a small party that was attended by a good-sized crowd.
Billie’s image was easily recognizable on the canvases: smiling and joyful in some, surrounded by bright colors that evoked happiness and freshness; in others, nebulous and nocturnal, almost spectral, submerged in darkness and wrapped in fog.
“He’s crazy about her,” Matías declared, as he contemplated the paintings next to Armando. “He practically wrote ‘Billie, I love you’ on all the paintings, like a teenager.”
“Come on, don’t be so hard on him, Matías,” Armando said. “Gerardo is a good guy. And Billie is happy. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her like that.”
“You’re right. But we saw her first. She’s our Billie. And now some seventy-year-old hunk is taking her away.”
Armando laughed.
“That’s life, my friend!” he sighed, then added, “But nobody is going to take Billie away from us, you can be sure of that. We may have to share … But all that matters is that she’s happy. She deserves it. She’s suffered enough.”
Matías nodded, and they both turned to watch her. She was splendid in a pearl-gray party dress that gently showed off her generous anatomy. She moved through the place, greeting everyone and unintentionally proving herself to be a magnificent saleswoman. Many of her friends and acquaintances succumbed to the temptation of buying a painting thanks to Billie’s sincere admiration and praise for Gerardo, who followed her movements with his eyes, smiling complacently. When their gazes occasionally met, they exchanged coded looks over the heads of the crowd that filled the room.
As a finale, at the guests’ insistence, Billie sang a few songs accompanied by Matías on the piano. Her performance was more joyful than usual, reflecting the mood of the event. She even got the guests to join her for the chorus, and Tatiana took the opportunity to go up onstage and show off like old times, under the warm and familiar spotlights.
Tatiana, unique and unrepeatable, ended up giving a spectacular performance, and it turned into her big night too.
CHAPTER 34
“Here, love,” the butcher said, handing Billie her purchases. “My husband and I are going to try to come to the Havana tonight to hear you sing. We have to go to the kids’ house for dinner. They just got back f
rom their honeymoon, and they’ll probably come too.”
Billie nodded as she stepped aside to make way for a group of tourists. Hordes of them clogged the Boquería market every day to admire the attractive stands and take pictures.
“Great. We’d be happy to see you, Maria,” she said, and, smiling, added, “This place is getting impossible with all the people.”
“Yeah,” the woman agreed, “it’s like this every day. But always snapping pictures—pictures but no sales.”
“Come on, Maria. You’re always complaining.”
“Oh, if you only knew!”
At that very moment, a woman came up to the display and greeted Maria familiarly. Then a group of foreigners stopped to admire the products on display, looking as if they wanted to contradict the butcher’s complaints about them.
“Well,” Billie said with a smile, “I’ll leave you since you’re so busy. See you soon.”
“Bye, beautiful.”
Laden with shopping bags, Billie struggled through the crowd to the market’s exit. She was overwhelmed by all the people. When she had almost reached the street, she bumped into a young man, and one of her bags fell to the floor.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the boy said hurrying to pick it up and hand it to her.
After he went on his way, Billie couldn’t help but turn and follow him with her gaze until he disappeared from sight. He was a young man with dark skin and Caribbean features, the same age that Nicolás would be, if he were alive. She wondered if her son would look like him. Would he have changed when he became an adult? Would his nature have mellowed? Maybe he would have settled down, gotten a good job, and even a girlfriend. It’s possible that she would even be a grandmother by now. Now she would never be a grandmother, she thought bitterly. She would never know the immense tenderness brought on by holding a newborn in her arms, of recovering her own Nicolás through the baby.
As she traversed the crowded Ramblas, she felt herself suddenly drowning in sadness. It happened to her sometimes when she found herself alone and had time to think. Assaulted by memories, she felt the visceral pain of not seeing him grow up and mature into a man. Her despair penetrated her soul like a knife and became unbearable. Though she didn’t show it, the pain of losing Nicolás still lived in her, despite all the years that had passed. It had turned into a mute, dormant pain, like one caused by a chronic illness that you learn to live with but that is always present—insidious, obstinate, and piercing. And once in a while, it attacked with renewed vigor.
She took a deep breath, trying to overcome it. She smiled at a child who was staring at the slow and studied movements of the living statues who performed along the whole avenue, his expression caught somewhere between fear and curiosity as he clung to his mother’s hand. It was the life that she had been dealt, she told herself with resignation, returning to her thoughts. Destiny didn’t have any compassion for her. In spite of everything, she had achieved a certain balance, a comforting feeling of being at peace with herself. She had been strong and led a good life surrounded by her friends: Armando, Matías, Tatiana. She thanked heaven for having put them in her path. And now, there was Gerardo too. Her heart flipped in her chest when she thought about him. She couldn’t explain her feelings rationally. She just knew that she liked being with him. He made her laugh, and it wasn’t easy to make her laugh. Sometimes she thought she had left her smile behind in Cuba, caught in the foam of the waves crashing against the Malecón, along with the innocence of that twenty-year-old girl who left everything behind to follow her sun god. But that was all so long ago. Who knows? Maybe she could still learn to laugh again.
The day was sunny and pleasant, and the terraces on the Plaza Real were bursting with people of all nationalities. Barcelona had changed so much since she arrived almost thirty years before. It had been beautiful to her then, but it was much more so now. It had turned into a cosmopolitan, open, and liberal city, where all people and races had a place and lived together in harmony. She could pass practically unnoticed now, unlike in the past, when many faces turned to follow the steps of the young mixed-race woman. This was her city. She couldn’t live anywhere else in the world except, maybe, Havana. But she had cast aside the idea of returning to Cuba long ago. Her son was Spanish, he was buried in Barcelona, and she would never leave him. Her brother Eduardo and his wife and children were still in Havana with her mother. She had only had the opportunity to visit them once with Armando, on a tourist trip where they passed for a Spanish couple. They had wanted to bring Celia to Spain, but she had refused to even consider it. She said she was too old to travel so far. She wanted to die in her homeland and rest next to her husband.
Rubén had ended up wandering around the world. He had stayed in Barcelona with her for a bit, but then he continued on his way, chasing those birds that were always filling his head, as Billie always said.
“Excuse me,” someone said behind her just as she was putting her key into the lock at Armando’s house.
She turned. A very young boy and girl, holding each other by the waist, smiled at her timidly.
“Yes?” Billie inquired.
“I was telling my boyfriend that you’re Billie, the singer from Havana, right?”
“That’s right,” Billie replied, smiling at them.
“We just wanted to tell you we love listening to you,” the girl continued, overcome with excitement. “Once in a while we come see you, when we have enough money to buy a Cuba libre. You sing divinely.”
“Thank you,” Billie replied, made emotional by the sincere admiration reflected in the kids’ faces.
“Will you give us your autograph?” the boy dared to ask, offering her a pen and small notebook.
“Of course.”
“We’ll frame it and keep it always,” the girl said as Billie signed the book. “How come you haven’t recorded a CD?”
“Well … I don’t know. It’s been suggested, but I just never got around to it.”
“Well, you should,” the boy said. “We would love to be able to hear you whenever we want.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised, slightly bewildered by so much admiration.
Though she loved singing, she had never considered the effect her music had on those who listened to it. She was accustomed to the praise she received each night, but the sincerity of these kids moved her.
“Come by one night soon and ask for me or Armando,” she said. “My treat.”
“Thank you so much!” they chorused.
Once inside Armando’s apartment, she was surprised to find it so silent. At this hour, he was usually awaiting her arrival, listening to music, or reading in the living room. Billie still came to her friend’s house every day to make lunch and eat with him. Armando hadn’t looked well lately, and she was worried about him.
“Armando?” she called.
There was no answer. She thought he must have gotten up later than usual and was out buying the paper. She went to the kitchen and unloaded her groceries. Suddenly, she had a premonition. A thought struggled to the front of her brain and left her paralyzed for a few seconds. Not really knowing why, her heart pounding in her chest, she headed to Armando’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
“Armando?”
Nobody answered. She turned the knob and opened the door. Armando was lying in his bed, and a strange and oppressive quiet filled the room. Billie felt a shiver go up her spine. She called to him again from the door.
“Armando,” she whispered, with the terrible conviction that he wouldn’t respond.
She walked slowly to the head of the bed and observed his pallid face. It was tinged blue, his features still. She studied his closed eyelids for the almost imperceptible movement that they made in sleep, and saw nothing. She put her hand on his very slowly, knowing she would find it cold, the breath of life gone.
She sat down gently on the edge of the bed as if she were afraid of disturbing him, as if she were still hoping he would open his eyes and smi
le at her in his tender way.
Then, she embraced him, sobbing.
EPILOGUE
Tatiana applauded enthusiastically when Billie finished singing “Lover Man,” a Billie Holiday song that was one of her favorites. She requested it every night, and Billie always sang it in her honor at the end of her act.
Billie contemplated the empty room from the stage.
“We’re all alone,” she said.
“Looks like it,” Matías confirmed, squinting into the darkness. On days like this, you feel it more than ever.”
“Well,” Tatiana said, “at least we have each other.”
“But we’re missing Armando,” Billie said.
The other two nodded silently, lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes. It was the first Christmas without Armando. They had celebrated the holidays together for years in his apartment on the Plaza Real. “The Christmas for lost souls,” the host had joked. Still, the four of them—five when Nicolás was still with them—had a good time sharing the human warmth and joy of the holiday together. It resembled a family reunion in every way. Though they weren’t bound by blood ties, something more authentic—friendship—united them. But that night, without Armando, no one felt like celebrating.
They had stayed at the Havana later than usual, since none of them wanted to go home to their own houses, to find themselves face-to-face with their loneliness, their ghosts, the pain of the absences in their lives.
“We should be closing,” Billie said, with a sigh.
“Yup,” Matías sighed as well, stood up, and lowered the piano lid.
Tatiana stood up and crammed herself into what had once been a fabulous mink coat. Billie and Matías collected a few glasses from the tables and left them on the bar. She counted the money in the register, put it in an envelope, and put it in her purse.
“Well, I’m going,” Tatiana announced, heading to the door. “Good night. And Merry Christmas.”
“Wait,” Billie stopped her. “I’ll walk you home. It’s too late for you to walk alone around here.”