I had various routes that would take me to the Parque Panameriquenque.33 As I tramped through it, I allowed myself a flick of the hair, something that on more than one occasion caused accidents: drivers could not remain impervious in the face of this golden mayhem in such an open space, especially during daylight. Any man walking within a metre of me was caught up in the whirlwind and could hardly shout, ‘Hey, watch out!’ since I hadn’t hit him with a belt or a strap or some such, but with a harsh and loving caress, and few men deserve such a glorious settling of scores. I lay down on the vast, soft lawn, staring towards the north-east, longing for two, three sips of beer, my solitudes. The place was full of footballers, but if any of them came near me I was like a wild animal: I’d rear up, glare at them and mutter, ‘Leave me alone.’ Cyclists passed unchained. No one could trouble my anxious indolence.
Gazing at the mountains, I marshalled facts. ‘One day I’ll look down from there,’ I promised myself, feeling the grass creeping over my body as I counted acacias, rain trees and flowering logwood, six different palms and thinking that perhaps Mariángela was the only person who might have made the journey with me, then, cruelly, adding: ‘To inhabit my body, not overstep by a millimetre my boundaries in the world, the borders of my flesh.’ I closed my eyes and in my head fashioned a crown from the varieties of green. The air annihilated the vegetation at the back of my neck, creating little eddies; I brought my hands together, lost in my fleeting contentment as though in prayer, you might say. Guys stared at me, incapable of recovering from the wound inflicted by my hair, not rushing to anoint it with butter: a wound that throbbed and blazed, and burned, and prickled, but it was good and I knew that it would last long after they’d eaten, that this wound would make it impossible for them to study, to sleep, in their agonies, enfolding the wound, being enfolded by it, their dreams a thousand fractured images of me, a necessary presence from the beyond. Oh, the times I’ve felt grateful to have admirers! This is why I go out, why I stop in the street somewhere, or do a little dance, because in a blinding flash I’ve remembered the song of the day, and a crowd begins to form: ten guys wounded by my hair at one time or another; they compare notes, they meet up and gaze at me, they see me again and, basta, I avert my eyes as though in pain and I flee with my hair like a protective curtain, giving substance to the dark, sweltering afternoon. Oh, my suns, my loves, so many shifting greens for public illumination. I tell all those people who are listening to me, I open my eyes, good as you are, come dance with me, I stand up, give the park a quick 360-degree sweep – easy does it, the key ritual34 – I pause my fantasies so I can walk to the far steps, run down them, feeling happy and excited, waving my arms, laughing to myself; already the bubbling twilight has begun to appear – now is the perfect time to retrace my steps and this time confront the stairs, slowly, one by one, climb the twenty-three steps to find myself suddenly faced by a great vista, an immensity, the open space, lights from the cars tracing lines from one end to the other, the grid of people, the restless smell of the tropics, a sky red as sapodilla, black mountains, delicious bongos: climbing those steps is the most faithful simulation of what’s called the ‘crane shot’ (that you see in movies).
Thoughts like this were what made me go to the Cine Club in San Fercho. But if some totally rococo guy said, ‘Mankiewicz,’ I’d come back with: ‘Che che colé, who led him astray.’ I’m not easy to get along with, I don’t deny it. Death and laughter.
Besides, it made me more and more depressed, coming out of the cinema into the sunlight, having to close my eyes, cursing the end of the movie. No, I like the things that shackle me to this harsh reality, not the ones that take me out of it and toss me into a different hole.
Last time I came out tap dancing, stamping hard and moving fast, halfway up the block, little hop, tips of my toes, thinking about the jala jala,35 come and bring Richie, let’s boogie. And longing, oh longing, for a huge rumba, or if not that at least a little dance, a couple of songs, a couple of beers. But if no one invited me, I’d have to sneak back to my parents’ place: visit, eat, leave, jala, driver, take me there. I wasn’t getting far walking and the song ran through my head and I marked time with my feet, and just as I’m crossing at a junction, I hear a beat and a crash and Caína, come on, come on, but I didn’t turn round – it couldn’t be my illusions, a deeper desire for misunderstood solitude. But I no longer chased the illusions; once I’d have sought them out, but this time I turned away, and stared down at my feet, clenched my jaw and did a little twirl. A little pirouette above five holes bored into the concrete so that kids could play a coin game, the click of a heel and a little rush, and then I hear whispering, the purr of quick feet running towards me, the jala jala, let’s do the jala jala here; lifting my left knee, I imagine a fifty-peso coin on the tip of my shoe, and I brought it for you, I look at it, spellbound; meanwhile, with my other little foot I manage to keep my balance, and nearby I hear a shuffle of feet that aren’t mine, someone lifting the other knee, a clean well-aimed thrust, and I step backwards, sticking out my ass, to see if I’d bump into the Stalker, hoping to make him stumble so I could flash him a dirty look and he’d give up the game, and that’s that. But I kept zigzagging backwards perfectly; dogs and cats barked and bristled as I felt precisely the same movements being repeated behind me. Agreement, mutual understanding, polar cunning. People were staring now, and a bead of sweat appeared on my forehead; I moved forwards, bent my knees, the jala jala just for fun, shook like a leaf, saw a commotion in the trees, a windstorm, the heavens breaking, the flash of a hard knee moving behind me, the guy behind me bending, and, bam, knee to the ground. I couldn’t stand it any longer, I turned round.
The little guy was about my height, all eyebrows and buck teeth, a handsome face, long legs; we stared at each other, revelling in the celebration: his bony hand barely touching my waist; my strong, calloused hand barely touching his shoulder, on which I could have lain my head. We gave a quick jump, perfectly in sync with the memory of the song in our heads, knowing we were coming to the last twirl. Seven straight lines and no release of tension, three hours of endless afternoon in the last blast of trumpets and runaway chords on the piano, the part everyone likes best. Utterly delicious, but best to have something in reserve. We don’t move apart, our shoulders, our hips barely brushing – is this it? Come on, let’s end it now. Around us, people waving or clapping or hurling abuse, I don’t know; the keenest observers making an effort to work out the name of the song playing in our heads, something of Richie’s. I squeezed his shoulder a little harder, stared into his face, which was difficult because with that sudden drop your eyes get blurred, a little hop, in that look I offered him my gratitude and my undying loyalty; I winked, I started to count back from ten to one and Caína, come on, come on, God, you’ll see it’s good, jala like you’ve never done before; I counted down each number with a shake of my index finger, he with his left knee, pounding the thick sole of his right foot, beating out the rhythm, and haaaaaaaay!
The precision of the finish, joyful and sensual, can I hear a roar of approval? I’ll tell the truth: I ended up done in. And you have to remember the song only lasts five minutes. This is why after a dance people ask for horse, gimme a horse, saddle up a horse: the urge you feel to ride across mountains and prairies, pushing your entrails, your heart, the whole orchestra up into your head, and breathing in the pines and the pine cones, the guava trees. Riding horseback is the only pachanga that doesn’t tire you.
We hugged, mingling our sweat, reinforcing each other. He told me he’d seen me around a couple of times before, but this time he’d just come out of the cinema down on life and with the jala jala running through his head, and when he saw me, man, he might have been shy but the show I was putting on was too hot for him to handle. We walked along together for a bit. Who existed, who was around us? In that moment, abs
olutely no one. He gave me the low-down on his life: his name was Rubén Paces, and I said, ‘Like a whole bunch of peace?’36 ‘Yeah, but I’m about hardcore violence. When it comes to music, I mean.’ He was the manager and DJ of Transatlantic Rhythms, playing gigs and parties. My bouquet of breezes blew, my early August blossomed. I gave him two kisses.
He lived by the white wall at the Institute for the Blind and the Deaf Mute in the coolest, shadiest, quietest street in all of San Fercho. He lived in a garage with a bathroom and a tiny kitchen: there was no sign on the door (‘just in case of burglars’) and nothing indicated anyone lived there but for the fact that it was painted a gaudy orange; inside, the place was a mess, a jumble of bedlinen and men’s clothes. He got totally flustered (assuming I must be pulling a sour face) and started tidying up, folding sheets, stuffing underwear into a bag, and I went round looking at the posters of Richie Ray, Bobby Cruz, Miki Vimari, Mike Collazos, Russell Farnsworth and Pancho Cristal37 and the vast collection of LPs – there had to be at least 250 – a box of tapes, a box of cassettes and a huge hi-fi system with room for every possible technical innovation.
He rushed to press the button closest to hand. And as he did, there came the soft rumble of piano and cymbals, I’m happy to be in Colombia, I’m planning to dance me some cumbia. We were still in the same groove as our jala jala, and I pointed this out and he said, ‘What did you expect? I got it going on!’ Go ask anyone who’s got a clue: Colombia’s got its own boogaloo. Now that there was music, the tidying speeded up a little, boogaloo, aaaaaaaaay! The situation started to become clear; there was a huge bed. ‘The volume’s not a problem is it?’ I solemnly asked the crucial question. He looked at me as if to say, ‘As if!’ and then said, ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded by deaf mutes.’ He finished tidying and threw his arms wide, not at me, but like he wanted to hug himself, like he was weighing himself up before puffing himself up, offering himself, the salsa of generosity. ‘This is my crib,’ he said. ‘You won’t be short of music from now till breakfast.’ Oh, I ran to him even though his stance with his arms flung wide seemed to repel all caresses. He took me in his arms, he stroked my head and I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them and I lifted my head, searching for his mouth, but he pulled away, looking worried and sad. ‘That’s not my thing,’ he said.
And he lay down on the bed and covered his face with his pyjamas. From under them, he told me to wake him at 7 p.m.: ‘When Don Rufían38 gets here.’ That was his boss, a cantankerous old cripple who didn’t give a shit about music: he’d inherited the equipment and the records and encouraged Rubén to practise petty larceny and hypocrisy at the gigs they played. That way, if some unsuspecting guest didn’t tip or wasn’t paying attention, he’d swipe their records. Rubén would go to every rumba weighing up the possibility of making off with a handful of records and cassettes; it was one of the few things he was proud of. At almost every party they made a killing. And since the victims were kids, some of them not even fifteen, there was never any comeback. Besides, Don Rufían had spread rumours about his (non-existent) mafia connections. I stared at this headless body for a while and then let my mind move to the rhythm of the throbbing beat. He didn’t say anything about the volume, so I didn’t turn it down. But he seemed to sleep like a baby anyway.
The reader might think that given my beloved was a record-fiend, party animal and salsa-freak, I couldn’t ask for anything more. In theory, that’s true. But no salsa gets you completely; in the end you’re plagued by tears, broken by fears, engulfed in inexplicable sadness. I knew: I had waded through the tide, crossed the black sands, the difficult harmonies of melodies, in the early hours.
Don Rufían would swing by at seven o’clock precisely. I’d help Rubén with everything. I’d have two or three frenzied dances; the rest of the time I was all ears, primed to tell him when some kid was totally wasted and started scattering records all over the place, or stopping some of the kids from fighting, and keeping an eye on the best dancers, memorizing complicated steps and – I have to mention this – waiting for the moment when Rubén would start to throw up. It happened at every party, without exception. A discreet black spray of vomit like molasses. He’d go off and look for a wall and I’d cover for him so no one – especially not the parents – would see that the guy spinning the decks was completely plastered. No, Rubén would always let me know when the moment came, he’d leave me at the decks and head out, stone-faced, groping his way along the walls, disappearing deep into the night to relieve himself. It wasn’t because he drank too much, I thought, so why did he have to throw up? This is something the reader will shortly discover.
At first he told me it had something to do with his liver, and I accepted that; eight out of ten Colombians have livers that are shot to shit. But he was the one who made himself vomit; he had to have his reasons – did it give him some kind of relief? Rubén was a weird guy: he’d spend all week doing nothing but talking about salsa, about power chords, but come Friday his face would grow dark and he’d stop laughing, which was strange because he laughed all the time.
As soon as he started spinning his first record – ‘¡Ay compay!’ or ‘Seis tumbao’, his trademark song – he’d start mumbling stuff about shame, biting his lip and slapping himself on the cheek. ‘What’s with you?’ He’d say, ‘Nothing, just my personality is as difficult as a Ricardo Ray chord change. Come on, listen to this record, I’m dedicating it to you.’ Guaguancó bizarro,39 the weird workings of the world of eavesdropping, the torturous steps and the words; midnight would come and go, and in the early hours Rubén would crank up the volume on his thoughts, and I’d do my best to catch everything: it was like he wasn’t even aware I was there, like he didn’t realize he wasn’t just talking to himself. ‘More people than at Jonás’s 14,000 rumbas,’ he’d say (which ones?). ‘And Ricardo playing his heart out. I’d ask him to play “Que se rían”, and I’d fight for him, I’d fight it out with all the drug-free troglodytes; if you hang around I can play whatever you like, if you carry on with the show no one can accuse you of being a coke fiend or some degenerate freak; the dance floor is half full of people who reject the liberation of dance through the careful observation of bestial rhythms.’ This is the kind of stuff he came out with, though it only came out at rumbas, and I thought, ‘It’s some kind of suppressed guilt. Some kind of compulsory purge,’ and I left him in peace; we’ve all got a petty thief inside us. Come here, it’s good to suffer, it’s good to party, but there’s no need to suffer all the time: because after every rumba he’d have a couple of terrible nights; I say nights but actually it was all day, the terrible Saturdays and the Sunday mornings where he’d be screaming and muttering to himself and waking up: ‘I got to the stage just as they started playing “Colorao”. The fat guy on the drums dedicated the song to me.’
And he’d look at me, sweating bullets, eyes and mouth wide open, eyes and mouth a rictus of sheer terror. ‘It’s okay, mi amor, go back to sleep,’ I’d say, stroking him. ‘Forget about those bad dreams.’
‘They’re not bad,’ he’d say. ‘They’re memories. It’s worse when you don’t remember anything.’
I was puzzled. How was I supposed to sleep now? I pressed the button by the bed, normal volume; this way he’d sleep better, repeating, deeply asleep, smiling, ‘I’m going to sing you a guaguancó with feeling, a mambo, a bolero, because it comes from my heart.’ He’d repeat it sometimes three times and drift off into a sleep with no peace, with no beaches in view. I think he wanted another rumba to draw back the bow of his suffering.
There was no doubt this had something to do with his conscience, but what? There was a date carved into the wall next to the bed: 26 December 1969. And all the posters were of people associated with Ricardo Ray’s Big Band, there were no posters of Ray Barretto, Larrycito, Celia Cruz, Tito Puente, nothing. R
ichie’s public love was his profane love. But how come Rubén had never talked to me about the momentous occasion that was the series of concerts they played in Cali? This was how I started my investigation. As soon as he woke up, he found me sprawled across his chest asking him questions: ‘What did they wear? What song did they end the night with? How did they agree on the choruses? Who signalled the key changes?’ When he heard me, he turned up the volume and started rummaging through his dirty clothes. He took out a small yellow glass bottle, clasped it in both hands, showed it to me, his eyes like a madman’s, tipped out two red pills and, bang, popped them and burbled a big smile.
And I said, ‘What are they? You going to give me one or what?’
‘You’re the queen, serve yourself, help yourself, find out for yourself how shit life is.’
‘I’m going to get you to tell me.’ And I popped two pills. Boogaloo, he laughed, my little papito, and he danced with me right there and then, don’t cripple yourself, and I pressed my face to his ear – ‘Tell me your darkest secrets’ – like in a love story where the hero’s suffering the horrors of war. ‘Tell me everything.’ And he laughed: ‘This one’s for you, because it comes from my heart,’ and he started telling me as I felt my legs buckle for some reason – I cling to you, you fill me with your rhythm, random, drunken escapades.
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