Naked in Havana (7 page)

I closed my eyes, spent the rest of the journey over to Miramar in misery.

Inocencia lived in a flat on Third Street, in one of the best quarters. Nothing like the mansion Angel lived in, of course, but better than most Cubans could afford.

She was one of my papi's
boleristas
at the Left Bank. Ah, the bolero. It wasn’t just any kind of song, and to be a bolero singer you had to feel the song, own it, make it part of your soul. Inocencia Velasquez was one of the best. Whenever she sang she put whole lifetimes of heartache and longing into every song. She was mesmerizing to look at and to listen to, coffee-skinned, black-eyed and a voice like she had swallowed razors.

She was also an accomplished musician, and Papi had persuaded her to teach me piano. I would have preferred that she showed me how to sing, but a respectable girl didn’t do that. Papi wanted me to be Aryan; in my heart I was
mestizo
.

She tried as hard to play her part as I did. Here she sat at the piano, her hair tied back like a schoolmistress and her legs crossed, as if she was to give me religious instruction. The hem of her dress was down past her knee. There was sheet music open on the piano, Bach’s prelude in C major.

I played it, note for note. I had practised endlessly through the week until I had driven my father and Maria mad with it. But at last I had it, note perfect.

When I finished I sat back and waited for compliments. Inocencia shook her head and sighed. “What’s wrong?” she asked me.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You are not hammering nails. You are not beating the man who defiled your children. You are playing music.”

“I did not miss a note.”

“Music is not about notes! Music is about the soul. I could train a monkey to learn notes! You must let the music to live through you, speak through you! Music is like making...well, it’s not like mathematics. It’s not right and wrong answers. You have to live it, you have to feel it.” Inocencia took off her glasses. “What is it you feel right now, Magdalena?”

“I feel it’s time I went home.”

“Is it a boy?”

I couldn’t look at her. How do people know these things about you when you do your best to hide them? “Perhaps.”

“Is that...that whatever it is you played...is that what you feel when you think about this boy?”

I shook my head.

“Then why can’t you play what you feel?”

“I don’t want anyone to know.”

“If no one knows how you feel, who you are, then who are they going to fall in love with? This pretty little picture? Perhaps your papi thinks that is the real you, but your eyes give you away. Or perhaps even you do not know the real Magdalena. Here, try again.”

I did as she said and started over, but now I knew the notes were not enough, I did not know what to do. My fingers felt stiff and I fumbled through the first phrasings, when a moment ago I had been precise and assured. Inocencia stopped me. “Here, let me show you,” she said. We changed places. She sat down and started to play.

The first notes were a mere whisper. Inocencia closed her eyes as she played, her fingers barely brushing the keys. She started to sway and her breathing became still. The notes rose and fell like a heartbeat. They were the same notes I had played, and yet it might have been another song.

Her face twisted as if she was in pain. Then she started to hum, softly at first, matching cadence with the chords, picking blue notes that should not have been there. Somehow she turned Bach into Bolero. I imagined her in Papi's club, sweating under the lights, as her voice found a tremolo and hovered there. She found the last note and held it, high and plaintive, for what seemed like an eternity.

When she finished we both sat for a long time, not speaking. Then she opened her eyes. “You see. That’s how you play when you’re in love with a man.” She closed the piano lid. “I think that’s enough for today.”

I packed away my music books. Inocencia looked out of the window. She seemed so unutterably sad. I wondered if it was because the music had provoked some memory from the past, or if she had somehow glimpsed her own future.

I hesitated at the door, debating with myself if I should tell her about Angel. I needed to talk to someone. But I worried that she might tell Papi and so I just said thank you for the lesson, and walked out.

Chapter 10

When I got home I expected to find Papi sitting on the patio with his Santiago rum and Cohiba cigars, as always. But the cane chair under the avocado tree was empty. Old Rafa lay under the table alone. When he heard my footsteps his head shot up, but then when he saw it was only me he sighed and plopped his head back on the tiles with a look of studied disappointment.

The
Miami Herald
lay on the cane table, uncreased, unread.

I went looking for Maria and found her in the kitchen. She didn’t even have the radio on. Maria always listened to cubopop when she was cooking. The house was like a morgue. “Where’s Papi?” I asked her.

“He’s in bed, he’s not feeling so good.”

“Have you called Doctor Mendes?”

“He’s with him now,” she said.

My world was starting to crumble. This was just the start of it.

Doctor Mendes came out of Papi’s bedroom and shut the door gently behind him. He had been our family’s doctor for as long as I could remember. He looked more like a wrestler than a doctor, a big man with broad shoulders, huge hands and a blunt face. Some people said he bullied his patients into getting well.

When he saw me he put his finger to his lips and then took me by the arm, led me outside to the balcony that looked over our courtyard. He closed the French doors behind him.

He helped himself to a glass of rum, as if he owned the house. Then he settled down into a cane chair. One of the perquisites of house calls to rich patients, I supposed, was that you were allowed to drink their best rum and still charge your highest fees.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“He’s a tough old rooster your father,” he said, “but I’ve been telling him for years to take it easy and he won’t listen to me. What are we going to do with him?”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Tomorrow? Yes. Next week? Probably. But it’s what’s going to happen to him a year from now that I worry about.”

“You mean his ulcer?”

“Well, it’s not just his ulcer. He has a heart condition, too. You didn’t know about that?”

I shook my head.

“He’s had it for years. Swore me to secrecy about it, but now I’m going to break my word because if I don’t, I think he’s going to kill himself.”

“I’ve been telling him to take it easy,” I said.

“It’s more than just taking it easy. He needs to retire.”

“Retire?”

“Sell the club. Forget about late nights and cigars and this...” He held up his glass of rum. “Take an interest in great literature and gardening if he wants to live to see his grandchildren.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Of course. The first time I told him was a year ago. You see what a difference it has made. A lifetime practising medicine and he screws up his nose at me and tells me I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“He’s a stubborn man.”

“The cemetery is full of stubborn men. But if he won’t listen to me, perhaps he’ll listen to his daughter.”

After Doctor Mendes left I crept into Papi’s bedroom. The shutters were drawn and I wasn’t sure if he was asleep. I crept closer to the bed. “Papi?”

“Has that old fraud gone?”

He looked so pale in the half-light. I sat down on the edge of the bed. “He said you’ve got some health problems you’ve not been telling me about.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“He told me you said that, too. He also thinks you’ve been working too hard.”

“Working too hard! I told him - I drink, I smoke and I play cards until four in the morning. What’s so hard about that? He didn’t see the joke.

“Because it’s not funny anymore. How are you feeling?”

“Like I need a drink.” He sat up. “Where’s Maria? Tell her to get my pants pressed. And you, go and get dressed. We’re going to the club.”

Chapter 11