Funny how some
stories come about. In this one the main character has no name. Yet, that’s not
by design, but because I never did learn this fellow’s name. All I remember is
that he was as much a part of the urban landscape of my Havana as the famous El
Morro lighthouse. He was there as I manoeuvred my way through my late
teens in the city of my birth.
Now, reader, picture
this. I am seventeen or eighteen, tail end of the 80s. By now I have become a
regular at the Casa de la Cultura de Plaza, an arts centre bang on the
corner of Calzada and 8th Street, in the modern(ish) borough
of Vedado, Havama. Every (or every other) Tuesday evening, there is a jazz
session run by the famous Cuban musician, Bobby Carcassés. A
multi-instrumentalist by trade, Bobby is a one-man show. His stage presence is
magnetic. Whether playing trumpet or banging away on conga drums, this guy
renders the night its beating heart.
Casa de la Cultura de Plaza is also an institution. It is here that the
first Jazz Plaza Internacional was held only a few years ago. The name
itself conjures up memories: this is where I was converted to jazz by a friend
of mine; a night when I went from hating the genre to falling in love with it,
lost to the sound of Arturo Sandoval’s trumpet. This is where I have
increasingly become less self-conscious of being part of the jazz tribe. This
place is a sanctuary for a teenager who is beginning to doubt the political
system in which he is growing up.
And then, there is
him. Forgive me, reader, for I cannot provide a name. As I said before, I never
did learn this fellow’s name. But he stands out. Especially, when he puts his
flute to his lips.
Here we are, the jazz
faithful, watching Carcassés move from trumpet to congas and from congas to
bass. At some point, our friend strides on to the centre of the stage, flute in
hand. A miniature of a man, he sports an unremarkable short-sleeved shirt
(which he often wears, regardless of the weather). He mutters something under
his breath, perhaps a few words of self-encouragement, perhaps a prayer.
We all have our ways of evidencing our existence in the world. Some of us have
what could be termed “big stage presence”. Others have to create one if they
are to be noticed. As the ultimate showman, Bobby Carcassés has no problem
flaunting his skills as a musician. He looks like a giant under the theatre
lights. On the other hand, our friend, the flute-player is a different kettle
of fish.
His is the kind of performance you remember down the years. Even if you can’t
see him (sometimes the venue is packed to the rafters and people stand in front
of you), you know he is there. First, it’s the stumble. He hardly ever walks
straight. The drink has put paid to any notion of him regaining an upright
position and steady gait. He takes his spot, facing the mike, facing, the
crowd, facing the world. And then, he blows.
When he blows, you forget about the rest of the band. In fact, you float in and
out of a music-made haze. For the next four or five minutes (I’m certain he
would like his solos to last longer, but Bobby rushes him to the other side of
the stage) you no longer live in a physical world, but a deeply-spiritual,
flute-driven one.
One night I spot him
after the gig. He is nursing a pint, a very posh name for the Cuban perga.
This is a tall, cardboard-made cup that can hold up to a pint and a half of
lager. He is sitting, talking to other musicians. Every now and then someone
comes over and pats him on the shoulder. Well done, mate! That was top! He
smiles. A smile that accentuates the cracks on his face. Deep furrows running
on either side of his nose. Crow’s feet branching out of the corners of his
eyes. I, too, congratulate him. He grins. I mention that my father is a
pianist. He asks me for his name. When I tell him, his eyes light up. I know
Mario! He recalls sharing the stage with my father’s old band, Orquesta
Astral once. His speech is slurred but still intelligible. Under the starry
Cuban night two people, a generation apart, bridge the age gap through the
power of music.
He stands to leave
and keels over. I’ll take you home, I offer. At first he resists, but then, he
can see the deep-seated sense of duty towards men like him reflected in my
eyes. He puts his left arm around my shoulder and together we take off.
We walk a few hundred
yards before he suddenly breaks into song. Actually, it’s more like a hum. It
is a well-known bolero, and not one in which his instrument, the flute,
is usually required. His voice sounds like a plaintive cry and it hardly
cracks, which is strange, given the amount of drink he’s consumed. He is
certainly no singer, but at least he can harmonise fairly well. At some point
he turns his head towards me, expecting me to join him. Sorry, I don’t know the
words, I mutter. I’m into jazz, I say. And I’m still a rocker at heart, I
silently state in my head. It will be another two or three years before I
re-discover my Cuban roots and rekindle my love for bolero.
We walk for what
seems like a long time. I switch positions every couple of blocks. For some
reason he feels heavier on my left side than he does on my right one. This is
still my “skeletal” period, when being slim goes hand in hand with being a rock
fan, so I am definitely no pumped-up Atlas attempting to hold up the celestial
heavens. At some point, now walking on 17th St, past L St, Malecón-bound
he points to a door on our right. It’s an old block of flats, a couple of
storeys high. It is a rundown, derelict building that houses more families than
it has room for. The paint on the walls has long gone, the stairs have no
banister and the stench of urine reigns supreme.
The flute-player thanks me, dismisses me at the entrance and starts to climb up
the stairs slowly. He looks so unsteady that I rush over and catch him just in
time before he falls down. C’mon, I’ll take you to your room, I say. My voice
surprises me. It sounds stern, reassuring and authoritative, despite my
still-wet-behind-the-ears look. Luckily he lives on the first floor. His
hunched form disappears in the darkness as soon as he opens the door.
Uninvited, I step inside, too. My hands cannot detect the presence of a light
switch. Don’t! He shouts. There’s no light switch, he adds. For a split second
his inebriation fades and instead a moment of lucidity makes him bring two
loose wires together on a nearby wall. I realise that in the same way I have
been his reliable, human crutch on the way here, he has just saved me from
getting electrocuted.
The light is so weak
that we might as well go back to being in the dark. It beams from a single,
bare, bulb in the middle of the room. Sorry, he slurs, as he scans my face.
It’s very damp, he adds, as if any confirmation is needed. In the eerie
half-light, ashen-coloured patches are dotted randomly on the walls.
Standing in the middle
of his room, the flute-player looks less like a musician and more like an actor
in a one-man show. His flat could not be a more fitting stage. The four-hob
cooker that sits silently in a corner. The fridge, almost empty and, thus, rendered
useless. The floor, riddled with stains. The bottles of rum under the sink, one
next to the other, some full, some half-full.
How can you live like
this? I ask him. I’m genuinely concerned. My late-adolescent self, although no
longer a true believer, still clings a little onto Fidel’s socialist utopia.
There should be help for you, I say, as I make (a futile, as it turns out)
attempt to tidy up his room. There is a part of me that’s raging. Perhaps,
because I have just seen this man playing his heart out on stage and now he
stands here, looking lost like a Cuban version of King Lear.
My naiveté makes him
laugh. Eventually his laughter transitions to hiccups-interrupted sobs. He
pulls a chair and sits on it. I perch up on a tiny corner of the only couch in
the room, avoiding the big stain covering much of it. I am the oldest of five
children, he starts. My father was an alcoholic and my mother found it
difficult to bring us all up. I married young myself but my wife couldn’t cope
with my drinking problem. I spent more time in the bar at El Conejito
restaurant than I did with her and our children. In the end, she got fed up and
left me. My children only see me when I pay them a visit. They never come
around. They’ve turned out OK, though.
I am overcome by an
uncomfortable mix of feelings: anger, sadness and hopelessness. I leave after
three quarters of an hour, aching with pain but relieved to be out of there.
Before I go, I promise him I’ll do something. What I’ll do, not even I know. I
just want to make things right. It’s only when I reach the bottom of the stairs
that I notice the saltiness on my lips. I’ve been crying all along.
But, to my shame, as
the days of my last year in college roll by, I begin to forget about the
flute-player. I start university in the autumn. Suddenly there are fewer
opportunities to go back to Bobby Carcassés’ jazz night. My time is taken up by
coursework and countless assignments. It is four years before I return to the Casa
de la Cultura de Plaza and it is not even for the same reason as before. By
now I am an amateur actor and member of a theatre troupe that rehearses at the
arts centre every week, not far from the space where the flute-player first
cast his music-made, hazy, magic spell on me.
One day, many years
after that night at the old man’s flat, I find myself behind the wheel in a
hired car with my wife and two children in Havana. I happen to drive by the Casa
de la Cultura de Plaza and unconsciously, I take the same route I did when
I accompanied the flute-player home on that occasion. Past L St, I point to
what is now a rubble-strewn, empty space in between two buildings (his came
down some time ago. A hurricane did the job). I tell my spouse and offspring
the old musician’s sad story. My daughter asks me what his name is. And I begin
to laugh. Because reader, it is funny how some stories come about. In this one
the main character still has no name.
