It was a Saturday afternoon on La Salle Street, years and years
ago when I was a little kid, and around three o'clock Mrs. Shannon, the
heavy Irish woman in her perpetually soup-stained dress, opened her back
window and shouted out into the courtyard, "Hey, Cesar, yoo-hoo, I think
you're on television, I swear it's you!" When I heard the opening strains
of the I Love Lucy show I got excited because I knew she was referring
to an item of eternity, that episode in which my dead father and my Uncle
Cesar had appeared, playing Ricky Ricardo's singing cousins fresh off
the farm in Oriente Province, Cuba, and north in New York for an engagement
at Ricky's nightclub, the Tropicana.
This was close enough to the
truth about their real lives--they were musicians and songwriters who
had left Havana for New York in 1949, the year they formed the Mambo Kings,
an orchestra that packed clubs, dance halls, and theaters around the East
Coast--and, excitement of excitements, they even made a fabled journey
in a flamingo-pink bus out to Sweet's Ballroom in San Francisco, playing
on an all-star mambo night, a beautiful night of glory, beyond death,
beyond pain, beyond all stillness.
Desi Arnaz had caught their
act one night in a supper club on the West Side, and because they had
perhaps already known each other from Havana or Oriente Province, where
Arnaz, like the brothers, was born, it was natural that he ask them to
sing on his show. He liked one of their songs in particular, a romantic
bolero written by them, "Beautiful Mania of My Soul."
Some months later (I don't
know how many, I wasn't five years old yet) they began to rehearse for
the immortal appearance of my father on this show. For me, my father's
gentle rapping on Ricky Ricardo's door has always been a call from the
beyond, as in Dracula films, or films of the walking dead, in which spirits
ooze out from behind tombstones and through the cracked windows and rotted
floors of gloomy antique halls: Lucille Ball, the lovely redheaded actress
and comedienne who played Ricky's wife, was housecleaning when she heard
the rapping of my father's knuckles against that door.
"I'm commmmmming," in her singsong
voice.
Standing in her entrance, two
men in white silk suits and butterfly-looking lace bow ties, black instrument
cases by their side and black-brimmed white hats in their hands--my father,
Nestor Castillo, thin and broad-shouldered, and Uncle Cesar, thickset
and immense.
My uncle: "Mrs. Ricardo? My
name is Alfonso and this is my brother Manny..."
And her face fights up and
she says, "Oh, yes, the fellows from Cuba. Ricky told me all about you."
Then, just like that, they're
sitting on the couch when Ricky Ricardo walks in and says something like
"Manny, Alfonso! Gee, it's really swell that you fellas could make it
up here from Havana for the show."
That's when my father smiled.
The first time I saw a rerun of this, I could remember other things about
him--his lifting me up, his smell of cologne, his patting my head, his
handing me a dime, his touching my face, his whistling, his taking me
and my little sister, Leticia, for a walk in the park, and so many other
moments happening in my thoughts simultaneously that it was like watching
something momentous, say the Resurrection, as if Christ had stepped out
of his sepulcher, flooding the world with fight-what we were taught in
the local church with the big red doors--because my father was now newly
alive and could take off his hat and sit down on the couch in Ricky's
living room, resting his black instrument case on his lap. He could play
the trumpet, move his head, blink his eyes, nod, walk across the room,
and say "Thank you" when offered a cup of coffee. For me, the room was
suddenly bursting with a silvery radiance. And now I knew that we could
see it again. Mrs. Shannon had called out into the courtyard alerting
my uncle: I was already in his apartment.
With my heart racing, I turned
on the big black-and-white television set in his living room and tried
to wake him. My uncle had fallen asleep in the kitchen--having worked
really late the night before, some job in a Bronx social club, singing
and playing the horn with a pickup group of musicians. He was snoring,
his shirt was open, a few buttons had popped out on his belly. Between
the delicate-looking index and middle fingers of his right hand, a Chesterfield
cigarette burning down to the filter, that hand still holding a half glass
of rye whiskey, which he used to drink Eke crazy because in recent years
he had been suffering from bad dreams, saw apparitions, felt cursed, and,
despite all the women he took to bed, found his life of bachelorhood solitary
and wearisome. But I didn't know this at the time, 1 thought he was sleeping
because he had worked so hard the night before, singing and playing the
trumpet for seven or eight hours. I'm talking about a wedding party in
a crowded, smoke-filled room (with boltedshut fire doors), lasting from
nine at night to four, five o'clock in the morning, the band playing one-,
two-hour sets. I thought he just needed the rest. How could I have known
that he would come home and, in the name of unwinding, throw back a glass
of rye, then a second, and then a third, and so on, until he'd plant his
elbow on the table and use it to steady his chin, as he couldn't hold
his head up otherwise. But that day I ran into the kitchen to wake him
up so that he could see the episode, too, shaking him gently and tugging
at his elbow, which was a mistake, because it was as if I had pulled loose
the support columns of a five-hundred-year-old church: he simply fell
over and crashed to the floor.
Excerpted from The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love © Copyright 2012 by Oscar Hijuelos. Reprinted with permission by HarperCollins. All rights reserved.
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