LatinosUSA

The diagonal avenue vanished almost immediately after reaching Passeig de Gràcia. H. Fer stopped his taxi on the corner of La Pedrera. A sea of ​​tourists waited to admire Gaudí’s masterpiece. A woman climbed into the car with a small dog in her arms. She was well-dressed, with a slight Jamaican accent, but her skin wasn’t as dark as it seemed. H. Fer said nothing, only heard: «Take me to Santa Coloma.» A town on the outskirts of Barcelona, ​​abandoned by those who loved the city, where true Catalans and Catalans of other languages ​​mingled. In these urban neighborhoods, no one knew whether it was impossible to respond in one language or another; only the fever of survival and petty-bourgeois normality coexisted. The journey would be a silence, interrupted only occasionally by that strange little dog, almost like the ones used in hamburger chains to tuck into the bun. An hour. It was the mental time H Fer had become accustomed to using for the race that would take him across the city, until he heard:

—Stop now! A tall, gray-haired man in a white shirt and tie, his shirttails turned up, opened the door and sat behind him. He had a round face and a few pimples under his eyes. Once he had regained his composure, he heard the following exchange:

—Mom, I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in time.

—Why?

—I met Sugar on the corner, that Puerto Rican with the pointed beard, and he bought me a Cuba Libre, and I had to forgo two more because I felt sick.

—Are you okay?

—Yes… Mom. I have my guitar full of chocolate chips for when things get tough. H Fer noticed a large box protecting the instrument, which he carried between his legs. The pimply man leaned back and began to snore. She watched the shops continue to pass by before her, until she said,

«Stop now!» A new customer sat down across from her. Tall, with a pointed nose and sweaty eyes, he smiled at her and said,

«I’m Juan Platanera, I play the bongos at parties.» Suddenly, he handed her a business card with the words, in gold letters against a background of palm trees: «The White Slave Traders, a typical orchestra for parties and house gatherings.» «There are three of us,» he added, «she sings, the one who snores plays the guitar, and I play the bongos.» He repeated that way of referring to the instrument he held between his legs, the one that made the noise in those old songs. And H Fer asked:

—What kind of songs do you play? That had to mean something; an entire orchestra had never ridden in his taxi before.

—The ones from before Fidel arrived in Cuba.

—And what are they like?

«To flirt with women,» replied the man, snoring, who had already returned and was running a finger through his hair to shape the curls.

—Don’t pay attention to him,» she interrupted. «Those songs are part of his repertoire.» If his friends want to hire us, we’ll do anything… I’ll even stay in my nightgown and dance on the table for them. Laughter filled the taxi; for H. Fer, it seemed like too much of a commitment.

—When we get there, I’ll order a rum and cola because my throat is dry. H. Fer sensed that this orchestra was just what he needed for his fortieth birthday, which was next month, and asked about the prices. «600,» they said in unison. They repeated that the price should include food and a urinal. Surprised by the request, but remembering that Paris Hilton asks for colored dildos in her makeup bag, he thought the request was appropriate. But the woman implied that the bathroom served various purposes: washing, doing one’s business, changing clothes. And a little hug, added the man next to her, who, among other things, showed her some photos of Juan Platanera, a solo artist, sixty years earlier in the darkest part of Barcelona.

—We played for half of «There was a city there, and there was joy, so much joy.»

—The past was always better,—said H. Fer.

—And we all felt as if the petticoats were changing the beds,—he added with a crooked laugh.

—Or as if the furniture was overflowing.

—If today we’re all huddled together and empty inside,—concluded the snorer, let’s sing a little song together:

I’m not waiting for you anymore.

Because waiting for you brings hate

on the wedding night,

in the robes of heaven,

in the mother of a blind child.

I’m already a devil’s angel.»

I’m not waiting for you anymore (1)

H Fer didn’t know whether to applaud or douse the car with gasoline. He simply said: We’re here, I’ll call them so they can come and play for my birthday.

Juan Platanera replied: You have the card… call us. And they left without paying. H Fer, as a good Catalan born abroad, wrote down the fare to deduct it from his fortieth birthday bill.

Notes:

(1) I’m not waiting for you anymore. Silvio Rodríguez http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3lAU3drCIY