| Horns
and Mutes
Born 1st of January 1900, Xavier Cugat married
astonishing Charo out of libidinal motives
solely, many would have you believe.
As a frequent dinner guest at the Miami
compound, I feel compelled to tell you
much the opposite: their love was large,
the real thing. Never have I seen
a couple bridge the decades
with as much tenderness, humor
and respect. What it was to watch,
after finishing a divine banana
flambé, the lady of the house
take to the small bamboo stage
that was at one end of the dining
room, while Xavier retrieved the marimba
he kept in the sideboard for such special
occasions. Oh the hips and makers
we drank! This was in the period 1968
to 1972. A time in which I burnished
a little nut of envy for their meaningful
glances across a room, the way Charo
after a number, would straighten her "Exee's"
narrow Hermés tie-- "Exee" short for both
"sexy," and X-avier, and the way he'd swim
in the deep sight of his estrella as if she were
limitless nectar, bath water, ticklish
rain. Charo's hair was not piled as high
in those halcyon days. The extra height,
layers, occasional extensions, would be
only one of the changes I'd encounter
in 1974, two years after embarking
for Madagascar to conduct research
necessary to my work, a time fully
disastrous for their marriage as a worn
Xavier was to tell me over a long dinner
at Le Cirque. "It wasn't her, it wasn't
her, my friend. Esto es mi culpa. Si.
One day I woke from a sticky afternoon
nap and all I could think of was my childhood
cat, a red-backed Persian with slightly darker
feet. I was in panic for not knowing where
my little Concepçion had been buried,
and from that moment I couldn't get
anything accomplished. I didn't want
to rehearse for days and days. And
as you know, days and days like old ladies
knit themselves into weeks and months;
and all the while I continued to think
of sitting on the roof of the icehouse
with Concepçion in the summertime,
her back legs outstretched as we lay
on our stomachs for a hint of cool slate.
The only one nimble enough to climb up,
she kept me company and I brushed her.
But I don't remember the circumstances
of her death, God forgive me. I still can't.
And this is what haunts me, as I was old
enough to have remembered." At this
admission, I ordered additional drinks,
not quite sure where we were headed.
X continued: "I made countless calls—
to Mollet, Gava, Rubi, Tarrasa, anywhere
and anyone who might recollect
the circumstances or whereabouts
of the grave. My household walked on
eggshells. Charo knew, the staff knew:
I would not live life a sane man until I learned
where lay my companionable puss.
Charo, bless her patience, tried, tried
to understand, but could not alleviate my
anxiety, the fear and then the worry shifted
to the woman. Not inside her, no--it was my
own madness for her. For I love my Charita
more than anything in this shiny world
and terrified I was to forget a single detail
of our times together, as I had with my
dear Concepçion. So you see, amigo,
all my energies collected on a couch
in the arbor, regardless of the weather,
as I lay still--listing, compiling, gathering
in my head the strands of the glorious
braid our life has been. I tried to recall
every glance, sigh, kiss--even the fights—
God bless them--and the idle thoughts
in those moments when work kept us
on different continents. She begged me
Write a memoir before you go crazy.
Surely, I lose you this way. But I refused
to write it down, convinced careful notes
would be an old man's crutch. I decided
to rely on the fingertips strumming inside
my head; I would organize my thoughts
like a big filing cabinet in a New York City
office. This made my Charo a total wreck,
so I tried to explain to others who might
then explain to her, but no one understood.
I'm surprised she held on as long as she did."
Our broiled squid arrived. I ordered an iceless
Tanqueray, Xavier drank plain seltzer owing
to his diabetes. "Make no mistake, my love
was overwhelming, constantly growing;
thrilled with its size and fearful to shrink
like a man with a good physique who breaks
one or more arms. I did have some big
muscles in my youth; Charo never got
to see them. No matter. The greater
her love was for its independence
from such transitory charms. Oh, my
friend, I am rather glad you have been
an ocean away, insofar as you, and you alone,
come fresh to this mess with two eyes
truly startled. All the others watched in
increments, their opinions long muddied
by vision too near, too fluid. I tell you a secret:
I feel like the maraca my mother kept
after the soldiers pissed on her furniture,
and broke her wedding china for the sake of
making noise. We came home from Church
on a High Holy Day to walk over the shards,
to smell cold urine. These men had heard
that the poorest townspeople hid gold bits
in their maracas for fear of government
banks. Made of teak, these instruments
were resilient, could not be smashed, so
the bastards took bayonets and hacked at
the handles with some effort. To this day
I try to sketch their drunken faces, hope-
soured, in my parents' living room when
the dried lima beans tumbled in a soft racket
to the dirt floor. 1 wonder, did they scramble
out, nostrils hot, to rape the neighborhood
girls I knew from the walk to school, chicas
ravaged for nonexistent gold too well hidden
by the parents? Till death my mother kept
one of her great-grandfather's hand-painted,
mutilated maracas on the mantle, and never could
I quite believe it had no music left. And now,
my wife estranged, I find myself crouched
in its quiet empty inside, desperate
for a rattle, a sound, the life
I despoiled,
lovingly, and I don't know how on Mary's Earth
I got here.
-- Christopher Brisson |
