The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love (20 page)

(Nestor remembered how, as a frightened child, he used to wake up from a bad dream, covered in sweat, his heart pounding, and with a feeling of helplessness: the moon would ominously cross the window space, and the mosquito netting which hung down off hooks from the ceiling would seem to breathe like a living creature and shadows would bend into animal shapes and he would cry out so that someone would come to save him, a brother, his father, but most sweetly his mother, parting the netting and sitting beside him on the bed, whispering stories into his ear and softly singing. And Cesar remembered hearing her voice as she’d wash his hair in a metal tub in the back yard, the sunlight breaking up the flowing water into pink- and red-tinged sprays, and the wonderful sensation of her hands moving over the back of his neck and through his hair. And for Arnaz? It was the image of his mother filling the empty hours of the afternoon with songs that she’d play at a spinet in the parlor of their grand house in Santiago. Just those little thoughts made the three men feel like crying.)

But then around three o’clock Lucille Ball tapped her watch again and said to Arnaz, “Now, honey, we have to go.”

“Yes, of course. Tomorrow it’s work, always work. I’m sorry we have to go, but I want to tell you something before we do. That
canción
you fellows sang at the club tonight, ‘Beautiful María,’ I really like it and think that you should come on my show and do it for me there.”

“Nightclub show?”

“No, I mean my television show.”

“Yes!” said Cesar. “Of course, you let us know what we have to do. I’ll give you our address.” And he rushed off into the hall, looking for a pen and a piece of paper. Later, Cesar was out on Broadway trying to flag down a taxicab for Arnaz and his wife, who were waiting on the curb. Miguel Montoya had decided to stay over, taking his chances on the Castro Convertible in the living room. They were out there for about twenty minutes before they caught a taxi, its heavy, snow-chained wheels edging their way up the snowy streets.

Arnaz shook Cesar Castillo’s hand. “I’m glad we had this chance to meet, my friend. You’ll be hearing from me soon enough. Okay? So,
cuídate,
take care of yourself.”

Then Arnaz and his wife got into the taxi and disappeared into the night.

D
ESI ARNAZ KEPT HIS PROMISE
and three months later the brothers were on a plane to Hollywood, California. Cesar really loved the trip, loved flying in those big four-engine airplanes and watching the clouds burn up with sunlight. But Nestor? He couldn’t believe that all that metal stayed up in the air. The long eleven-hour non-stop flight frightened him. He remained in his seat, hands knotted together nervously, fearfully watching the clouds out the window. Cesar sat quietly, writing postcards and a few song lyrics, reading magazines, enjoying things. They were flying first class, which meant that the stewardesses gave the passengers the time of day. Cesar liked this one stewardess who had the nicest little pair of
nalgitas
—buttocks—the most serious-looking
nalgitas
he had seen in a long time, and when she would come down the aisle, Cesar would elbow his brother so that Nestor would not miss out on her bouncy splendor. But he was too self-occupied, too worried about how things would go, as if something going wrong would kill him. The idea of going on the show frightened him.

For Cesar, it was clear-cut and simple and he never gave it much thought, other than that it would be a good opportunity to make a few dollars and for people to see them and hear that song, perhaps get them interested in that bolero, “Beautiful María of My Soul.” Turn it into the Mambo Kings’ first big hit. As for the idea of appearing on television? Cesar didn’t have the slightest idea about television. They watched an occasional boxing match at a friend’s apartment, watched programs in appliance-store windows, but neither brother had ever dreamed of appearing on the
I Love Lucy
show.

As for the song that had captured Arnaz’s interest that one night in the Mambo Nine Club? Even Cesar had to admit that it was a great song, catchy and haunting. He had gotten sick and tired of hearing about María over the years, but had walked into the living room one day when Nestor, who wrote twenty-two different versions of that
canción,
was singing it again. And it sounded as good as any of the long-time classics that make people misty-eyed in the middle of the night. Usually, hearing Nestor working on yet another version made Cesar disgruntled, but that day he told his younger brother, “You can stop now. It’s perfect. It’s a great song, brother.” And he slapped him on the back. “Now enjoy your peace.”

But Nestor didn’t enjoy anything, brooding constantly like a ruined poet or an old man.

“Nestor, you’re nearly thirty years old, you have a wife who loves you and two children,” Cesar said. “When are you going to be a man and stop worrying yourself to death? When are you going to stop being such a fairy?”

That made Nestor wince.

“I’m sorry,” Cesar told him. “Just be happy. And don’t be worried, bro’, you have your brother Cesar around to look out for you.”

Just as he was saying that, the plane hit an air pocket, dropped several hundred feet, and started shaking.

And, like the airplane, Nestor kept shaking. Not that he was a complete wreck: playing the trumpet and singing always had a calming effect on him and he had learned to calm himself in front of his children, Leticia and Eugenio.

“Whatever you do,” Cesar said one day, “be a man around your own children. You don’t want them growing up fucked up.”

Desilu Productions put them up in the Garden of Allah Hotel, with a swimming pool, prickly palm trees, and young starlets stretching out in the sun. Each time they would head out from the hotel for rehearsals, Nestor would belt down a glass of whiskey, sometimes two. He had gotten that way, playing in the big dance halls. The television studio was over on Selma Avenue and was so busy that no one noticed when Nestor would show up a little drunk. The actual filming of the program was to take place on a Friday and the players and musicians would have three days to rehearse. Everyone involved with the show was nice to the brothers. Desi Arnaz was especially kind and generous to the Cubans he’d hired. Ask anyone about Arnaz in those days and they’d talk about his friendliness and concern for the people working for him, like a responsible
patrón.
After all, the man was Cuban and knew how to present the proper image of a man.

They’d arrive for rehearsals at ten and spend most of the day hanging around with the musicians and watching the orchestra set up: many of its members were American musicians who’d been playing around in California big bands, but there were a few Cubans with whom the brothers killed time playing whist.

They didn’t have much to do on the show. A walk-on scene and then the song. As for their acting abilities, Arnaz, who kept an active hand in everything, would tell the brothers just to be themselves—and always with a slap to their backs. But Nestor was always taking out those few pages of script with their few lines of dialogue and reading them over and over again. (A portion of this script, yellowed with age and torn, would be found among the Mambo King’s effects in the room in the Hotel Splendour.) Even when Arnaz had told them, “Don’t worry, even if you flub your dialogue, we’ll take care of it.
Pero no te preocupes,
okay?”

All the same, Nestor seemed so worried. He was a funny man, at times collected and reasonable about things, at other times lost and distraught.

The evening they actually filmed the show before an audience, Nestor could barely move, he wanted out so badly. He spent the afternoon pacing back and forth in their hotel room, a sweaty nervous mess. And at the studio itself he remained in the wings, leaning up against a Coke machine, watching the bustle of electricians, sound and light technicians, cameramen, and script girls all around him, as if life were passing him by. Something about singing that song, María’s song, before millions, frightened him. His fear frustrated Cesar, who kept saying, “
Tranquilo
,
tranquilo, hombre.
And just don’t forget, we’ll have Arnaz out there with us.”

Nestor must have looked really badly off because one of Arnaz’s musicians, a nice plump baldheaded fellow from Cienfuegos who played the congas and bongos for Arnaz, went up to him and asked, “Are you all right, my friend?” Then he pulled Nestor off to the side and gave him a few swigs of rum from a small bottle that he had in his pocket. That did calm him down, and in a short time a makeup lady came over and brushed their foreheads and noses with powder. Another assistant sat tuning Cesar’s guitar to a piano. A third assistant led them over to the spot from which they would enter the stage. Then Arnaz himself stepped out of his dressing room, smiled, and waved to the brothers. Then, as he always did with his younger brother before any performance, Cesar looked him over, brushed the lint off his jacket, pulled down on its hem to make sure his shoulders were straight, and patted Nestor’s back. With that the orchestra started to play the
I Love Lucy
theme and someone gave them their cue, and together, guitar and trumpet in hand, they went on.

It was 1955 and Lucille Ball was cleaning in her living room when she heard a knock on the door to her Manhattan apartment, someone gently rapping.

“I’m commmmmming,” she answered, touching her hairdo on her way to the door.

Standing there, two men in white silk suits and butterfly-shaped lace bow ties, black instrument cases, guitar and trumpet, by their sides, with black-brimmed cane hats in hand which they’d taken off as she opened the door. The two men nodded and smiled, but there seemed something sad about their expressions, at least in retrospect, as if they knew what would happen to them. The taller and broader of the two, who wore a slick, pimpy-looking mustache, in vogue at the time, cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice, “Mrs. Ricardo? My name is Alfonso and this is my brother Manny . . .”

“Oh, yes, the fellows from Cuba. Ricky told me all about you. Come on in and make yourselves at home. Ricky’ll be out in a minute.”

With tremendous politeness the brothers bowed and then sat down on the sofa, each leaning forward, not allowing himself to sink completely into its plump cushions. The younger brother, Manny, seemed the more nervous of the two, his foot tapping the floor; his darkened, somewhat tired eyes looking out into the world with innocence and apprehension. Behind them was a spinet piano on which stood a squat bowl of flowers and a porcelain figurine of a picador; then, a lace-draped window before them, a table on which the redheaded Lucille Ball soon placed a tray of cookies and coffee. All this happened in a few seconds, it was as if she had known just when they would be coming to visit. But that didn’t matter—the older brother dropped a few sugar cubes into his coffee, stirred it, and nodded thanks to their hostess.

Suddenly in walked Ricky Ricardo, nightclub singer and musical impresario—the character whom Desi Arnaz played on his television show. He was a pleasant-looking man with large friendly eyes and a thick head of black hair, shiny as sealskin. Dressed in cuffed trousers, wide-lapeled sports jacket, short-collared shirt, and a slick-looking black tie decorated with piano keys and a crocodile-shaped tie clip, he definitely seemed prosperous and self-confident. He walked in with his right hand in his jacket pocket and, when he saw the brothers, rapped each on his back and said, “Manny, Alfonso! Gee, I’m glad to see you! How are things down in Cuba?”

“Fine, Ricky.”

“Well, sit down and tell me, did you fellows decide which song you’re going to do on my show at the Tropicana?”

“Yes,” said the older brother. “We’ve decided to sing ‘Beautiful María of My Soul.’ ”

“That’s swell, fellows. Say, Lucy, wait until you hear the number they’re going to do with me for the finale on the show next week. ‘Beautiful María of My Soul.’ ”

The redhead’s expression changed, fell to pieces, as if someone had died.

“But, Ricky, you promised
me
the chance to sing on the show!”

“Well, I can’t discuss it with you now, Lucy. I’ve got to take the fellows over to the club.”

“Please, Ricky, if you let me, I’ll never never never ask you again. Please?”

She stood in front of him and looked at him so sweetly and fluttered her eyelashes so endearingly that he began to reconsider. “We’ll see, Lucy.”

And shaking his head, he started speaking rapidly in Spanish to the brothers:
“Si ustedes supieran las cosas que tengo que aguantarme todos los días! Dios mío! Me vuelvo loco con estas americanas! Mi mamá me lo dijo, me dijo, ‘Ricky, no te cases con una americana, a no ser que quieras un
big headache!
Esas americanas te pueden volver loco.’ Mi mamá tenía razón, debía haberme casado con esa chica bonita de Cuba que nunca me puso problemas, que sabía quién le endulzaba el pan. Ella no era
crazy,
ella me dejaba tranquilo, ¿saben ustedes lo que quiero decir, compañeros?”
*

And in English again, “Let’s go.”

The brothers put their hats on, took up their instrument cases, and followed the nightclub singer out. When he opened the door, his neighbors, a stout-looking bald man and his wife, a pretty, somewhat matronly blonde, stood before him, flattop straw hats in hand. The two brothers nodded to them and made their way out into the apartment-building hallway and left for the club.

Later, an immense satin heart dissolved and through a haze appeared the interior of the Tropicana nightclub. Facing a dance floor and stage, about twenty tables set with linen and candles at which sat ordinary but elegantly dressed people—your nightclub clientele of the day. Pleated curtains hanging down from the ceiling, potted palms here and there. A tuxedoed maître d’ with an oversize black wine list in hand, a long-legged cigarette girl, and waiters going from table to table. Then the dance floor itself, and finally the stage, its apron and wings painted to resemble African drums, with birds and squiggly voodoo lines, these patterns repeated on the conga drums and on the music stands, behind which sat the members of the Ricky Ricardo Orchestra, twenty or so musicians seated in four tiered rows, each man decked out in a frilly-sleeved mambo shirt and vest decorated with sequined palms (with the exception of a female harpist in long-skirted dress and wearing rhinestone glasses), the musicians looking very human, very ordinary, wistful, indifferent, happy, poised, and ready with their instruments.