Los Angeles Stories. Ry Cooder
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trade?”
“I am no tradesman, but an artiste, a musician and singer. ‘Acts like a man, looks like a chicken!’ He’s better off dead, I assure you!”
“This was an execution. Did you do it?”
“I salute the man who did.”
“We will speak with you again. Please do not leave town.”
“Here I was born, here I remain, here I shall die. ‘Hasta la Tumba Final.’ ”
“My wife enjoys Trio. Where do you appear?”
“The Bamba Club, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Please allow me to invite you and your esposa as my guests.”
“Thank you, it would be a pleasure. Hasta la próxima, señor.”
“A sus órdenes, Capitán Morales.”
“Sergeant Morales.”
An honest man, not unlike the policeman of the film, I thought. But the film had been interrupted. What happened to Marga Lopez? The truth is, these film stories are all alike; the end is always the same. Real life is so much more uncertain, take Salazar, for instance! And now, something new had been added. I had become involved in a mysterious thing, a crime. I had told Morales nothing of the sinister Filipino. Without thinking, I had become an accomplice.
I TAKE THE “A” streetcar at Sixth and Boyle and get off at Spring Street, a ten-minute ride. I often meet fellow musicians on the streetcars — the code-talking black men of jazz, the card-playing Filipinos of the Temple Street dance halls, the nihilistic pachuco boogie boys — we all ride the Big Red Cars, except for the mariachis, who prefer to walk. The La Bamba Club is located in the heart of downtown. Mexicans are under curfew in the downtown area since the riots, but La Bamba enjoys a good reputation and is exempt. Modest on the outside you may say, but once inside the effect is marvelous. Brightly colored paper lanterns with tiny lights give a festive atmosphere, and there are live plants and dwarf palm trees everywhere. At one end, a good-sized stage and an ample dance floor. Full bar and dinner menu featuring Mexican dishes, such as chile rellenos a la casa and chicken enchiladas supreme. Very nice. Julio “Kid” Quiñones is the bartender, with his happy-to-be-alive grin and boxer’s ears. Showtime is nine o’clock. The master of ceremonies, Manuel “El Flaco” Zepeda, welcomes the audience, and then we are introduced. We usually begin with a selection of popular boleros. Boleros have a soothing effect the diners appreciate. I take requests. Ladies enjoy passing a note up to the stage, it excites them.
This particular evening, it was the following Friday, I received a note that read: Sra Morales requests “Sin Ti.” I caught the eye of Sergeant Morales, who was accompanied by his wife and their companions de la noche. I had already made arrangements. He inclined his head toward me — everything was perfectly understood. I turned to our trumpet soloist, Angel, and said, “the Harmon mute.” The Harmon gives the trumpet a sensation of elegance and refined melancholy.
Sin ti
No podré vivir jamás
Y pensar que nunca más
Estarás junto a mi
Yes, it’s true, I have sung this song, perhaps a thousand times. The effect is always the same. One is immediately drawn into contemplation and reverie. The composer gives us a gift of time, a brief moment following each lyric phrase, to fully savor its meaning before passing on to the next. It is a languid pace, but one that builds emotion and strength in a most subtle way, never to distract from the mood, the intimate world of the song.
Sin ti
Qué me puede ya importar
Si lo que me hace llorar
Está lejos de aquí
The poetry is simple, the sentiment is common. But there is the art! Effortless, comfortable, each thought set before the listener like pearls strung into a necklace by the hands of a beautiful woman, one by one.
Sin ti
No hay clemencia en mi dolor
La esperanza de mi amor
Te la llevas al fin
Now the trumpet joins in harmony as the wonderful conclusion is revealed. How did the composer build such a work of feeling from two words?
Sin ti
Es inútil vivir
Como inútil será
El quererte olvidar
“Gracias a todos! And now, for your dancing pleasure, the orchestra of Bebo Guerrero!” I left the stage. Couples rushed to the dance floor. I observed Sergeant Morales and his wife. A gentleman, he escorted her to the ladies’ lounge and waited by the door.
“Buenas noches, Señor Morales. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Ah, my friend, buenas noches! My wife is enchanted, I am delighted!”
“May one ask if there is progress in the matter of Alberto Salazar? The musicians were wondering. . . .”
“We have determined that there was a man seated next to Salazar. He left early. We are very interested in this man, his description, his type. We will find him, whoever he is. And now, con permiso, let me introduce my wife.”
Was I undignified? Undoubtedly. Mute, even? Possibly. “Aquellos Ojos Verdes” . . . the song began to play in my mind. Odd, I thought — I know this face, I’ve seen her somewhere — the green eyes, the somber expression, the lustrous black hair. They returned to their table, and I left the building by the side door. The night was cool. Gradually, I recovered myself. In the alley, Angel was smoking a cigarette and drinking from his flask. I took it.
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