“Imagine I’m the only one watching, doll. Shake that little butt for me.”
She nodded, and Orlando headed over to the pianist to tell him which song Billie was going to sing. Then he sat down next to the impresario and shot him a buddy-buddy look.
Billie tried to relive that afternoon in their friends’ house when she and Gladys had sung and danced for their men, giving the song a mischievous and sensual air.
When she finished, she looked at the two men expectantly.
“She’s not bad,” Don Gregorio conceded, satisfied. “We can pull it off with the right clothes. Tell her to prepare a bunch of songs like that. You’ll both start on a trial basis next week.”
“Thank you so much, Don Gregorio,” said Orlando, jumping to his feet obsequiously. “I promise we won’t let you down.”
“I hope not, kid.”
Their new boss got up from his chair and headed toward the bar without saying good-bye, leaving the stench of the Cuban cigar trailing behind him. Orlando helped Billie down from the stage and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
“You did great, beautiful. We have jobs! Let’s go celebrate!”
Walking home, Billie felt infected by her husband’s elation. He promised that this was just the first step, that tons of people would see her, and there would be new and better opportunities on the horizon. She would become a star, and then she would be able to sing wherever she wanted. They would travel to the real New York—and beyond—because she was a great singer, and she would achieve the success she deserved.
“The world is ours, my queen!” he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her, exultant. “This is just the beginning.”
Billie laughed at the sight of her husband looking as excited as a child and convinced herself that everything he was saying would come true. She felt strong and safe at his side. Her sun god would always take care of her.
CHAPTER 10
Their jobs at the New York Music Hall meant Billie and Orlando could rent an apartment in the center of the city, right in Chamberí, very close to work. It was a small place, but modern and functional and not lacking in any way. Its many amenities seemed superfluous to Billie, coming as she did from a place where the most basic staples were a luxury. She struggled to learn how to use all the gadgets she didn’t need, but Orlando loved them, as they were clear proof of their newly acquired status.
“And this is just the beginning, doll,” he said to Billie, bursting with satisfaction.
But she wasn’t happy. This wasn’t what she had dreamed of. Yes, she sang in front of an audience every night, but she couldn’t sing the songs that moved her, the ones that were born in the most profound part of her soul and soared out through her throat like a blazing fire; or the ones that flowed through her like a placid river, ending in a rough sea; or those that were like a violent storm that dissolved in a shower of stars in the cadences of her voice . . . All the feelings that overwhelmed her when she listened to the records of her idols were now tainted by a patina of shame and frustration. When she sang the most popular boleros and the Caribbean rhythms that were in vogue, she was heckled by a vulgar and drunken audience that cared nothing for the quality of her voice. As she stood there, half-naked in a jeweled bra and a sarong whose flimsiness left little to the imagination, she endured guffaws and breaking glasses, smoke and lascivious looks. She had flatly refused to show her naked breasts, an expectation that seemed to be the norm these days after the long period of sexual repression and ostracism the country had suffered for the last forty years. She hadn’t agreed to slip off her bra—even for a few seconds during the “final climax”—as if she had suffered an innocent and involuntary “malfunction,” as Gregorio had insistently proposed. But faced with the impresario’s threat to throw them both out on the
She nodded, and Orlando headed over to the pianist to tell him which song Billie was going to sing. Then he sat down next to the impresario and shot him a buddy-buddy look.
Billie tried to relive that afternoon in their friends’ house when she and Gladys had sung and danced for their men, giving the song a mischievous and sensual air.
When she finished, she looked at the two men expectantly.
“She’s not bad,” Don Gregorio conceded, satisfied. “We can pull it off with the right clothes. Tell her to prepare a bunch of songs like that. You’ll both start on a trial basis next week.”
“Thank you so much, Don Gregorio,” said Orlando, jumping to his feet obsequiously. “I promise we won’t let you down.”
“I hope not, kid.”
Their new boss got up from his chair and headed toward the bar without saying good-bye, leaving the stench of the Cuban cigar trailing behind him. Orlando helped Billie down from the stage and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
“You did great, beautiful. We have jobs! Let’s go celebrate!”
Walking home, Billie felt infected by her husband’s elation. He promised that this was just the first step, that tons of people would see her, and there would be new and better opportunities on the horizon. She would become a star, and then she would be able to sing wherever she wanted. They would travel to the real New York—and beyond—because she was a great singer, and she would achieve the success she deserved.
“The world is ours, my queen!” he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her, exultant. “This is just the beginning.”
Billie laughed at the sight of her husband looking as excited as a child and convinced herself that everything he was saying would come true. She felt strong and safe at his side. Her sun god would always take care of her.
CHAPTER 10
Their jobs at the New York Music Hall meant Billie and Orlando could rent an apartment in the center of the city, right in Chamberí, very close to work. It was a small place, but modern and functional and not lacking in any way. Its many amenities seemed superfluous to Billie, coming as she did from a place where the most basic staples were a luxury. She struggled to learn how to use all the gadgets she didn’t need, but Orlando loved them, as they were clear proof of their newly acquired status.
“And this is just the beginning, doll,” he said to Billie, bursting with satisfaction.
But she wasn’t happy. This wasn’t what she had dreamed of. Yes, she sang in front of an audience every night, but she couldn’t sing the songs that moved her, the ones that were born in the most profound part of her soul and soared out through her throat like a blazing fire; or the ones that flowed through her like a placid river, ending in a rough sea; or those that were like a violent storm that dissolved in a shower of stars in the cadences of her voice . . . All the feelings that overwhelmed her when she listened to the records of her idols were now tainted by a patina of shame and frustration. When she sang the most popular boleros and the Caribbean rhythms that were in vogue, she was heckled by a vulgar and drunken audience that cared nothing for the quality of her voice. As she stood there, half-naked in a jeweled bra and a sarong whose flimsiness left little to the imagination, she endured guffaws and breaking glasses, smoke and lascivious looks. She had flatly refused to show her naked breasts, an expectation that seemed to be the norm these days after the long period of sexual repression and ostracism the country had suffered for the last forty years. She hadn’t agreed to slip off her bra—even for a few seconds during the “final climax”—as if she had suffered an innocent and involuntary “malfunction,” as Gregorio had insistently proposed. But faced with the impresario’s threat to throw them both out on the
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