Havana Jazz Club Read Free Page A

outstretched in a way that always made Billie laugh.
    She trusted him and blindly believed his words. She knew he was capable of getting anything he wanted and that one day he would bring her to America.
    Orlando sat down beside her again and kissed her tenderly.
    “Sing me a song, my love. Sing just for me,” he whispered between sweet caresses.
    And Billie sung softly, just for her lover’s ears while he listened in silence, with his gaze fixed on the horizon.

CHAPTER 3
    Almost two years later, Billie was helping her mother with the chores one day before her father and two brothers came home from work. A mambo by Pérez Prado gave rhythm to their tasks. While one toiled away in the bathroom, rag in hand, the other dusted the furniture in the living room, swaying her hips to the music. Before she followed her mother into the master bedroom, Billie put on a Pablo Milanés record. The first chords of “Yolanda” trailed her down the hall, the singer’s caressing voice slipping into the room with her, and Billie let herself float away on his words of love as she smoothed the sheets: “I love you, I love you, I’ll always love you.”
    Celia watched her daughter with concern. Billie was unusually quiet and pensive that day, and a puzzled Celia kept casting furtive glances her way, wondering what was on her daughter’s mind. She had always been a little timid, but she was normally a happy little chatterbox with her family and friends, and she had always confided in her mother. Celia had noticed, however, that her daughter had grown more reserved since she had started going out with that boy. But Celia thought it was understandable; everyone knows couples have their secrets . . . She would simply have to get used to that.
     
    Suddenly their hands brushed against each other over the sheets, and Billie grabbed her mother’s in hers. When her mother looked up in surprise, Billie locked eyes with her and a smile trembled on her lips. “Lovers, lovers, always lovers,” the Cuban troubadour intoned.
    “I’m getting married, Mami,” the girl burst out.
    Celia let out a muffled sigh and sat down hard on the edge of the rickety old bed. Billie did the same.
    “To . . . that boy?” Celia stammered.
    “Of course, Mami,” Billie said, giggling nervously. “Who else would it be?”
    “Of course, of course,” her mother repeated, too stunned to say more. “But . . . I mean . . . are you sure, sweetie? You’re still just a girl.”
    “I’m almost eighteen, Mami,” Billie reminded her. “Orlando has asked me several times, and I can’t put it off anymore, or he’ll leave me. I told him yes, and he wants us to get married as soon as possible.”
    “But, sweetie,” Celia insisted. “You haven’t been together that long. What’s the rush?”
    “You and Papi were very young when you got married . . .”
    “Because circumstances made us. You know that. His parents were opposed to our engagement. They didn’t want him to marry a black girl, and they planned to send him away to forget about me. Getting married in secret was the only way to stop them separating us,” she said, giving her daughter a squeeze and a teasing smile. “But you don’t have that problem, my girl. We don’t mind that you’re marrying a white dreamboat.”
    Billie laughed. But then grew serious again. “We love each other, Mama, and we want to live together as soon as possible.”
    Celia felt like her daughter was reciting a prepared speech. Suddenly she was assaulted by a terrible thought and scrutinized her daughter’s face.
    “You’re not . . . ?” she hinted.
    “No!” Billie exclaimed, offended. “Orlando respects me. We’re in love. We want to get married and that’s all. Can’t you understand that?”
    “Yes, sweetie, yes. Of course I understand . . . I’m sorry.”
    Celia realized that her daughter had made up her mind, and nothing she could say was going to change it. If she insisted on raising her