La Musica

La M?sica.

'Qu? es la m?sica? One day, I will drive myself over the edge; I will
jump for my love - my passion to dance the Rumba, the Cuban Son, to
whirl to Flamenco guitar or dart to the Merengues, or feel the ultimate
freedom of the last Cha Charanga of the night. So, now sen?rita let me
please show you what it means to feel this passion in your
blood.'
Marti Banchez's eyeballs slid to their knees against two fading walls
of white. He inhaled slowly on the Cuban cheroot that dangled in the
loose grip of his left hand. In front of him lay the last survivors of
a sultry, romantic meal. A flickering candle amid red roses and red
wine; a petal of Rioja spreading outwards from the base of his glass
where he had knocked it but caught it laughing as it swayed upon the
nearly white tablecloth. Life, they say in Brazil, is sweetest at the
end of the day like the sun-ripened coca berries on the trees. Marti
let out a thin trail of smoke that stretched slowly up to the rafters
with the grace of the raised arm of a flamenco dancer. He began talking
again in a low impassioned whisper that filled the room as certainly as
his cigar spread flowers in smoke.
'You, what do you know? But I will tell all, I will give you my soul
and take you to places that you can only dream about. I will teach you
to Samba at sundown on the orange sand of Rio. I will grasp your hips
from behind as we dance the Cuban Guajiro in a red-walled bar in
Havana. I will catch you in my arms whilst you shake your ass to the
beat of the Rumba. But most of all, I will give you the magic of Salsa,
right here in the Latin quarter of Rotterdam. Then fly with you my
perfect angel.'
He stared at her smooth features, at the gentle curve of her small nose
and at her almost unnaturally large lips that would soon be his to
kiss. The candlelight beat dancing shadows around the rose heads
against the wall and he imagined them to be a crowd of Mardi Gras
dancers in his room. Over there were his friends: Leonardo Vas Esculpi,
Gil Rosales, even little Tito Santmaria - all swaying in time to the
Salsa. He turned his face so he could feel their heat against his cheek
as they succumbed to a quicker rhythm that he knew he would soon be
able to hear.
'Go on deny it, deny that you feel the congas, the timbales and
percussion throbbing in your chest. Pretend the piano and guitar aren't
creeping into your shoes from the Salsa bars of Puerto Rico or Caracas.
They are - your soul is coming alive and soon we will reach the Salsa
hour.'
Marti leant forwards and took that long awaited kiss. His lover's eyes
remained wide open to take in every passionate second. Her skin looked
so smooth and now whilst he was this close he could see there wasn't a
single blemish to deny her beauty. As he lowered his hand from her
cheek he let it accidentally touch the summit a perfect breast but she
didn't mind, she didn't withdraw and her eyes kept smiling into
his.
'One two one, one two one, one - can you feel your heart beating in
time with mine as we join the throng at 'La Feria De Calia'. Come dance
with me at the greatest Salsa festival of Colombia? As I take the lead
so shall you follow and our bodies move as one.'
As Marti stood up to take her hand the room seemed full with bright
costumed bodies and the noise of bouncing drums. She was as light as
air in his arms as they whirled around the crowded space. She never
blinked, she never took her gaze from his and he was happy at last as
he became lost in the dance. Singing, sweaty bodies surrounded them as
they were carried in the arms of the crowd.
'Let go, let the music take control. Viva la mus?ca y la buena ritm?ca.
Viva la Salsa, viva la base, viva el fuego y la esp?ritu de Cuba, viva
la pasi?n de la danza y los instrumentistas. Viva la aparici?n.'
Perspiration streamed down his cheeks and spun like fish in the air. He
swung her body in harmony with his and felt her press against his
flesh. The faster they danced the faster he needed to dance until he
responded to every instrument he heard. Laughter mingled with falling
timbale leaves and still the music played as Latin blood rushed through
his untiring limbs.
'Qu? es la m?sica? La Salsa es la m?sica. La Salsa es la m?sica.'
He reached out to snatch some roses from an old gypsy woman's hand. He
clutched them behind his lover's back as his lips found hers. Then
suddenly he felt her fall in his arms. The music stopped and lines of
exhaustion spread across her face as she seemed to age on the spot. He
looked around for help but the dancers began to fade and drift back
into the shadows and through the walls. He was alone again with the
silence of his empty room. A pointed thorn protruded from her latex
throat where she lay across the scattered roses on the table. He picked
her limp body up and laid her gently to rest in the box she had come
in.
'Buenos noches l'estallar bailarina.'