You could say that mangoes taste like hope. The New Mango tastes like freedom.
--Distinto the Musician
by Jerome du Bois and Catherine King
Section 5. Beny Shows Off A Chocolate Stick
[From the Historical Diary of La Fuerza --Yasmani Oliva-- Sunday, May 29, 2005, early evening.]
Beny came over after dinner. He wanted to take me out for a walk, but Mom insisted that he first stay for platanos fritos for dessert. Of course he did. Afterward, we strolled down toward the dunes, his chin tilted skyward for a couple of minutes. I knew what he was worried about: The Barracks; Re-Education. When he lowered his head --"No Mars"-- he kept looking at my hands.
It was a clear night, and the half moon hung high and orange like a wedge of an orange. In a wide place on the path, Beny suddenly stopped.
"Have I been walking funny to you?" he demanded, his hands on his hips.
I knew Beny. He had to show off. No mother, all his life; his father more his buddy and technical mentor, though of course they loved each other dearly. This was some kind of skit. I tilted my head, looked him up and down --khakis, black t-shirt, a hip pack and sandals-- and played along.
"No more funny than usual," I answered.
"Check this out," he said, unperturbed, and slid his hands smoothly into his pockets. Beny had been practicing sleight-of-hand and magic since a kid, and though he was short and a little pudgy, he always moved with grace, like a dollop of mercury.
He came out of his side pockets with two identical eighteen-inch lengths of the chocolate-colored wood he and his father had been harvesting near the Chthona grove planted by Abuela Prima of Villa Clara so many years ago. The wood was like ash, incredibly fine-grained and strong, only very dark and easier to work than superhardwoods like ironwood or ebony. Its advantage: it could be lathed very thin, and yet retain its strength. A staff of Chocolate Chthona wood one-half inch in diameter could break a shovel handle in two, cleanly. Nobody knew why.
There was a brass fitting at the end of each length. Beny put them together with a twist, like a custom pool cue, and then stopped, backed up, and, in slow motion, he said, "Youuuuu seeeee thhhhuh . . ." and repeated the action at one-quarter speed, holding the brass fittings up close to my face and meshing them oh so slowly so I could see how smoothly he and his dad had machined them. It was beautiful work, the final solid click sounding thick and sure as he made the two pieces one.
Then he sped up the routine: unlocking the two pieces and disappearing them into his pockets in the wink of an eye; then out again and together, swinging it around like a ninja, whish, whish, breaking imaginary legs and arms; then swip they were apart and back in the pockets.
After a few of these theatrics Beny smoothly segued into himself again, hands in pockets, casually strolling with me down to the dunes as if nothing unusual had intervened.
"Beautiful work, hermano," I finally said, and stopped again. "May I see?"
Silently he held out the two lengths of the Chocolate Stick. They were heavier than they looked; the two brass fittings locked tightly. I was now holding a single length of wood three feet long and with the tensile strength of steel.
"Sticks for breaking the sticks of the Stickmen," Beny said.
"But no heads." We didn't want The Forty to kill anyone, not even the Roaches who swarmed out of their subsidized dormitories and solars to whack the dissidents and librarians and anyone who stuck their heads up.
"Erasmo knows what he's doing. You know him: he can find things nobody can find. The Forty come from where he comes from, the Oriente. They're deep and strange, but they have rules, remember. Plus, look at the guy who recruited them --Erasmo, Flash No More, who-- well, let's be honest, we don't even know what he is . . ."
We fell silent, and for awhile the only sounds were the soft scrunch of our sandals. I was thinking again how grateful I was when I first saw Erasmo standing just inside our little gate, like a small basalt pillar of certainty, mute but smiling.
Once we reached the beach, we sat down and listened to the waves, and Beny played his silent squinting game at the horizon, looking for black shapes upon black shapes . . . Finally, Beny said:
"So, tomorrow morning, you have to meet with that artist, Rosa Blanca Azul--"
"You know, La Pionera--" we said in unison-- "Yeah, and what . . . " Beny hesistated.
"It's okay, Beny," I reassured him. "What's up?"
"Well, you never told us --Marta, Flash No More, me-- you never said why you made that other side of the poster, about the Big Fucking Beard, ¡Abajo Fidel!" I mean, we're right in the middle of the Seed Pool Plan, the New Mango thing, more secret than the Manhattan Project, and you go--"
"I know," I answered.
I nodded, and kept nodding.
"So--" Beny started, but I lifted a shushing finger.
"Listen," I whispered. The waves of water came up to the land with their endless offerings, softly pounding, then washing up and hissing back, massaging the sand like giant confirming hands in their reliable, dependable repetitions . . .
"When I finished that one side of the paper, doing the proper thing, I turned it over as quickly as I could. I didn't want to see it; it was like it was done by a robot. I'm not an artist, anyway; I'm an illustrator. I just stared at the blank white paper on the other side . . . and I kind of went away, and, really Beny, as I went away, I heard the waves. I don't remember writing out "Down With Fidel." I heard the waves, and I went into the sound of waves, and I remember thinking how He has turned that giant boundless mystery into a wall . . .
I leaned forward. "But when I saw it, when I saw what I had written, I remember going over and over each letter with my big fat red pastel, to make sure the message was clear and unmistakeable."
"Well." Beny leaned forward, too, his little moon face glowing. Again, he was looking at my hands. "If they send you away, it screws up the logistics, for one thing; we have to find somebody to replace you for the distributions, at a minimum. Maybe Flash--"
I held up my hands to him. "I know --I screwed up. I just . . . I don't know what to say; the pressure. Anyway, I don't think they're going to send me anywhere, and if they do it won't be to a nickel mine or the canefields. The system has too much into us, Beny; the Prodigy thing. Look: that artist coming out here shows me they're curious, you know? Or hesitant. You know MININT could just come haul me away. They do it to people all the time. Why don't they? I think that gives me an opening."
"To do what?"
"To talk my way out of it." I looked at my friend. "I'm sorry, Beny . . . I'm --I'm sixteen, hermano, like you; this is heavy." I stopped. "No --that's not it." I shook and shook my head, trying to get the thought to the front-- "It's just, look out there!" pointing to the dark rolling majesty just yards from us. "To love that is a crime!"
"Claro, hermano," Beny said, "I understand," touching his heart, massaging it, and then lifting his arm and pointing his pudgy index finger upright at the endlessness of night sky. "I'm just in love with a different ocean."
[End of entry.]
Section 6. Rosa Blanca Azul's First Dream
[Mantis here. This is an entry from Rosa Blanca Azul's handwritten moleskine diaries, dated May 29, 2005, early evening.]
Dear Pionera,
I think the New Mango is that super-smoke I got from the Farmer Brothers. I haven't come down, it seems, ever since I smoked it with Guillermo. It intensifies my emotions, as you know, so I have to watch that; but it also makes me feel . . . in line . . . like I'm doing the right thing. Like I'm being guided. Something's going to happen, Pionera.
I feel a lot better today. I can deal with Heather and Lisa. The information I get from them makes it worth the trouble of putting up with their company. I've been doing it for years. Nothing new there.
But something's in the air, Pionera. Guillermo brought Change with him, just as he brought that other presence, the presence I only remembered seeing when I reflected on it this morning. It was like seeing and feeling at the same time. Another presence came in my door with Guillermo, last night. Right behind him, I swear, Pionera. His dead twin brother?
You know I have never, ever lied to you, Pionera --and I have never before perceived something like that ghost-thing that came in with Guillermo.
And then talking with Guillermo about Kiku was . . . well, that was spooky, too, Pionera. I can write her name, but it feels too scary to say it out loud. One could get in trouble, but also, it's like speaking about the dead. Although she's not dead, she's still alive. I just can't imagine it, Pionera! We won't go there.
Remind me to get some candles and smudge from Ermalinda Ybarra's when I go to Santa Clara tomorrow to see that student Yasmani Oliva. I've got to admit, I'm curious about that boy.
I slept deeply last night, yet somehow I didn't get much rest, Pionera. Maybe it'll be better tomorrow, with the candles and smudge.
But I had a dream last night.
I dreamed I was in a big American super-grocery store. Like the biggest WalMart you can imagine, Pionera. Everywhere were nice people offering you free samples of the most delicious food for free, and coupons for saving lots and lots of dollars.
And I reached to check my purse to see if I had any money to buy something, but my purse was empty and my Rolodex was gone. I couldn't believe it, so I checked again and this time one of those New Mango cards was in there. I turned the card over and saw it transform into a memory card with all of our information in it, the hard-won phone numbers and addresses and names painstakingly collected on three continents over ten years. In my dream, we got bigger as people, Pionera, but we used technological tools that were smaller, and better, and cheaper. In my dream, I was using every one of my 244 seeds, and so I was getting more information from everybody than I could ever store in my Rolodex. Each seed had to have it's own memory card. In contrast to the seeds and cards, I felt so big. It felt as though I could stretch all the way from one end of the island to the other, and beyond.
I've got to be honest with you, Pionera. Ever since Guillermo came over, you don't look the same to me. You look small. Last night I kept turning and turning in the studio, and there you were, everywhere, in every image. You seem so . . . I need to change. Too much sitting around eating chocolate and now it shows. Guillermo did us a favor, Pionera. You're getting a makeover. Ermalinda Ybarra is going to give us a whole new style-- definitely not the paper cutout schoolgirl any more.
But the magic won't stop there, Pionera. You are going to lose the uniform, too! I don't know what you'll be wearing next, but maybe the answer will come to me in my sleep.
Section 7. Distinto Gets A Tattoo
[Mantis here. Hiding our surveillance equipment in the musician Distinto's home / studio was easier than most places, what with all the cables and outlets and speakers and wires. It was mainly a big warehouse space he had divided with plywood and soundproofing. (He had a big generator, in a cage, on the roof; a luxury.) The disadvantage to replaying our eavesdropping --I did this task personally-- was that some kind of music, drumming, aural noodling, riffing, jamming, singing, sampling, shouting --¡Muevete!-- or just moving-equipment noise would often obliterate long stretches of conversation, so that any clear talk seemed tantalizingly contextless, and was more often than not useless. The upside was that the musical sessions were fascinating, to me anyway, in their searching for the right expression for nonverbal feelings. I was supposed to keep my ear open for words, of course, subversive words, but a lot of times Distinto, either by himself or with accompaniment, would just jam on the piano or the guitar, humming or mouthing nonsense syllables. Most households or other places we bugged merely repeated the same daily complaints that their neighbors complained about, or speculated on useless schemes and worn-out plans. It was a relief, even a pleasure, to listen to the Distinto tapes; that's why I did it personally. I also knew how rare his situation was; as a fairly successful local musician, he could indulge himself in creativity while down below, on the street, most everyone else was looking for food. The music also reminded me that I have slept alone most of my life.
On Monday, May 30, 2005, in midafternoon, The Farmer Brothers and Flash No More arrive at Distinto's studio, the former to talk music, the latter to create a tattoo on Distinto. I'm able to include visual details along with the spy transcripts because Distinto had a couple of video cameras around, and Fab Farmer (Justo Oliva from Santa Clara) and some of the musicians who arrived later were playing around with them.
The Farmer Brothers, like a lot of the Santa Clara Olivas, were tall and pale, with a reddish cast to their dark hair, and they both had green eyes. Justo (Fab) was three years older than Alejandro (Rocco). Though they were fairly successful music producers (and marijuana dealers), they dressed simply, in khakis and jeans and t-shirts. No jewelry. They carried small backpacks. Their only luxuries were cell phones and their chargers, which they immediately plugged into two of the many available outlets upon arrival. Distinto himself is part-black, with the build of a muscleman; he's dressed in an old-style, rainbow-colored African dashiki. Next to Flash No More, who is black upon black and dressed in black, he looks like a third-generation copy. Flash No More carries a package under his arm in a burlap bag.]
Distinto (to the Brothers): Hey, bros, come on in . . . Flash No More, so glad you came.
Flash No More: I'm alway happy to tattoo another Cuban. And I've always admired your music. I'm glad to finally meet you.
Distinto: Same here. Of course I've seen your stuff all over, including your bro here (indicating Rocco, whose inner forearms each bore a series of black circular-spiral designs, intricate and hypnotic).
Fab (holding out a jaba vinyl): Here's some food for later.
Distinto: Thanks, man. Whoa, this is gonna be a good session, I can tell . . . Hey, let's go in here, guys.
(in the living room)
Distinto: Okay, you guys make yourselves at home, and when Gabe and the others show up, just tell 'em what we've worked out so far about the new song. You know, mainly what we don't want. When Flash is done with the tattoo, then we can jam, okay?
Fab: Very cool.
Distinto (in English): And smoke 'em if you've got 'em; I'll wait for later.
Rocco (patting a backpack): Plenty here, not to worry.
Distinto (to Flash No More): Over here in the corner, man, where it's quiet. I've got good light over there, too.
(once they are seated in the corner in wooden chairs, Flash No More sets down the burlap bag on an adjacent coffee table. Distinto removes his dashiki. He has no visible tattoos. The two brothers across the room stop their preparations, and close their phones, and sit quietly. Justo picks up the video camera.)
Flash No More: This is unusual for me, you know. Most of the time I get to know my clients, talk to them for hours sometimes, before we create a tattoo together. It's a serious, permanent thing. I see --as far as I can tell, you're a blank, right? (Distinto nods.) So . . . This is . . . I'm only here because my brothers (nod across the room) told me it would be all right. So, what can I do for you?
Distinto: You can tattoo this mango right over my heart. (And he holds out a little white card with a mango logo on it, just under the words THE NEW MANGO. Flash No More bursts out laughing, and points his outstretched finger at the Farmer Brothers across the room. They're grinning and nodding, Justo filming his reaction.)
Flash No More: You guys! ¡Ai, my madre! Don't you know I don't do flash no more! (cracking up, really roaring with laughter, then settling down, taking the card). But in this case, I'll make an exception. This was your inspiration for the song, no?
Distinto: Uh-huh. You've seen this card before?
Flash No More: Oh, yeah; the last few days they've been popping up all over. I got one in my locker at ISA.
Distinto: WE ARE NEXT. What do you think it means?
Flash No More: ¡Muevete!
Distinto: What?
Flash No More: You know, nothing stands still, nothing stays the same forever. Everything is moving, hopefully going somewhere, moving forward . . . What does it mean to you?
Distinto: I think it's the "new" part that gets to me the most. Mangoes are the national fruit, no? Everybody's got memories of eating mangoes, favorite kinds, stages of ripeness, your abuela carrying a bunch in her apron, drinking the juice, finding a special grove, even the way they hang heavy from the branch, like big fat cojones. . . Memories of mangoes past; but what would a "new" mango taste like? It got me thinking. Also, this logo, take a close look, it's all orange, all over; no black speckles, no green, no red. And it struck me that mangoes are only orange all over when their skin's been peeled away.
Flash No More: . . . and what does that mean to you?
(Distinto puts his arm next to Flash No More's, wrist to elbow, for comparison.)
Distinto: Under the skin, we're all Cubans.
Flash No More (tapping the card and lowering his voice instinctively): So . . . you think this is political, nationalistic?
Distinto (sotto voce also): What isn't, here? But I think it's wider, deeper. Since I've been working with the song, the last four days, I've been thinking a lot about mangoes. (Gestures to the big bowl on the piano.) Staring at them, smelling them, playing music to them --the piano is a percussion instrument, after all, and I believe mangoes respond to drums . . . rubbing them all over my face, eating them . . . (trailing off, eyes closed)
(Flash No More holds the silence with him, patient as time itself. Finally:)
Distinto: "You Are The New Mango." That's the refrain. The New Mango is an idea. (lowering his voice again) It's like this, using the substitutions: Every Cuban is a mango, and has the New Mango within them, as their very heart. How? Because the New Mango is Cuba, the essence of Cuba, rising up through all the despair, responding to the drums that never went away, just into hiding . . . and now its time has come. Every Cuban counts. A mango is humble, but it's . . . what's that word from math? Irreducible. It can't be subtracted. You could say that mangoes taste like hope. The New Mango tastes like freedom.
Flash No More (sotto voce): Distinto --It could be a dangerous song . . .
Distinto (looking him in the eye): Maybe it's time to get dangerous again.
Flash No More: Didn't your group disband partly because of political pressure?
Distinto: That was six years ago. Like I said, maybe it's time to get dangerous again. And like you said, ¡Muevete!
Flash No More (chuckling): Okay. Okay, let's get started before you get arrested.
(He slips his tattoo case out of the burlap bag.)
Distinto (whistle of admiration): Claro, bro, that's a beautiful case.
[The case is made of glowing mahogany, with brass fittings and a handle, obviously added later, made of a curious chocolate-colored wood, fine-grained and warm-looking. The top of the case is dominated by a detailed, exquisite carving of a hummingbird in profile hovering before a gardenia in full flower, all under a protective plexiglas cover fixed with brass screws, also obviously added later.]
Flash No More: It was originally a jewelry case. I had my friend Beny rearrange the compartments inside for my equipment, with cushioning inside, and rubber seals for sterility. He also added that handle and the plexiglas cover.
Distinto: Do you know who made it?
Flash No More: Have you ever heard of Kiku Ybarra?
Distinto: ¡Cojones! The flying crazy lady? Of course I have!
Flash No More: I suppose that's one way of--
Distinto: Oh, no, man, don't get me wrong, I think she's fascinating. Fantastic. My old cousin saw her fly, man. You know, that night everybody says didn't happen? He was there. People don't--
Flash No More: No, I believe you. There's a student at ISA, Ana Delmar, her uncle witnessed that last performance too.
Distinto: Kiku Ybarra really made that case?
[Flash No More turns the case over. So well-cushioned are his instruments that there is no sound of anything shifting inside. The bottom is polished but plain. In one corner, stark and unmistakeable, the three strong straight simple strokes carved evenly and definitely into the mahogany: K. Distinto reaches out to lightly brush the letter with his index finger.]
Flash No More: You should have seen Beny's face when I told him who made it. He actually put it down and backed away. He didn't want to alter it a bit. He took some convincing.
Distinto: Where did you get it?
Flash No More: From one of the Stable Ybarras out in Santa Clara, where I've been living since I was twelve. I bought it from Ermalinda Ybarra the Beauty Lady; she runs a kind of exclusive beauty salon out there.
Distinto: Why did you say, the Stable Ybarras?
Flash No More: Oh. The Ybarras of Santa Clara have two branches, I guess you'd say, stable and unstable. Ermalinda's from the Stable side, Kiku from the other . . . Ready?
Distinto (staring at the carving on the surface): A hummingbird . . . Why didn't I think of that before?
Flash No More: Think of what?
Distinto: Nobody's written a song about Kiku Ybarra, have they?
Flash No More (softly): No, of course not, but (gazing at the carving) . . . you're right . . . hovering . . .Ai, mi madre . . . You know she's still PNG [persona non grata]--
Distinto: --and worse. I hear they call her Kiku the Cuckoo. But no, mi amigo; she's a different bird. See? We're already halfway there. For the lyrics, we do what we always do: turn people into birds, and flowers, and animals, and cigars, and tools, and drums, and food. I'll hide Kiku inside a hummingbird . . . Yeah, this is great! If I work fast --and man, I'm feeling inspired lately, more than in years-- maybe I can put it with The New Mango single . . . ¡Mierda!
(He suddenly stops and picks up the little white card again, mango side toward him.)
Flash No More: What is it, Distinto? What's up?
Distinto: I just remembered! I don't know how I could forget. My old cousin told me that story about Kiku flying and wall-climbing I don't know how many times, and he always mentioned the three symbols that were stuck to the wall: the red star, the dollar sign . . . and the big orange mango. The mango was right in the middle, but she didn't have time to get to it before . . . (after a pause, waving the card in a little circle). That was over ten years ago . . . This is getting spooky.
(He places the little white card on the coffee table and stares at it.)
Flash No More (big smile): So, now you're ready?
Distinto (chuckling): Yeah, man, more than ever.
(Flash No More reaches out his big black hand and covers Distinto's heart with it, feeling the strong drumbeat. Distinto takes a deep breath, swelling his chest and pushing at Flash No More's hand.)
Flash No More: The New Mango is in you, then. And now we'll mark its arrival, its entrance, and its permanence, hermano.
Distinto (placing his hand over Flash No More's): Claro.
(Flash No More opens his case and begins.)
[Across the room the Farmer Brothers have been making cell phone calls for three different ongoing situations --lining up musicians and technicians for Distinto and others, making marijuana deals, and refining New Mango machinations-- while taking meticulous notes in their notebooks for all three. Though they have major authorities wired their way with "Benjamins," they still use code.
They put everything away when there's a knock on the door and Distinto's four regular session musicians file in: Gabrielo the trumpeter and bandleader, Camilo the guitarist and vocalist, Narciso the percussionist, and Ambrosio the saxophonist. Each carries only their favorite instrument, since Distinto has plenty lying around, and each brings a small offering of food in a jaba vinyl: some bread, some tacos, some plantains and refried beans, and "this is sabroso picadillo from my auntie's particulare." "A feast!" shouted Ambrosio.]
Gabrielo (looking across the room, seeing that Flash No More is still at work): Let's put this stuff away, guys . . . Fab, didn't you want to get us up to speed?
Fab: Yeah, put that stuff away and let's sit over here.
(A few minutes later they are in a rough huddle among instruments and around a small table holding a smaller pile of marijuana. Rocco rolls and passes some joints while Fab talks. Soon, the sweet smell of New Mango marijuana wafts about the warehouse.)
Fab: Okay, Distinto wants to rush the recording --two, three days tops-- so he can burn a bunch of CDs and take advantage of the art tourists coming in for that Lisa Zeitgeist thing on Friday --you know, the lecture, the tour of artists' homes, stuff like that. Plenty of Benjamins, and they'll be here awhile. He's got deals with the music kiosks in the major hotels, so . . . I know it's a rush but the thing hit him just a few days ago, and he has been working on it; he's got some charts over on the piano.
Anyway --(riffling through a notebook)-- he wanted me to tell you what he didn't want it to sound like: no rap, no hip-hop, no mash-up, no rock or anything really American; no Buena Vista, no nostalgic weepy guitars, no Silvio Rodriguez, and no Muevete --too fast, he says--
Gabrielo (standing up): Well, that wipes me out! See you guys around . . .
Fab (knowing he's joking): Sit down, my man, because I've got the word. It's a word from the Nineties, from America, but it fits, he says. He wants the song to be "phat."
Narciso: Phat. I know that: round, heavy, throbbing, layered, loud but not overwhelming--
Fab: Not wall-of-sound, but voices and instruments swelling and receding, and lots of bouncing-- it takes its time--
Camilo: Like "Cantaloop / Flip Fantasia"--
Ambrosio: Bone, Thugs, and Harmony--
Fab: Okay, now we're talking . . .
[Mantis here. And they do, for the next fifteen minutes, in a kind of musical shorthand --with aural instrumental illustrations-- which would take too many explanatory parentheses for the average reader's patience, and reveal my own musicological ignorance. For the purposes of our history, let us fade back in here, when Flash No More and Distinto have joined the group . . .]
Flash No More: I used that new dye. It actually has mango in it; Ermalinda helped me with the extract . . . yeah, man, you can peel back the bandage for a minute, let everybody get a good look, but then keep it covered for the next few hours.
(Distinto displays a five-inch-long orange mango tattoo hovering over his dark-brown left pectoral, the color glowing and shining with disinfectant, a perfectly even black outline containing the orange. It swells and shrinks with the rise and fall of his breathing. A silence.)
Gabrielo (videotaping, but lowering the camera after a long moment): . . . The New Mango . . .
Distinto : Haysoos Marimba! (in English, while replacing the bandage, then back to Spanish) You guys know about this already?
Camilo (reaching into the top pocket of his guayabera and taking out a little white card): I paid Lazaro, my juice vendor, two dollars for this.
Distinto: Two dollars! (taking the now-familiar card) Why?
Camilo: (taking it back with one hand and passing him a burning joint with the other) Hey, man, why not? Lazaro said he found it slipped under the door of his cart. He didn't know what to do with it. It made him nervous, I think. We wondered if it had something to do with the lottery, but he really didn't want to talk about it much. I think he was kind of afraid of it; to him, it was like bait. He saw some kind of hook in it. I thought it was . . . I was real curious about it right away. It put an itch in my head. And I had the money, and it seemed worth it. So I bought it off of him . . . Still, I don't think he'll forget it. He doesn't need the card to remind him. (holding it up with a grin) Maybe I don't either, but I feel better holding it. Something has to be next.
Ambrosio (after blowing out a huge cloud of smoke and pointing to it): You knowwww . . . maybe it's like in that American movie Dune, only instead of mélange it's: The New Mango! It's in everything here! Yeah, that's it! Come on, I can tell my eyes are turning orange . . .
(laughter)
Narciso: I sure don't know what it is, but it's getting around town. The card, the phrase, the saying, whatever. On our way here today --right, guys?-- a couple of hustlers came up to us with a card, asking if we knew what it meant. Camilo kept his mouth shut; we don't talk to those comemierdas, anyway.
Ambrosio (to Distinto): The New Mango is phat already, it seems.
Flash No More (standing up, setlling the burlap bag snugly under his thick black arm, and with a big grin): Well! It looks like my work here is done.
[As he heads for the door, there is a knock, and Distinto answers. One of the musicians has the video recorder going, and so I, Jeronimo the Mantis, can testify to something strange.
When Distinto answered the door, Abel Barroso and Yoan Capote came in, loose and light --they were there to talk about designing a CD cover-- but when Yoan saw Flash No More before him he almost yelped, and stumbled backward into Abel. (Capote is gay, with a preference for black men.) Distinto laughed and tried to make light of the moment, but I saw Flash No More's reaction: quite simply, I mean physically, he turned to stone. It was as if an envelope of black armor ensheathed him instantly, and he became as remote as a totem. After a moment, as silence spread, he blinked and became flesh again; then, in complete control of the moment and everyone there, he turned his head sightly to Distinto, nodded, and left.]
Posted by Jerome at August 22, 2005 05:30 PM | TrackBack