The Swan Sings
Peter EdmonsonYou hear laughs you don’t believe…or is it the carbonation from their rum and coke?
The drunk architect kisses your girl friend on the cheek, aiming for her mouth. He asks your name, you know he doesn’t care.
You see people just like you, in search of something better. They all want independence and freedom. Rebellion is on their minds—in it—but not Ché. Liberation through spirit and not muscle.
The regulars come in; the regulars go out, until their irregularity is regular. No one can predict…
You listen to a man who tells you how much he hates God. Walk with him later tonight. Pass the main square, the Catholic Church, and he will make a cross across his chest and kiss his fist.
He is not sacrilegious.
Casablanca, Casablanca, house that is white, give us some night time delight!
Casablanca is a restaurant you have found in some third world country. Bolivia. Its spaghetti with white wine is fantastic, its coffee makes you despise Starbuck’s and the atmosphere is somewhere between the jungle and a posh ’50s bar.
Its owner is Italian, though no one ever sees him. You won’t either. He works for the Mafia.
It is your fourth visit. You keep coming back, but you don’t know why. You love the Bohemian setting. You love when the hippies juggle for you. You think it’s funny that one of them pulls out a marijuana cigarette and says, Do you want to fly?
Pull out one Boliviano and give him a tip so that later that day he can board the ship.
Are you drunk? Not yet.
You’ve had a good amount of alcohol and you are sitting in the same corner as your first night, next to a picture of Humphrey Bogart. What a name, what a place: Casablanca...how true...
The Midget, you call him, a man under 5 feet, old, walks into the cafe with a stack of papers and clippings. He will do this every night. He has a diary or something. You suspect he theorizes conspiracies.
He greets everyone, sober, but with a drunken demeanour, then sits down, reads and writes. Hours every night he will sit, until he closes the book, gets up, and will say goodbye to all of the workers, all of the regulars, and the first timers, and calls them his friends.
Sometimes he doesn’t even buy anything...a drink, nothing. He just sits down with his little book. No one cares.
Random people, the whole night, come up to you. Some you will never see again. Some speak to you in English. They see your white skin. Others are regulars and prefer the Spanish tongue (though the Gringo’s French). Still others will say hi to you on the street a month later, and you will wonder who they are. What a name, what a place…Casablanca…
You rent the movie and take it to your apartment: Casablanca—Warner Bros. Pictures Inc. 1942, one hour, forty-two minutes, adaptation, winner of three academy awards and placed in the top one hundred movies of all time. Taking place in the city of Casablanca, Bogart plays Rick Blane, a nightclub owner in a city filled with lies, deceits, foreigners, spies and invasion, still having time to lament his only love. And how does he do this? How does he let go? Sam...Sam, Sam, his piano man.
Casablanca, what a great name for your cafe.
A piano man. That’s the only thing your Casablanca is missing: a piano man.
You hear Humphrey Bogart’s famous line to the black piano man—play it again, Sam. He is lamenting, smoking a cigarette, romanticizing…
By your tenth visit you have met a writer from Alaska, two Germans in Bolivia here to bring back llamas and alpacas, one Chilean, a man wanted by the Spanish government for treason, an imported Castro-supporting dentist, four Peruvians, three college student Brazilians studying in Bolivia to save a dime, the regulars, four past guerrillas (one of them who knew Ché and is still convinced the U.S. had a price on his head) and a partridge in a pear tree.
But there is only one person who you always look for. You love this man. He opens time for you and lets anything dry wet. It is not at all a sexual attraction or urge you have for this man, but a slight crush on his mind, on his being as though you have seen Moses, Jesus, or Muhammad. His name is Freddy.
The cast of regulars, like yourself, include: the architect who tried to kiss your friend, a depressed Cochabambino trying his hardest to get to America (If you were a female, he’d try to marry you), a South African who teaches English and likes to have affairs with his students, the waiters, the waitresses. You know them all.
One waitress, who works almost every night, likes you. She is always your server. She is always inviting you to do things with her that would make your mother frown. You are polite in your manner of refusal and always take a rain check.
She is attractive, granted, but you don’t know why you are not attracted to her.
She takes you to the kitchen in the back on your twentieth night, and makes both of you an alcoholic concoction—her creation. Shh, she says and laughs as she gives you the free drink.
Is it an aphrodisiac?
You feel guilty. This shouldn’t be free. Drink it anyway.
Then, you kiss her…the first night you actually pick up that rain check, and you don’t know why. When you come in tomorrow you will have some explaining to do.
Tomorrow comes and you decide you want to play cards with the fellows: Poker, Lobo, Telefunce, anything...you’re ready to bet at least 100 bolivianos.
When you arrive the architect is already drunk. What does he ever design?
The South African is speaking Spanish in a South African accent. He’s harder to understand than an Argentinean. Why can’t he learn the accent?
The waitress visits you.
You greet everyone. You kiss five people on their cheeks and shake seven hands. But there’s really only one person here who fascinates you—one regular—one man—luckily he’s playing cards with you. You even came up with a nickname for him—Machete Freddy.
Almost every night Freddy, the man you love, comes to Casablanca and with him he brings a 19 inch machete.
How much did that cost? You ask.
12 bolivianos, he says. $1.50.
As sure as the pope is Catholic and that Christopher Columbus was not the first man to discover America, this man that you have fallen for, after walking in, will order Sex on the Beach.
Why do you do it? You ask.
Why? Because I like the sound of it, he says. Every night I can say I had Sex on the Beach and I’m in a landlocked country.
And, sure as Christopher Columbus´ name was actually Colon, after his Sex on the Beach he will make a SuDoku puzzle for anyone who asks.
Why do you do it? You ask.
Because, he says, everyone should have an art form.
Then, sure as you are that Bolivia will never see its ocean again, he will play cards. He bets high and loses big. And as sure as you are of this people will stare at him relentlessly.
It is because he has an eye patch.
What happened to your eye? You ask.
It got bored in my socket, he says. You want to push him, and ask more. Can’t blame it, though, he continues, I’d be pretty bored there too.
The first time you met him was by accident. You were heading to the counter with a piece of pizza in your hand. A giant knife cut a small piece. Your eyes widened as you watched it retreat—this small piece of pizza on a...giant machete? And you watched as this man with an eye patch opened his mouth and popped the pizza down as though it were popcorn.
You had to go up to him. Curiosity was in your blood like a coups d'état.
What’s your name?
Freddy.
Is that a machete?
Yes.
Why do you have a machete?
I like pizza.
Can I call you Machete Freddy?
Have a seat, amigo, have a seat.
After that night you talk with a man who has fought lions, swallowed swords in the streets of Arabia, served in the French Foreign Legion, fought an alligator, explored the Amazon, imported mangos, and been married (and widowed) three times.
Some nights you and he retreat to your little corner, your little hideout from the first time you were in the cafe. A picture of Humphrey Bogart stares at you while you talk to Freddy about politics, art, love, truth, and lack thereof.
What do you think of the president?
What do you think of Catholic priests raping altar boys?
Who’s your favorite artist?
Myself.
How many times have you been in love?
I’ve been married three times, but have yet to fall in love.
Is that true? I don’t even know what true means. Bring me a dictionary.
He only does this with you. Other regulars are jealous, others happy to see the crazy man with a machete as far away as possible.
One night he comes in and grabs your shoulder. He skips Sex on the Beach and making a SuDoku puzzle and sits you across from Mr. Bogart.
I have a poem, and I want your opinion, he says.
You’re honored. You’re ready. You read.
Shit happens. Life stinks. You are in love with Freddy Machete Freddy.
***
This week will be different for you.
Walk in, greet the regulars, see the Midget in his corner with a stack of papers, two Afro-Brazilians playing chess, your waitress, who by now makes you horny.
You sit down to play cards and wait for Machete Freddy.
Freddy never comes.
That’s alright, you shrug, just a disappointment. It’s not like he comes every night.
Four nights pass. You try making your own SuDoku.
Night 124 in Casablanca. No one has even spoken of Freddy and his disappearance. You resort to asking one person where he is—the drunk architect.
Who’s Freddy? He responds.
By the fifth night you can’t take it, you have to know. You’re playing cards, you say: Where is Machete Freddy?
He left.
He left?
Yeah, for Europe. Say, how will he get that machete on the plane?
Is he coming back?
Why would he come back?
What?
Your right hand starts to jitter and your left foot starts shaking.
Did he, did he leave an address?
Check the whorehouses.
They all laugh.
Why? Why? Why did this happen? You would have been happier to find out that he killed himself than this. Why didn’t he tell you? Were you not friends? Were you not the best of friends? Did he not let you read his poem?
Excuse yourself from the table.
Shake…shake…shake…
Head to the bathroom…
Hear the comments directed at you: What happened to him? Perhaps too much alcohol. Perhaps.
Breathe…but you can’t, not correctly. Your chest feels like it would if you were trapped in a Bolivian tin mine or a pack of cigarettes.
The air doesn’t want to go in or out, but stay in your throat.
Open the bathroom door.
Open the damn door!
Carajo!
Nothing, he didn’t tell you anything! He didn’t give anyone a number, a note. You will never see him again—wait, this you do not know. It’s possible, right? Right? Right!
The door is locked. What do you do?
Wait.
Breathe.
Wait? Wait? You’ve waited for five days.
Go to the women’s room.
Your eyes water, you’re very light headed. You must look drunk.
There is a line for the lady’s room.
Carajo!
On your way back to the locked men’s room you see the blurred images of the people…
You can’t breathe. Your chest, grab your chest.
If you die here, it’s alright. It’s appropriate, you think.
Why is it appropriate?
The images, all those people, the Afros, the card players, the random people who will be in this city for only a week.
The regulars. Your friends, right?
Knock on the door. Knock, knock. Screw it. Pound on the door!
When you leave Bolivia you won’t even keep in contact with them—it’s true. You won’t leave your number, your address, they won’t either. You will be Freddy. Not even will you stay in contact with the waitress you have made love to twelve times.
Asphyxiation.
The door opens.
Your stomach feels—
Throw up. You have amazing luck, amazing aim, right in the toilet.
Your leg doesn’t stop shaking.
Drunk, they must all think you’re drunk.
Are you? Are you drunk? What is this? What is this?
Someone closes the door for you.
Stay in the bathroom.
Lie on the floor.
Wait, you can’t. It’s too small. Economy size.
Sit up.
Your stomach feels better.
What was that?
It’s as though throwing up has just cleared your airway—welcome oxygen!
You get up and wash your face.
You are going to live.
You wipe your face off with a towel and open the door.
You’re still panting, it’s not a direct passage. You’re cold right now, and light headed, but you are going to live. Now that you know this, now you—
A piano man! That’s what is missing. That’s what you need—music to drown yourself in, music...a clean sounding key…just one song.
You sit down in your old corner next to Humphrey Bogart. You barely could walk, but you made it. You want him to sing.
This place, you loved this place, but not anymore. These people were your favorite until you realized they do nothing except gather to swap alcohol, stories, and look for momentary companionship.
Alcohol wouldn’t solve your problem, a piano would.
What was your problem?
You’re still light headed and all you can think of is Sam, the piano man from Casablanca, Warner Bros., 1942.
Whisper it without even knowing: Sam, Sam, Sam, where are you?
A woman comes up to you, cigarette in hand, piercing on her tongue. She is directly across from Bogart’s face as though about to kiss it.
Who’s Sam? She asks, then sits down next to you. She has great difficulty at this. She chose alcohol, perhaps in lack of a piano.
Sex is all he wanted, nothing less, nothing more. You hear her say.
Why is she talking to you? Shh…listen…
He came from the States. I loved him, you know that?
You think of interrupting her, of asking her why she’s speaking English. It´s obviously not her language. Why is she sitting here? What’s her name? You want to ask, but, who interrupts Sam?
He came here every day, when I was a waitress, with a hat just like Humphrey Bogart.
She laughs. It sounds like a trill.
He was from Alaska, writing a book. Have you heard of it? The Wrong Indian. I’m the heroine…
I loved him, you know? But I’m not faithful...
A year we were together. Ten months of lies...
He didn’t love me. It was just for the sex...
And here, I tried to be his muse. I tried so hard...
You are breathing, breathing, breathing, no longer gasping. Your stomach feels coarse, but lighter. You are beginning to fly without the Hippie’s marijuana.
Her song is mellow, cut, dry as a martini.
He break up with me. He end it. I loved him, but I just couldn’t be faithful. So, I took sleeping pills, I came here and told him. What do you call that? Suicide? I tried. He had my stomach pumped.
You no longer care why she is telling you this. You realize, though, that some people need to play the piano while others need to listen, and that balance is the closest to perfection you may ever witness.
One last time, she says it: I loved him.
Your head, you can feel your head. It feels grounded. Your legs no longer shake. Your body feels your blood.
She laughs; warm like you, warm and smooth as Casablanca’s hot chocolate...the finale...here it comes...
And then I realized I liked women more than men.
She laughs first. You laugh too. Beethoven would have been jealous.
Without blurs you turn your head: the Midget, the Afro Brazilians, the South African, the architect, cards, chess, cigarette smoke, beers, your waitress, the pianist in front of you.
Casablanca, Casablanca, house that is white, give us some night time delight!
Play it again, Sam, you say, because that must be her name. Play it again…
And she says, Who’s Sam?