The nostalgia of an unknown place
I walk slowly, barely touching with the tips of my fingers the facade of the house whose address is written on the piece of paper in my pocket. I carefully keep the vinyl under my armpit. Bravo, Brubeck, thank you, I dug a real treasure. Now I have to keep it. In my other hand, I have a bottle in a yellow paper bag. Since always I loved yellow paper bags. There is something in them. Maybe the chestnuts. Or the color of the sponge. None of both I will never forget.
“Jazz is a huge sponge” – was the first thing Brubeck said since he came to Mexico. “Jazz completely adjusts itself to all of the kinds of influences. There are no racial borders which can limit playing jazz. Musicians of all possible races played and play the best jazz… I would like to play with musicians from Mexico.”
So it was. On its first concert, at the Pueblo festival, two locals joined the quartet: the guitar player Benjamin Chamin Corea and Salvador Rabito Gueros – virtuous on bongo and conga drums. But, how is possible for me to know that? Is this my suppressed memories of Moctezuma? If so, let me ask them something: How come I could exchange my best friend from childhood, the veteran cock, for the bunch of metal and plastic with a fancy name? Pablo has used it for his bad soup a long time ago. Did Moctezuma like chestnuts?
The door is unlocked. There is intense sun on the sky full of life, and it has no understanding of the alcohol brewing in my stomach. Today I need such thing, to take over the thoughts that were given to much of my, and others, time. Sometimes a man has to take a break from cigarettes and caffeine.
Take a break, you did not deserve it
Too much time has passed and I am getting nowhere. Everybody around me is losing their patience. I manage to keep the balance even though I am getting slower with every next step. As such I manage to take a breath, in the house, that day when I supposed not to be. I shall slow the world shortly. Take five, old boy, you did not deserve it but the death is a mistress who does not care about it.
Since a long time ago “Take Five” is a jazz standard. If we come with the details, it was composed by Paul Desmond for the album Time Out, recorded by Dave Brubeck in 1959. Sometimes the details save me and I start to breathe, thanks to the devil.
Instead, to turn around, I go out and run run run, as long as I can and until I get to the low bed opposite the table on top of which there is nothing but Olivetti Valentine (made in 1970), and I stood frozen listening what it seems that I was listening. What I have listened to. But every time I get sure in whatever, I began to doubt in my brain melted in alcohol and confusion.
I come inside and I close the door, no more coming back. This is one lavish illusion. I found it in old movies. Passionately serving to the one who made it. Looking in your eyes now, the secret is finally mine.
Translator: Aneta Paunoska