“I’ll call him from the payphone and let him know where we are,” she said, pulling him closer. “Please.”
How could he say no when all he wanted was to shout yes with all his might? “Okay, just for a little while,” Fulgencio conceded, and they meandered hand-in-hand into Maldonado’s Cafe.
Already stationed at a large table, the boys from Brother William’s legendary line and their dates cheered and hollered as the two entered.
“What were you two doing out there?” Fat Victor’s date, Maria del Refugio Gonzalez, asked in a salacious tone as the laughter rose.
“Now, you know Fulgencio,” Joe Lopez reminded them. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.
Carolina blushed as Fulgencio changed the subject with a glare at his friends that would have hushed a crowd on New Year’s Eve.
“Sooo,” said Bobby Balmori, taking his cue. “What’s it gonna be?” He waved the tattered menu in the air.
“I’ll be right back.” Fulgencio winked at Carolina.
Several minutes later he emerged from the kitchen with Old Man Maldonado in tow. Behind them came the cook, pushing a cart heaped with food, chorizo con huevo, chilaquiles, machacado, and stacks of steaming flour tortillas.
Carolina loved the way Fulgencio always took care of everything. She shifted giddily in her seat, her eyes devouring his every move.
They talked and they joked and they ate to their hearts’ content. Old Man Maldonado, pulling up a chair, made his traditional request for Fulgencio to sing “Veracruz.” And the boys on the line, who also doubled as Fulgencio’s serenata trio, rushed out to the cars to pull their guitars from their trunks.
“A sheriff always carries his gun,” Bobby Balmori used to say. “And a guitarist always carries his ax.”
In the red neon glow pouring in through the big picture window, the girls swooned as the boys struck up their guitars, the chords resounding through the cafe.
Fulgencio Ramirez’s voice rose purely and clearly toward the sky, nostalgically extolling the virtues of that distant coastal land of pirates and rumbas and star-filled skies beyond swaying palms.
Yo nací con la luna de plata
(I was born with the moon of silver)
Y nací con alma de pirata
(And I was born with a pirate’s soul)
He nacido rumbero y jarocho
(I’ve been born a pathfinder)
Trovador de vela
(A troubadour)
Y me fuí
(And I went)
Lejos de Veracruz
(Far from Veracruz)
Veracruz
(Veracruz)
Rinconcito donde hacen sus nidos
(Little corner where the ocean’s)
Las olas del mar
(Waves make their nests)
Veracruz
(Veracruz)
Pedacito de patria
(Patch of homeland)
que sabe reir y cantar
(Which knows how to sing and laugh)
Veracruz
(Veracruz)
Son tus noches diluvio de estrellas
(Your nights are a deluge of stars)
palmera y mujer
(palms and women)
Veracruz
(Veracruz)
Vibra en mi ser
(Resounds in my soul)
Algún dia hasta tus playas lejanas
(Someday to your distant beaches)
Tendré que volver
(I’ll have to return)
The group exploded into applause as Mr. Maldonado rose to his feet and gave Fulgencio a giant bear hug.
“How I love that song, Fulgencio,” he shouted, filled with joy. “And even more, how I love the way you sing it!”
“You see,” the rotund old cook, in his white T-shirt and matching pants, continued, his eyes dancing over Fulgencio’s young friends, “I was born there, in Veracruz, deep in the heart of Mexico! And I’ve never had a chance to go back, what with the coffee shop and my wife’s rheumatism and all . . . And you, Fulgencio,” he concluded, shaking him by the shoulders, “You take me back there even if it’s only for a moment. You sing with such passion, m’ijo! Who could believe you’ve never seen the shores of my sacred birthplace?”
It was true; Fulgencio had traveled neither south of Nueva Frontera, nor north of La Frontera, with the exception of a few Valley towns where the football team had played away games. Yet he sang “Veracruz” as if he had been born and raised there. He could feel it in his veins, this distant land of adventurers and dancers, of coffee plantations and moonlit beaches. And it was his dream to someday go there with Carolina Mendelssohn, to dance beneath the deluge of stars in rhythm with the palms swaying in the Gulf breeze.
But for now, the audience chanted: “Encore! Encore!”
Fulgencio Ramirez whispered into Bobby Balmori’s ear, who in turn whispered into Joe’s and Fat Victor’s. They huddled by the jukebox, plucking and tuning, nodding at Fulgencio when they were ready. Fulgencio took a long sip of iced tea, cleared his throat, and turned his gaze to Carolina.
He crooned “Ojos Café,” a romantic Mexican ballad, as Carolina blushed and giggled, her hands clasped nervously in her lap.
Café de un café oscuro son tus ojos
(Brown, a dark brown are your eyes)
Con tintes luminosos de zafir
(With luminous tinges of sapphire)
Rubíes son tus labiecitos rojos
(Rubies are your red lips)
Rojos y ardientes como el corazón
(Red and fiery like your heart)
Me miré en el fondo de tus lindos ojos
(I saw myself in the depths of your eyes)
En ellos ví mi adoración, mi fé