Page 44 - WTPVolI Vol.#4

Paloma (continued from preceding page)
“Mrs. Ling, was a big name back in the day. Her face was everywhere. But, as you can see, life happens. Beauty fades. Talent spreads its wings and flies away. When she could no longer sing, she gave lessons, and when she could no longer give lessons she helped sweep the stage and keep the back storage areas clean, and when she could no longer sweep, she walked. But it’s still there, isn’t it? Traces of her magnitude.”
Everyone waved one arm.
“Excuse me,” I called out to a passing waiter. “Who is this a photo of?”
The street entrance led to a set of dark stairs that went up to a bright, open space where several dozen people were line dancing. They glittered from their rhinestone earrings to their polished shoes.
of songs, heard a million hands clapping and voices crying her name, but that was long before she became who she is now. Maybe her cells retained the knowl- edge of music, maybe her senses were still drawn to the rhythms, but maybe there was nothing much left, only shalalalala swirling in her mind.
My heart goes shalala lala,
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The floor trembled from feet stomping. The air vi- brated from hands clapping, and the songs played and played, and the people in the photographs stayed the unnamed people. When “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” started playing, I took this as a cue from the universe to make my exit.
After hearing this story about Mrs. Ling, I was curious about the Golden Palace Theater. I knew the location because it was close to the office. I walked past it most days. It was distinctive with a fading dragon and phoe- nix on the rooftop, upturned eaves, pillars and balco- nies painted gold, lanterns swinging in the breeze.
If the young woman in the photo was Mrs. Ling, that photo was taken a long time ago. Now Mrs. Ling seemed to be aware of only lights and shadows. Old cotton, soft and worn, were her preferred clothes. The tennis shoes she wore might be the last pair she’d ever own. Maybe in her life, she’d sung thousands
They half turned and stepped, all smiles and shiny faces. Nobody noticed me so I took my time walking around, drawn eventually to a hallway that con- nected the theater with a restaurant. The hallway was covered with framed photographs. The most recent ones showed the owner of the theater with mayors, police chiefs, local celebrities and regular people in polo shirts laughing it up with their arms around each other’s shoulders. As I moved down the wall and back in time, the pictures faded. The men’s sideburns got thicker and their glasses larger. The women’s hair blew out into perms. The inevitable bell bottoms made an appearance. Back in time the pictures went until the owner became a child and the colorful snapshots of the restaurant were replaced with black-and-white photos of the old country. Pre- vious generations stood on hillsides, beside rivers. The men shook hands with other men in uniform,
the children sat on water buffalos and the women ground millet. At the very end of the wall was a glam- orous 1920s photo of a woman with sleeked bobbed hair and dark lips. Her gaze smoldered as though creating a diamond under the earth. She had—what was the word Sergio used?—Magnitude. I looked closely to see if there was any connection between the photo and Mrs. Ling.
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I decided to go to an open mic. If a time was a tickin’, and it was, then I might as listen and play as long as I could. The entrance to Sweets Gallery & Lounge was a heavy wooden door etched with carvings of wild vines. The band was still doing a sound check. I glanced at the sign-up sheet of names. A substantial list with a few names I recognized and a few others I thought I might know. With a sweet tremble in my belly I wrote down my name.
Shalala in the morning,
The waiter shook his head, smiling broadly as if to say nobody would ever know the answer to that.
After getting a drink, I turned back around to watch the band set up and let the old familiar feelings fill me. It felt good to be there, and I guess I was really remi- niscing because before I knew it, I was somewhere in time before las Serpientes, before we moved to our grandmother’s house, before Brenda left, to when I first felt the pulse of the stage. When everything was light and music and I was a koala bear clinging to
my papa’s legs. It started to get crowded with other legs, so he lifted me and carried me to the front. We were close enough to catch part of the spotlight. At first it was noise. Joyful noise, with everybody talk- ing and laughing and Sarai acting a clown like always. Then a hush fell and papa whispered, “sit down, koala bear.” Brenda was up there and she was beautiful with her hair wild and her lipstick red. It was so quiet all around, but I saw her and I shouted, “Mama!” Every- body laughed and there might have even been an, “Oh