What Few Ever Knew About Tequila Bolero

When I strapped my bag onto the bike, and cranked it up, I still wasn't sure where I was going. I simply headed south out of San Antonio, with my usual assumption that the journey would reveal itself to me as I went along. But, I had no idea, how much so.

The cruise from San Antonio down to Brownsville was only memorable in terms of how hot and dry it was. The way the super-heated rush of air against my face had made it seem like parchment, and the skin on my lips seemed to dry into flakes that I couldn't help scraping off with my teeth. But, it was in Brownsville that I got the first clue of what I was about to do. Or, try to do.

It was close to sunset when I found myself sitting in a bar a short way from the Port of Brownsville. I was studying a map of Mexico, quenching my thirst, and contemplating whether to take the bike across the border. It would mean calling the insurance company and getting a rider attached to my insurance. It would be a pricey premium to pay to insure the bike once out of the states. A grey haired balding man wandered in. He sat down near me and called for a beer. My eyes were drawn to a fading and distorted tattoo on his arm. It looked like something from long ago, and primitive, as though he had inked it himself. There were the words 'Tequila Bolero', and below that, a crudely scrawled image of a naked woman. He raised his bottle to me, as a silent toast, and I raised mine.
"Tequila Bolero," I said, as our bottles clinked.
"Si, Tequila," he replied, and then fell into silence. I bought the next round, and struck up a conversation. I somehow knew I wanted to know his story. It took another round of idle chatter to buy it.

He had been a sailor along the eastern seaboard. From Trinidad up all the way to Baltimore, and back. Mostly hauling aluminum ore. Eventually, I asked him about his tattoo. As it turned out, he was but one of many men who claimed to have seen, or even been with a woman named Tequila Bolero. But, that was long ago. And he was but one of many men who had some such markings on his body to bear witness of the fact. He said she danced a bolero on the stage unlike anything any man had ever seen. A woman who could invoke both tears and lust. Mostly she worked the bars along the Bay of Campeche. I could get little else out of him. But, it was enough to return me to my map. I circled Coatzacoalcos, a port of call along the Bay of Campeche. I was no longer simply wandering. I had a mystery on my hands. Who was Tequila Bolero? Could I find her? She would be an old woman by now. Maybe even dead. Even so, I would want to know who she was. What woman could possess a man's soul the way she had possessed this one? And evidently many others.

The next morning i parked my bike, grabbed my bag, and set off for the loading docks in the Port of Brownsville. There were ships anchored there from all over the place. Cargo ships, for the most part. It took a bit of conversation, and in the end, some conniving, to secure a berth on a ship headed south. It came down to a small amount of money, and a promise to perform menial tasks en route. A working vacation, so to speak. So, I boarded, and hoped my my bike would be waiting when I got back.

As we headed south, it was rough for me at first. A seasickness, I suppose. That, and the fact I had been assigned to serve as the galley cook's slave. That was mostly a matter of peeling potatoes, and gutting fish. I got the hang of it soon enough. The cook, Ramon, was a big Latino with a shiny gold front tooth. I think he smiled a lot just to show it off. I felt quite proud of myself when he slapped me on the back, and said,
"You're not bad for a white boy!" The crew came down for meals in several shifts, and I would serve them their bowl of fish and potatoes. And it was just as one grizzled sailor extended a meaty hand to take his bowl, that I saw the tattoo on his forearm. It was a faded red heart with the word 'Tequila' in it. There was a dagger in the heart, and beneath this image several descending teardrops of blood.

Once everyone was served, I fixed myself a bowl, and sat down at this sailor's table. He didn't say much. Mostly he was wolfing down his dinner like there was no tomorrow. Then, he leaned back, rubbed his large belly and loudly belched. He looked over at me, and said,
"That was a compliment, my friend." One thing I learned from this is that, if you feed someone who is hungry, they tend to like you.
"Wold you like some more?" I said, gesturing at his empty bowl. The cook had told me that the crew can always eat as much as they want. It's one of their fringe benefits. He nodded. I grabbed his bowl, and refilled it. As I sat down again, I pointed to his tattoo. "Tequila Bolero?" He nodded, with a mouth full of food. At last, he began to tell this similar tale of a woman who danced the bolero. He went on to tell me more, and I was even more fascinated than ever. This woman would dance in lovely gowns, and always to one song. Historia De Un Amor. But it appeared she would often sob and cry, while dancing. Also, she often was so anguished at times as to tear at her own clothing, as though trying to be free of it. Of course, Tequila was evidently a voluptuous woman, and these glimpses of her shoulder, or a breast, or a thigh would incite the men looking to boisterous applause, and they would call out her name.
"Tequila!, Tequila Bolero!", they would shout. "Tequila, mi amor! They would often throw their hats onto the stage. Sometimes she would pick one up, and caress it as she danced and cried. Then she would toss it back. That sailor's hat would become the envy of the others. They would want to hold it, and smell it. The scent of the lovely Tequila Bolero."

As he told me all this, he had a dream-like expression on his face.
"Did you know Tequila?" I asked. He shook his head.
"No. Every man wanted her. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to spend one night with her. But it never happened, although some men would often talk as though they had been with her. Mostly, she was every sailor's lonely dream at night."
"Do you know where Tequila lives?" I asked.
"It was a long time ago," he replied. "No one has seen her, or heard about her in years." I told him that I was a writer, and that I wanted to find out more about Tequila Bolero. He shook his head as though I was crazy. I watched him as he picked up his bowl, and loudly slurped down the last of the soupy slop, and set it down loudly on the table. He belched again, and smiled at me. He leaned forward over the table and looked at me. "It was a long time ago, my friend. But, while you are in Coatzacoalcos, you might go to the Pink Angel, and ask around. She used to dance there often."

It was exciting to arrive in Coatzacoalcos. The port was a noisy, bustling place. Cargo ships and fishing vessels loading or unloading. The air was full of noisy shouting, the heavy metallic clanging of huge containers swinging from cranes. The rumble and honking horns of fork lifts, and front-end loaders. Piles of fishnets smelling of fish and sea. The calls of barkers and auctioneers at the wholesale markets moving everything imaginable. Weathered seamen. Soldiers and sailors on leave. It all was a rising and falling cacaphonous symphony that left me wanting to wander out onto the lonely debris strewn beaches in the distance. I spent an hour or so wandering the water's edge in my bare feet. The sands were littered with both the natural offerings of the rolling surf, as well as the cast-offs of ships coming and going. Tangled knots of colorful nylon rope. Fragments of cork and net. Rotting fish. Beer bottles lazily bobbing in nests of seaweed inching toward the shore. Balls of black tar. Beach glass. Sounds of surf punctuated by the shrieks of swooping sea birds.

Once I set out walking the streets of Coatzacoalcos, it wasn't difficult to find the PINK ANGEL. Everyone seemed to know exactly where this place was. I spotted it immediately as I turned the corner onto Avenida de Las Palmas. On the next block, a blinking neon sign hung out over the littered and weed infested sidewalk. The image of a woman drawn in pink light. She appeared as though in flight, her arms stretched out behind her like wings on the wind. I could hear the buzz and sputter of the sign's transformer as I got closer. When I opened the heavy door, I was met by darkness and the smell of spilled beer. I paused just inside as my eyes adjusted down from the brilliance of the sky outside, then walked slowly toward the somewhat hushed sound of voices, and gradually began to make out the scene. Several men bellied up to a bar. A man and woman over against a dark wall embracing. A trio of musicians on a dim lit stage chattering quietly as they set up a mike, and began opening instrument cases. I stepped up to the bar.

I was met by a slender woman with long greying hair tied back with a black satin scarf. Silver earrings dangling. Silver on her fingers and wrists. She smiled at me. I nodded, and pointed to the empty beer bottle on the counter. I was trying to play it low-key. I was a stranger here, and I am sure that everyone in this room was quite aware of that, even if they seemed oblivious. I sipped my beer and took furtive glances into the long mirror behind the bar. Here I was. Sitting in the Pink Angel. A place where the clearly legendary Tequila Bolero had once danced. I scratched lazily at the edge of the label on my bottle. A nervous habit I've always had while sitting alone in a bar. I was pondering how to make an innocuous inquiry; pick up a few more clues as to the history of Tequila. Somehow, I was already feeling under her spell, and I didn't even know who she was - or, still is.

The trio of musicians had moved into playing soft and lazy melodies so typical of an earlier time in Mexico. It was as though they were playing simply for their own satisfaction since no one in the place seemed to pay them any mind. But, I was reflecting back on the sailor's account of Tequila performing to one particular song. I wondered if they knew that song, and if they would play it. I motioned to the woman behind the bar.
"Three cold ones, por favor." She held up three fingers. I nodded. Por favor was about the only Spanish I knew. But, like my mother used to tell me, simply saying 'please' can work wonders sometimes. I grabbed the bottles, walked slowly to the musicians, and extended the cold beers. They broke out in big grins and bowed, uttering 'gracias...gacias, amigo' and raised their bottles as though toasting me. For a moment, I felt like a king who had just bestowed knighthood on several notable peasants.

"Historia de un Amor, por favor?" I asked, with a shrug of my shoulders and a wave of my hands. (Which was my own universal body language way of saying, "Do you know what I mean?") They nodded,
"Si, si, si..." and promptly placed their bottles on the floor and picked up their instruments. I then issued my second universal body language signal, holding out both hands, palms straight up, and shaking my head no. I then pointed to the bottles on the floor, and motioned again with the universal head tilted back, hand to the mouth sign that meant, 'drink up". They put their instruments down again with another round of 'gracias' as they picked up their bottles. I then made a small gesture of applauding, made an 'ok' sign with my fingers, followed by a peace sign, said 'gracias', and returned to the bar. I felt pretty darn proud of myself in pulling that off with nothing but 'por favor' and 'gracious', and a bunch of gestures. (Of course later, I felt like such a fool upon discovering that one of them spoke perfectly good English.)

A few minutes later, the threesome stood and approached the mike, and broke into song. Historia de un Amor. One sang the lyrics and the others harmonized in places. I understood not a word of it, but it raised the hair on the back of my neck and gave me goosebumps. This was it. This was the song. Tequila Bolero danced to this. Was brought to tears by this. Tore at herself. To this song.

When the song ended, I motioned to the woman behind the bar. Somehow, I miraculously remembered two more words in Spanish.
"Habla Ingles?" She nodded. (I made a mental note to remember that when you are south of the border, and don't know the language, start with this. If they shrug or gesture no, then move into universal body language mode, always ending with 'por favor'.) I looked at her and pointed to the musicians, "That is such a beautiful song, can you tell me what it means?" The goosebumps I had a few moments earlier were nothing compared to what I experienced next.

She simply smiled at me for a moment, then placed both hands on the bar, leaned toward me, and begin telling me the words of the song in a sweet breathy voice I could actually feel on my face, and smell.
"You are no longer at my side, my heart...
In the soul I have only loneliness....
And, if I cannot see
Because God made me love
To make me suffer more,
You were the reason for my existence.
Adoration was for me, religion...
And in your kisses I've found
That warmth you gave me -
The love and the passion.
It is the story of a love
as no equal.
That made me realize
All good and evil.
That gave light to my life
Then turned it off.
Oh, what a dark life.
Without your love I will not live.
That is the history of love."

It was as though this toxic cocktail of the words and her breath had made me nearly comatose. I was speechless. She straightened up and walked away. She returned in what seemed no time, with a bottle of Tequila and two shot glasses. She motioned to me with a forefinger that curled several times. A long dark blood red fingernail. I stood and followed her as she rounded the bar to a table. In my mind, I was remembering the bloody teardrops running down the sailor's arm. She filled our glasses, and raised hers. We toasted and drank.
"Why are you here?" she asked. I was caught off guard by her directness. I set my glass down and said weakly,
"Are you...are you...?
"No," she replied, leaning back in her chair. A moment of silence passed as though she was allowing me that to regain my senses. I really had thought for a moment she might actually be Tequila Bolero. I reached for the bottle to pour another shot.
"I am her daughter," she said. "My mother is dead." I stopped just short of slamming the shot, and sat the glass down. I looked at her. My mind was pretty impaired by this time. I was backtracking through everything that had happened over the last several days. It was happening in my head in an intoxicated slow motion. Road trip. Brownsville. Tequila Bolero. Peeling potatoes. Gutting fish. Tattoos. Coatzacoalcos. Beach. Pink Angel. Historia de un Amor. And now, this woman across the table. Tequila's daughter. And I am drunk. But, this is as close as I would get to understanding this journey I fell into. So, somehow, I gathered up what little there was left of my sensibility, and slammed the shot.

"Who was your mother?" I asked, my words slurring even in my own mind. She smiled at me, and picked up the bottle. "Come, my friend," she said standing up. "I will tell you." She came to me to help me up, and motioned to a man at the bar who then walked behind the bar and took over. It all gets foggy here. I remember a flight of stairs that I thought we would never get up. The fading sounds of music. A dark hallway. A room. A bed. And then it was morning.

She was lying in my arms. She got up and made coffee. We sat together on an old couch in our underwear and had our coffee. She then told me the story of her mother. And this is the story she told me.

"Tequila Bolero was the stuff of sailor's dreams. They were the ones who named her. But her real name was Adriana Fernandez. She was born in Cuba. And long ago as a young girl, she had been the lover of Abel Santamaria. He was strikingly handsome. My mother adored him. He adored her. It is a sweet story with a bad ending. A very bad ending. Abel was a rebel soldier. He was attempting, under the leadership of the Castro brothers, to free Cuba from Batista's heavy hand. And one fateful day, in a rebel attack in Santiago, Abel was captured. He was imprisoned and tortured by Batista's henchmen. They caught my mother too. and put her in a dark cell. They beat Abel trying to get him to give them information. But, he never yielded. So, they pulled his eyeballs out. They presented Abel's eyeballs on a plate to my mother. But, she wouldn't talk either. She spat in their faces. Abel was executed. My mother somehow escaped." She paused to sip her coffee.
"Where did she go? Is that when she came here? To Mexico?" I said, studying her features. She was really quite lovely. I supposed she must look like her mother.
"Yes," she continued. She fled the country, and wound up here. She was pregnant with me. So, this is me now, talking to you. The daughter of Adriana Fernandez and Abel Santamaria. My mother always referred to herself as Adriana Fernandez de Santamaria, even though they were never married. She told me once, marriage is not about law. It is about soul. But, she arrived here quite broken. I cannot to this day, fathom how she had this strength to go on. She made money dancing. I think for her, to dance Historia de un Amor, was a compulsion. She would break down in the middle. People loved it. People love to see another's agony somehow. They loved to see her weep tears they, themselves, could not cry, for one reason or another. As for the sailors, they mostly needed to see her rip her dresses. To glimpse flesh. She was kind to them, even in their ignorance. She understood war. She understood people wanting to be free. She died one night on stage in the middle of a bolero, her gown in shreds, nearly naked. Just dropped to the floor and died. The sailors were applauding at first, not understanding what had happened. The doctors said it was a heart attack. I think of it as a broken heart. That was my mother, Tequila Bolero." She stood, and smiled at me. "Get dressed. I will take you somewhere special."

We strolled the sidewalks for perhaps two miles. I finally asked her what her name was. Anita Josephina Fernandez. We arrived at a small cemetery. She took my hand.
"This way," she said, leading me through a maze of headstones and colorful shrines. "Over here. By the big tree." And then she stopped and sat down on a stone bench. "Sit here." I sat down next to her. "This is my mother's grave." I looked at the large tall stone standing beneath a low hanging branch of the tree. There were numerous dead flowers strewn around it. "Men still come, and bring her flowers," Anita said. Her mother's name was chiseled into the stone in large letters. Adriana Fernandez De Santamaria. Beneath it, an inscription. A line from Historia de un Amor. 'Without your love, I will not live.'

I stayed a few days with Anita. She showed me photos of her mother. She was, indeed, quite stunning. And there were a few photos of her father. A striking rough hewn soldier carrying a rifle, and with a leather belt of bullets slung over his shoulder. Anita and I were lovers in that time. I still think of her often.


..............................................................................................

Note: While this story is fiction, of course, Abel Santamaria was, in fact, a revolutionary soldier in the early fifties, and part of Castro's attempt to overthrow Batista. His life played out as I described it, except that when his torturer's plucked out his eyes, they were actually delivered to Abel's sister, Haydee, who was also a political prisoner at that time. It was an attempt to persuade her to reveal strategic information about the movements of the Castro brothers. She refused to talk. She was eventually freed.
In speaking of U.S complicity in supporting the former Batista regime, John F. Kennedy said:
"In the matter of the Batista regime, I am in agreement with the first Cuban revolutionaries. That is perfectly clear."

............................................................................................