Moon Over Miami

Or is It TheirAmi

x

Ripplin’ water glidin’ bird. Giuffre Monk Anita Mahalia Satchmo Teagarden Mulligan Farmer. Brothers ‘n’ sisters. All of ‘em.

Gospel music. White kid dancin’. Cigarette. Chick readin’. “Madame Bovary”. Chuck Berry. Duck-walk.

Do you know what it means? Poetry of America. Gotta go New Orleans, Newport. Wayward wind is restless wind.

Held her hand. Felt good. I wanna walk you home.

In an altered state, Jim took Marita’s hand. Bert Stern’s ode to mid-century USA music, art, and culture finished its run in Miami Beach. Jim had talked about the movie so much Marita demanded they see it.

-It was better the second time.

-I dug it.

-Where ya wanna go?

-There’s a burger hangout; some of my friends are probably there right now. They’re not all morena.

-Morena?

-Brown.

-I like morena. Mi Marita morena sounds cool.

-My skin is brown, my name is Peaches.

-And you are Nina Simone.

-The Bronze Titan’s father was a pardo from Venezuela. I’m a brown peach.

Marita’s cigarette smoke drifted out the window into the wind across the bay.

-Yeah. So what? It doesn’t matter, mi Marita morena.

Jim flicked his cigarette onto the Causeway.

-It matters in Cuba and everywhere, mi werito. Cuban los Peninsulares are whites born in Spain, los Criollos are whites born in Cuba, los mulattos have one white parent and one black, los quadroons one-quarter black, los octoroons one-eighth black. Los Peninsulares own all the land and get the best jobs. Sometimes it bothers me.

-Black people lived on the planet before white people. There’s only one race, the human race.

-Dig that.

-Our revolution, I mean the Irish Revolution, was about religion.

-The Catholics run everything in Ireland.

-Yeah, in the Irish Republic but not in Northern Ireland. England ran everything until 1916, they made all the laws until 1916 in Ireland. Before the Easter Rising you were in big trouble if you were an Irish Catholic. Couldn’t own land, couldn’t go to Mass. Had to sell yer horse if an Englishman wanted it. Lotta Irish ran away, went to the USA, went to Australia.

The Collins version of Irish history and the diaspora was taught by Big Jim, Jim’s grandfather, waxing nostalgic about an island he’d never seen or ever would.

She gave Jim an order; maybe she would make a good soldier.

-Stop here.

He parked beside a Mediterranean Revival building.

-This is where we were last night, I had a kinda epiphany here.

-You can see the light on top of the building from way out in the ocean. On the way here from Cuba, my uncle said it looked like the Giralda Tower in Seville. I thought he was crazy; he’s never been to Seville.

-Last night it felt like the moon and stars were hangin’ in the sky just for us, felt like we could almost touch them.

-You have the soul of a poet.

Marita put her arms around his neck, drew him close; she felt him harden, stepped back.

-And the dick of a horse. Enough of that.

-How about a walk in the park?

-Will you be a good boy?”

-No.

-Let’s get something to eat.

Cruising down Calle Ochos, they passed the Tower Theatre; Lazarillo de Tormes spanned across the marquis.

-There’s a Tower Theatre on 69th Street. A lot bigger than that one, though. I saw the Monotones and Frankie Lymon there.

-I go to the movies here. The movies have Spanish subtitles or dialogue. Lazarillo de Tormes is an old Spanish book. Stop here! My cousin’s working tonight. We can eat for free. I didn’t think they’d be open.

On the street corner sat a small rectangular foodstand with LONCHERIA swirled in claret neon across an indigo lintel.

-Park?

-Yes. Right there.

Jim pulled to the curb; they walked along Calle Ochos to the open-air stand.

-Ola, Marguerite

-Ola, Marita! Who is this one?

-He’s the one and only strange, enchanted boy. Jim works at Dad’s place. This is Marguerite.

Short curly black hair crowned Marguerite’s cream-colored skin: behind the counter she laughingly puckered her 2 lips for a kiss; he shied away.

-Not used to Latinas, Jim?

-He’s a slow learner, sobrina. You know I like them slow. One cubano and two guarapos. We went to the movies. How’s my favorite tia?

-Mom’s better. I’ve been housekeeping. Daddy surprised her. Little brother and sister are at your Mom and Dad’s again. I had to work so they could celebrate 20 years of rosas y bombones. Never heard them say an angry word to each other. Did you?

Marguerite laughed, pressing ham, pork, cheese, and pickle in a roll on the plancha, before she cut it in two.

-Kinda like a hoagie.

Jim perused the sandwich - a jeweler studying a diamond.

-What’s a hoagie?

Marguerite’s rasp was sexy in a teenage girl.

-No hoagie shops down here? Maybe I oughta open one. A hoagie has got salami, ham, capicola, provolone, lettuce, tomato with onion, olive oil ‘n’ oregano. You can add cherry peppers if you wanna. ‘Dis is good. Kinda dry though.

-Drink.

Orders from Marita were becoming commonplace; she placed a guarapo bottle in Jim’s hand.

-That’s sweet!

He put his sugar cane drink on the counter.

-Ya never had before? I guess der’s no guarapo in Philadelphia.

-Makin’ fun of me? I know I sound bad.

-Cute the way he talks, don’t you think, sobrina? Sounds like a tough guy. You’d never know it; he has the soul of a poet besides some another thing. Your Tower might be bigger than our Tower but the world’s a lot bigger than Philadelphia, werito.

Marita winked at Marguerite; she hugged Jim from her stool.

-Why did I come down here?

Good-naturedly, he pushed her from her stool.

- I think we’d better all go up to Philly ‘n’ try a hoagie.

Arms akimbo, Marguerite teased him with her inviting rasp.

-Damn straight.

Marita deadpanned. Scrutinizing the guarapo, Jim gave his sandwich a final appraisal.

-Pretty good.

-You bringing him to Quince?

Marguerite cleared the counter.

-Haven’t asked him yet. See you later.

Marita whisked them away.

-Where’s Quince?

They held hands walking back to the car.

-It’s not a place, it’s a party. Marguerite’s 15th birthday. Big deal for Latinas - at quinceanara we become women. I was going to ask you. It’s next Sunday. Marguerite dances the first dance with her Dad as a woman, then we dance with her and her date. We’d be one of the 14 celebrating with her. I need a partner. Fifteen couples for her 15th birthday.

-Sounds formal, but I’ll go if you’re askin’ me, mi morenita.

Jim opened the door with a bow.

-I like you. But not that Don Juan bullshit.

-I like you too.

Jim tried to kiss her.

-Take me home, horseboy.

Long ago far away. Don’t know where. Don’t know when. Who does know? Met before? Loved before? Live more than once.

Doesn’t matter. Mi Marita morena matters. Never felt like this before. Can’t let go.

Barefoot Contessa Marguerite. Dances overhead. Ceiling above my bed.

Who knows where or when?

xi

All day all night siftin’ sand.

Phillyboy. Need to change.

Write well. Speak bad. Change. There’ll be some changes made.

Joe Williams. Basie band. .‘Everyday’. No blues. Marita Morena. Singin’ in the rain. Happy again. Over the mountain across the sea.

Marita slid into the passenger seat, wearing white sandals, yellow linen slacks, a scalloped white lace blouse topped by a black-and-yellow silk head scarf.

-Como estas, mi morenita? Chantilly lace and a pretty face.

-Gracias, werito.

Marita fingered 2 of the yellow-and-black semicircles stitched on the bosom of her blouse.

-Big Bopper wrote it.

-I know. Died with Richie Valens and Buddy Holly.

-I been meanin’ to ask, where did you learn to speak English? You speak it very well.

-Saint Peter Claver when we lived in Tampa. The nuns were very strict and made us speak English all the time. Taught us like we were high-class Spanish; those girls don’t act low-class. You know what I mean? Couldn’t have whites look down on us.

-Your English’s better than mine.

-Mi werito, I like how you talk.

-Nick’s gotta gig tonight. Place called the Lyric. He has tickets for us. Can we make it back in time?

-Will be tough. We have to try. Lyric’s cool. I saw Sam Cooke there. It’s integrated Miami – no colored bathrooms. In Overtown, my friends say there’s Mi-ami for everybody and Their-ami for whitey.

-Nick’s on at 8:30, Count Basie at 10.

Marita took off the head scarf. Her dark brown hair came undone - Medusa curls blowin’ in the wind.

Jim accelerated onto US1.

-You know how to get to Key Largo?

-Just keep goin’ down the highway.

-We should stop in Homestead.

Jim leaned over; he had to yell to be heard.

-If I can find it.

-Homestead’s on the highway, we’ll find it.

US1 snaked through the produce and orange juice stands of Kendall, Princeton, Naranja, and Leisure City. Conversation - the speedometer read 100mph without a roof - was futile. They passed a green rectangular sign - WELCOME TO HOMESTEAD; Jim hit the brakes to slow down.

-Ya hungry?

-Yes. That was crazy.

-Fast little kitty-car ain’t she?

-No more, please. They’ll lock us up and throw away the key.

-Car can move.

A white-tiled, glass and chrome White Castle sat on the corner in the center of Homestead. Finishing his burger, Jim beckoned the waitress.

-What do we owe ya?

-Two burgahs, two birch, sihty cents, plehs.

-We’re looking for Coral Castle.

Marita put a quarter on the counter.

-Dixie highway at de curner of 287 after de sign. Lotta folks miss it cause it’s on t’other side comin’ from Miami. Heah y’are.

She put 2 dimes and a nickel next to the quarter.

-Keep it. That was for you.

Marita took his hand, leaving the restaurant.

-My brother told me about this place. He’s an architect.

-Yer brother must be a pretty smart guy.

-Juan is smart, hasn’t done him much good though. He went to university in Havana but the only job he can get here is on a fishing boat. He’s going to take the architect license exam. There it is.

A red sign, Coral Castle ^, showed the way to the house. Jim parked just outside an odd-shaped structure - it seemed a castle built for a colony of oversized dwarfs. Along a jagged wall, they walked to a black door. The lintel with ENTRANCE engraved in white across it was welcoming. For reasons unknown, Jim didn’t feel welcome.

-Weird looking.

-Sure is.

They held hands.

-My name is Ed.

A forty-something man sat on a stool in a short-sleeve white shirt next to another sign - 25 CENTS.

-Your names?

-Jim.

-Marita.

-Last names please just so the owners know I ain’t lyin’.

-Collins.

-Maceo.

He wrote on a pad he took from his pocket.

-Follow me. Some people call this place the 8th wonder of the world. The door will open with a push of your finger.

It was a massive door, made of coral, between 6 and 7 feet wide, 7 to 8 feet high and 2 feet thick. Marita reached out with the palm of her hand.

-Just push it with your finger.

She did; the door swung open smoothly.

-Cool.

To the right, a stairway rose to a second-floor living chamber. A leather hammock hung between chains, saws, drills, wedges, hammers, chisels, and crowbars. There were no light fixtures or plumbing, just an oil lamp, a water pitcher, a barbecue grill, and a massive altar to a nameless deity.

-Mister Leedskalnin lived in this room. He built everything you see here.

Ed stood in front of an open window, looking over a courtyard of coral rocking chairs.

-They cut all that coral? How many men worked here?

Jim leaned out of the window.

-Nobody but him. Each chair down there weighs about a thousand pounds.

-Hard to believe.

-But true. A small man from Eastern Europe - five feet tall, 100 pounds. Follow me.

Eyebrows raised, Jim shook his head at Marita; at the bottom of the stairs Ed turned to Jim.

-I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen it. I was 18 in 1935 and saw this place being built. I spied on him one night down there in Florida City. He moved the coral pieces around like they were balloons. That night changed my life. I fought in the Spanish Civil War, the Battle of the Bulge, and then came back here. Nothing I’ve ever seen matched what I saw that night. Leedskalnin moved his castle here to Homestead later. He gave tours of the place; I’d come by and talk to him. He built the place in memory of a girlfriend. Called it Sweet Sixteen. That’s how old she was when she dumped him. Said ‘no’ to the whole deal the night before they were going to be married. When he died, I started to help out by giving tours. Follow me.

The guide stopped at a sundial, studying it as if it were an old friend. He leaned on a coral column used for gazing at the stars; he pointed to the top.

-Look through these cross-hairs. At night that aperture lines up with the North Star. You can tell the precise time. Just like an observatory. Some people from England came by and said it reminded them of Stonehenge. They said one druid moved all the rocks in Stonehenge from Ireland. Leedskalnin told me he understood how it could be done. He said there were places on earth you can use gravity better than in other places. Homestead is one of them. Stonehenge too.

Jim walked past a thousand-pound rocking chair, pushed it with his finger. It rocked back and forth. Like most boys, he’d read about Camelot, King Arthur, and his knights.

-The druid yer talkin’ about was Merlin from the Knights of the Round Table. That’s just a story.

-Stonehenge is real, though. Rocks were moved there. They didn’t grow there; they were put there by someone. We don’t know who or how. All the coral here got put here by a little man who lived alone. He knew how to do things that I saw, and couldn’t believe. I didn’t understand it then. I don’t understand it now. Leedskalnin looked like a wizard to me. I wish I had taken pictures of what he could do.

-Wish you had too. Pretty hard to believe.

-His bird bath’s a copy of the solar system. He sculpted 1000-ton coral pieces and moved them without help. You have any idea how he did it?

-Beats me.

Jim looked over his shoulder; the chair still rocked back and forth.

Voices came from the entrance.

-I’m sorry gotta go. I have an appointment to give a tour. You’re welcome to look around.

Ed walked away. Marita laughed.

-If he were Cuban, he’d be a Santerian.

-What’s that?

She sat on a heart-shaped table with an ixora bush, plucked a jungle flame flower from the bush.

-A religion. Vodun. You call it voodoo. Vodun’s not black magic like you think it is. Penny for your thoughts?

Puzzled, Jim pointed to the inscription on an obelisk - BORN LATVIA 1887.

-How could one guy move all this stuff?

-You don’t believe in magic?

Marita stayed seated on the heart-shaped table.

-Not really. Do you?

-Elegua is an Orisha in Santeria — the Yoruba god of tricks. Here’s a story. A road was the boundary between 2 villages. The people in the villages fought over rights to the road, afterward Elegua walked down the road wearing a hat - blue on one side, red on the other. One village said they saw Elegua wearing a blue hat, the other village said the first village didn’t see Elegua because they saw him wearing a red hat. They started fighting again. Elegua came back to tell them they were both right, both wrong. It’s a story of how one side in an argument sees something one way and the other side sees it different.

Marita finger-waggled Jim to sit, he snatched the red jungle flame flower from her hand.

-I asked you about magic, not the god of tricks. I’ll ask again. Do you believe in magic?

-Magic is tricks; tricks are magic. Yes I do and no I don’t.

-I get it. Just your way of bein’ a sweet 16. All the cats wanna dance with Sweet 16.

Jim didn’t like feeling bewildered, especially by a girl from over the mountain, across the sea.

-Sweet 16 did a lot worse to the Latvian than not answering the dumb question you just asked me.

Marita’s black-brown angry panther eyes smoldered, almost matching the red of the jungle flame she held in her hand; in his bewilderment, Jim turned into putty.

-I have fun teasing you, werito.

She kissed his cheek.

-Stop teasing. What are Elegua, Yoruba, Santeria, orisha all about?

Like a playful ballerina, Marita pirouettes around the heart-shaped table,

-Orishas are the spirits of the Yoruban gods. Yoruba’s an African religion. Elegua’s the messenger from the creator. He plays tricks, and sometimes he teaches everything is not as it seems. In the end he always leads us to the right path if we pay attention. He’s the god of the crossroads. The slaves practiced a mixture of religions that became Santeria in Cuba in their cabildos. A cabildo was formed by people from the same tribe. Groups of slaves became cabildos like unions because one tribe was good weavers, another made spears, that kind of thing. Cabildos had to march in the Catholic’s holy day parades. We used Catholic statues for gods and pretended Elegua was Saint Anthony. A cabildo always carried Anthony’s statue in the parade.

-Now I’m really confused. Never heard of cabildos, never heard of Elegua. You take me to this weird place called the Coral Castle and tell me Elegua’s really St. Anthony. My mother prayed to Saint Anthony whenever she lost somethin’. Was like a song — Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony, please come around somethin’ is lost and cannot be found.

-Stay confused, mi werito. That’s how I want you to be. I play all the tricks. You haven’t learned from Elegua. White people think we’re stupid. When they do, it’s easy to trick them.

Marita stopped her pirouette, snatched the jungle flame back. She twirled it above her head.

-You tricked me?

-Yes.

She put the flower behind his ear. Jim was — to quote an old song — bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. He slid behind the wheel and drove slowly down US1 to the Key Largo he’d seen in a Philly movie theatre.

Justa bar. Pics on the wall. Barrymore. Bogart. Bacall.

Sunset. Better here than Wildwood. Diving capital of world. Coral bein’ destroyed though.

Elegua’s right. Depends on point of view. Wanna play tricks?

Her African way — that old black magic she weaves so well. Down and down I go.