A weary Nancy B. Alsop pulled out of Havana Bay the day after the wedding and set her sails for New Orleans and, yes, it had been a glorious wedding . . .
Havana Cathedral has been described as “music set in stone” and I feel the description is apt. Unlike other cathedrals I have been in, this one is low, rather than high, and is irregular, with one tower bigger than the other, and not much in the way of stained-glass windows—but still, it is soothing to the mind and comfortable in the way a church should be. And, in addition, like Saint Paul’s in London and Notre Dame in Paris and La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande in Madrid, or even that Buddhist temple in Burma, it did not express any displeasure with the presence of the noted sinner Jacky Faber within its consecrated and holy walls. At least there were no gargoyles to scowl at her . . . Hmmm. Except in that last case—the Buddhist temple where I knelt before the Gautama Buddha at the side of my dear sister Sidrah—there was a major earthquake and tsunami. Were the gods trying to tell me something? I dunno . . .
I sit in a pew with Jim Tanner on one side and Jemimah Moses on the other. We are all dressed in our best. Joannie Nichols sits in the bench in front of us, in Lawson Peabody black, holding hands with Daniel Prescott in his best Faber Shipping finery and looking about in wonder at the richness of the place. This is not a New England wedding, her eyes are saying, and it is true.
There is a blare of trumpets and the wedding Processional begins. Here come Davy, the best man, and the rest of the groomsmen, shaky on their pins but managing to do their part. I do not know when they came in last night, but I suspect it was early morning, well after Joannie and I got back from our very successful performance at Ric’s. The flamenco numbers, La Paloma and Malagueña Salerosa, knocked ’em dead, as I knew they would. Thank you, Django. . . .
No, this is not a solemn New England wedding, wherein the only two obviously happy people present are the bride and groom—and maybe the parents in relief at casting off two troublesome offspring into some sort of respectable life. No, this is marriage, Spanish style.
The reception takes place at Ric’s Café Americano, and he has outdone himself in the way of lavish display. There are garlands of aromatic flowers festooned about, tables laden with food and drink, and the dance floor cleared for . . . La Bamba!
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Su necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia . . .
Since I am the flower girl and friend to the groom and known to señor Ric, I am chosen to take up my guitar and start the festivities. I sing that verse as the newly married Concepción and John Tinker take the floor. She is dressed in white with a small black apron and he in his finest Faber Shipping nautical gear. The sense of the thing is that one must “have a bit of grace in order to sing this song,” and I hope I have that bit of grace as I go on . . .
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba
Ay arriba y arriba
Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!
Tink has a long red sash wrapped around his waist and Concepción unwinds it, spinning him slowly about. Tink is not a great dancer, due to his wounded leg, but he manages a huge grin as well as some fancy footwork—steps that I taught him yesterday—much stamping of his booted feet and all.
The ribbon is spread out straight on the floor and the newly married pair dance around it and begin to shape it about with little movements of their toes, the object being to form it into a bow, symbolizing the bond between the two performing the dance. Arriba, arriba! means take it higher! higher! encouraging the newlyweds to move faster! faster! and, indeed, the tempo of the music picks up as I strum all the faster.
Yo no soy un marinero
Yo no soy un marinero,
Soy Capitán,
Soy Capitán, soy Capitán!
This verse is usually sung by the groom, proclaiming him to be not just a simple sailor but a mighty captain, captain of both their fates. Their attention is to the ribbon and it seems to be taking shape. I knew this to be a Mexican tradition that had traveled out to the Hispanic islands and I briefed the confused Tink on how the thing was done and he seems to be doing all right while sweating mightily. I keep the thing going with a quiet vamp as they press on . . .
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba.
Bam!
They have accomplished the task. Concepción bends gracefully down and picks up the ends of the ribbon and, indeed, it is now in the form of a graceful bow, and it is held up for all to admire.
There is great applause and cries of olé! and Concepción takes up the ribbon and unties it and gives one end to Tink and then walks a short distance away and then places the other end on her own waist and spins around and around till she winds up in Tink’s arm with the ribbon wrapped tight around her middle.
He places a kiss on her brow, as I round things out with a final verse . . .
Para bailar la bamba
Para bailar la bamba
Su necesita una poca de gracia
Una poca de gracia . . .
Para mi, para ti, ay arriba y arriba
Ay arriba y arriba Por ti seré, por ti seré, por ti seré!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba!
Ba, ba, bamba.
Bam!
I fade out into silence on the last lines and the party starts for real.
New England should take notice . . . Olé!