The Death of Music: In Cuba of All Places

By Sam Bolet

This is the account of a woman’s tempestuous life journey as she struggles to rise to musical prominence. The story traces the strange background of her ancestors, the crises that threaten her physical and emotional stability, and how she confronts them in the context of Cuba’s communist oppression. She faces the pressures of creating and sustaining a music institute. Overwhelmed by a multitude of destructive challenges, she must resolve life’s ultimate dilemma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664259027

Sam Bolet

The first time the author’s parents took him to the symphony, he was four years old. They were testing if he was capable of sitting still. Not only did he behave, he was mesmerized by the sounds of an orchestra. Two of his uncles were world-class musicians. Following their careers, attending hundreds of concerts, and listening to and reading about music have given him much pleasure through the years. He resides in Iowa with his wife and oldest son.

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Copyright © 2022 Sam Bolet.

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author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6642-5901-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5900-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-5902-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022903478

WestBow Press rev. date: 3/17/2022

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

To my dear family and to music lovers everywhere.

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank my family, Kathy Ide, Arleta Baker, and Joe Sheil, for their input in the development of this work.

Chapter 1

Alma Schultz Quincy dashed out of her apartment at the crack of dawn. She anticipated this would be a special, exciting day. After twenty-four years apart, she was going to meet with Rachel and Emily, her dearest college classmates. The three American musicians had graduated together from Indiana University but had heard little from one another since they had settled in their professional lives.

Their demanding occupations made it difficult for them to converge. Rachel, a classical guitarist, performed and taught all over the United States. Emily, a music critic, editor, and journalist, alternated between Chicago and St. Louis.

That summer of 2031 marked Alma’s fifth year, with her husband, Sherman Quincy, as director of an important music school in Havana, the Instituto Musical Superior de La Habana.

The day of their encounter, Rachel and Emily were wrapping up a brief cultural visit in the interior of Cuba. Alma drove her Volvo to the center of Havana. As previously agreed, she picked up her friends at the steps of the capitol building. They embraced and joked about their obvious physical changes.

Contrary to the increasing signs of deprivation, the city celebrated the second day of an awkward carnival festivity. But Alma wanted her chums to catch a glimpse of life in Havana as it happened, unencumbered by crowds. They kept moving, driving around the city’s most attractive avenues and parks.

Eventually, they parked at Parque Central and walked until they reached the Paseo del Prado boulevard. They sat on one of the marble benches and talked for hours into the night.

As though to avenge the day’s heat and humidity, a gentle breeze from the trade winds danced around the laurels lining the length of the promenade.

Petite Emily lowered her head and smoothed imaginary wrinkles on her skirt.

What’s the matter, Emily? Alma asked, noticing her friend’s tears.

I was thinking … Emily stuttered, I didn’t realize how much I missed you all these years, until today. I should have come expressly … to spend time with you, even if I had to invite myself. It took this silly cultural visit to give us an excuse to get together. Now Rachel and I are leaving you so soon. We might not cross paths again. Ever.

Sure, we will, Rachel argued. Middle age has not hit us yet—not quite. Let’s plan a vacation together next year. She lit a cigarette and looked around. It’s nice here. How far does the promenade go?

"All the way to the breakwater avenue, the malecón, Alma answered, pointing in that direction. I’ve read the Prado was the first paved street in Havana. In colonial times, it was the favorite place for Havana’s high society to show off. They added the bronze lions and gas lamps later, when they raised the boulevard. It separates the modern city from Old Havana. Here is where I escape every two or three weeks. I need to get away from the pressure cooker in the Instituto. It’s a convenient long distance to leave the work behind, relax, walk, and meditate."

I react the same way, Rachel observed. When you get burned out in your job, you must find something to do to decompress, whether jumping rope or flying a kite. You made a good choice to relax here. Besides, you have spent yourself creating a top-rate music school. You deserve some perks.

Alma took a few steps around the bench and gazed at the carnival revelers gathering across the way. She sat back down, leaned in, and whispered, with fear someone might overhear, The worst part is the communist culture. The constant uncertainties of a dictatorship foisted against the Cuban people for seventy-two years. The lack of food, raw materials. How do you develop a school where everything and everyone is under government control?

Emily spread one arm around Alma’s back. I feel for you. It’s got to be tough.

I appreciate your understanding, Alma said. Few people realize what it takes to run the Instituto in Marxist Cuba with American resources. But my grandfather was determined to make it happen. He died in the process. Sherman and I were caught in the web. Now Sherman is in Europe trying to recruit a chamber orchestra conductor. I feel like an icebreaker in the Arctic Sea.

C’mon, Alma, said Rachel. She stood and stepped on her cigarette. You can handle it. I can testify you know how to hold out. Remember, Emily, our crisis with Professor Jelensky in Music Theory class and how Alma saved the day?

Alma raised her eyebrows and nodded.

That man’s assignments were just cruel, Emily responded. He had the nerve to make us produce a fugue every week. You stood up to him, Alma, and you protested to the dean. If you hadn’t fought for us, I think most of the class would have flunked the course.

It was a just cause, Alma said. She stretched.

Rachel concentrated on the goings-on down the adjacent street at La Terraza Café, where loud salsa music beckoned the passersby. We must do something about that beat, girls. Let’s get closer. She danced off.

Alma and Emily shrugged, then joined their sprightly friend in the café.

The bright yellow light above the bar accentuated Rachel’s deep tan and reddish, long hair. She shouted her order to the bartender. Tres mojitos, por favor.

What’s a mojito? Emily asked.

Rachel shook her head and made a face. You’ll find out. This was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite drink.

The bartender filled three highball glasses with rum, lime juice, muddled mint, sugar, soda water, and fresh ice. This is the most Cuban of all cocktails.

Emily stared at her glass. I’ve never drunk rum. Isn’t that a little strong?

Alma picked up a glass. I’m not a drinker either. But tonight we must drink to the music that binds us together.

They toasted and cackled above the loud salsa sounds.

Alma caressed her frosty glass. This second round is on me.

Three mojitos later, Emily looked at the wall clock and gasped. It’s past one, Rachel! We still haven’t packed.

The abrupt farewell outside the café left Alma with a sense of unfinished business. She already felt lonely. And a little dizzy. Before returning to her car, curiosity got the best of her. She entered an unfamiliar street leading to Old Havana. She made a turn or two but saw nothing but dark alleys and narrow cobblestone streets. She had lost all notion of place and time in the entrails of the old city.

From one corner, out of a small bar, two men brawling darted into her path, followed by scantily dressed women arguing at the top of their voices. Her body stiffened.

The air reeked of uncollected garbage. A wave of nausea overcame her. She staggered, leaning against a wall to keep her upright. Her vision clouded, she stopped to vomit.

A terrible headache set in, accompanied by fatigue. She had to rest but didn’t know how or where amid confusing household noises and long silences.

From murky portals behind her, rapid footsteps pounded. Before she could run away, strong arms locked around her.

A male voice whispered in her ear, "Alma de mi vida, vas a ser mía."

Someone was about to rape her. Horror seized her. She tried to elbow her attacker, but his arms and legs imprisoned her entire frame. A gloved hand clutched her mouth, while he struggled to wrestle Alma to the stony pavement. Her heart pounding savagely, she jerked and resisted like a wounded lioness.

¡Vaya! ¡Qué fuerza! her attacker muttered while his fist pounded her chest and abdomen.

She bit the gloved fingers that were covering her mouth. But before she could scream for help, her assailant’s grip moved to her throat.

The ruckus of many feet approaching gave Alma a moment of hope. But male voices incited the attacker to inflict greater punishment. ¡Vamos, José! ¡Enséñale una lección!

What kind of a lesson did these men want to teach her? And why? This made no sense.

Half a block ahead, a second-floor light came on. Two men ran out of the house.

¿Qué está pasando ahí? a muscular man in a T-shirt shouted, followed by another man wielding a flashlight.

The attacker released Alma in a heartbeat. He and his accomplices disappeared in the black streets with cries of We’ll catch you later! Count on it!

Two women in faded summer dresses came to Alma’s rescue. She couldn’t stop shaking.

The younger woman helped her to her feet. "Pobre mujer, she said, what have they done to you?"

The older woman opened her apartment, which smelled of garlic and rancid beer. She led Alma to a lumpy stuffed chair in a room cluttered with mismatched furniture.

The hostess pressed a glass of lukewarm water to Alma’s lips. Two more women joined them. The heavyset one pointed at the younger, more attractive one. What do you think, Ileana? Should we take her to the hospital?

Let me take a look, Ileana responded. She felt Alma’s pulse, flexed her extremities, pressed her abdomen. No broken bones. No bleeding.

More busybodies congregated. Everybody talked at once with suggestions on how to proceed.

A wrinkled old lady stepped forward and opened Alma’s blouse. Those red marks will turn black and blue soon.

Alma pulled back. Was her safety threatened again?

Would someone please call the police? she moaned in a raspy voice that few could hear.

She tried to sit up, grimaced, and fell back in the chair.

Upon further discussion of options, the group concurred that the police would not show up unless there was evidence of bloodshed or firearms.

We could call an ambulance, someone suggested.

No. No ambulance, Alma protested, slowly emerging from the worst of her pain.

The hostess patted her hand. It’s all right to feel frightened, dear. Doctors nowadays won’t take action unless you’re at death’s door. Let me make you some tea to calm your nerves.

A few of the women left. Others waited for the arrival of a friend who drove a taxi. The wrinkled old lady chased everyone else out and then returned to Alma’s side. "Hija mía, just give it some time. The hurt will get better. The blessed Virgin will take care of you until you can forget the whole thing."

The taxi driver finally arrived to pick Alma up. She thanked the old lady repeatedly. Alma insisted to return to her car, fearful of leaving it behind. She asked the taxi driver for directions to the nearest police station, so she could report the crime the following day.

As she drove back home, the intensity of her pain more perceptible, she debated whether or not to inform Sherman of what happened. He had just arrived in Paris. At first, Alma felt that knowledge of her incident might affect him too much. He shouldn’t be distracted from his mission, not on her account. But the more she debated the alternatives in her mind, the more she convinced herself, Sherman should hear what she had just experienced.

By the time she reached her apartment, it was afternoon in Paris. She contacted Sherman.

No, I don’t expect you to drop everything and return home, Alma reassured him. There is no need. It could have been a lot worse. I’m still in one piece. Some kind ladies gave me all the help I needed. I’m reporting everything to the police, first thing tomorrow morning.

Alma made it all sound positive. She