The band

Today is the day it happened.  An extended gap between lessons, next class close to el Parque del Retiro, clear sky, sun, heat.  I wore my raincoat into an eight o’clock class this morning – this has been a month of rain and chills, after all.  Now the coat is an encumbrance – something else to carry.

A switch seemed to flick two days ago when I felt the heat of the evening sun on my face at around seven.  That’s the first time since before Christmas.

As soon as my second class cancelled this morning, I was heading down through the Metro system to Retiro. It didn’t take long to find a table by the lake.  Ten-thirty is very early-doors around here.

The waiter took his time.  I sat for a good half-hour, moving tables to sit in the shade of newly-emerged foliage.  There was a small sign by the door that probably informed clientes that terrace service was restricted hours, but I couldn’t be bothered to look.  Instead, I watched the sparrows tidying crumbs under the table and swallows swooping over the lake.  A scrawny blue-tit briefly lighted on the table right under my nose, swivelled its head and flurried away into the trees behind me.  I always wonder whether such visitors are loved ones keeping tabs.

Opposite the café, at the corner of the lake, a small group of men was assembling – a curious mix with bulky bags and cases.  Cigarette smoke and banter hung in the air around them.

One of the men produced a double-bass (difficult to conceal) and began tuning it with firm turns of the machine screws. He did this while chatting to a man in a grey polo-shirt. There wasn't an electronic tuner in sight.  When he was satisfied, he lay the instrument on its side, with all the care of a parent handling its first-born, and began rubbing something along the length of the strings.  I wondered what his friend might be packing.

Saxaphones appeared from somewhere within the huddle.  A tentative scale – gentle, like the first turns of a cold engine – then another, louder and more certain, slight squeal coming from the reed.  A couple more complicated licks followed – Eastern European?  Jazz? Both?

One of the saxes was carried over into the café. That seemed to confirm there was no service yet on the terrace.  I wasn’t in any hurry.  Over by the lake, someone blew a few trumpet scales. Then silence, more cigarette smoke and conversation.  A sax player briefly showed a lick to someone else. 

A lorry carrying police horses came slowly past and parked a short distance away under trees.

The bass was turned upright again and fine-tuned. I noticed the player had bandages of some kind on the middle fingers of his right hand – the ones he was using to tap the strings. He played a few baselines to loosen-up.  When he was happy, he lit another cigarettes.

The man with the sax came out of the café and sat on a park bench opposite the rest, joshing and teasing.  As with the scales and licks, I couldn’t tell whether his words were Spanish or something from a little further East.  He sat and drank his coffee.

The waiter came to the table.  I only had six euros on me.  I asked for a quote for tostada and a café con leche.  Five euros-fifty. 

“Bueno.”

The group formed themselves up into a shape that looked more like a band.  The man in the grey polo-shirt swung an accordion onto his shoulders.  The action of doing so made me realise how heavy and bulky those things are – a little like my teaching bag.  He flexed the bellows and played a few glissandos – quietly at first.

One of the sax players stepped forward a little and took up a theme.  The bassist threw his cigarette carelessly to the floor and started picking up a beat from the rear – his left hand making great journeys down the neck. The waiter returned with a café con leche. 

The rest of the band fell in over the space of ten or twelve bars, gradually finding their place until a body of sound began to emerge.  A younger man with a drum strapped to his waist explored the rhythm.  Their first tune of the day filled the terrace.

The tostada appeared with small pots of butter and jam.  The butter had softened beautifully in the sun.  The tostada was a small baguette, split and lightly toasted.  The coffee was good.  A small tray with the bill followed within a minute or two.

I’d lost track of the third sax player.  He’d left the bench.  I can imagine that with three saxes in a small band, everyone has to bring something different along.  He was probably there in the mix somewhere.

After a couple of numbers, the band took a cigarette break and a tray came around.  I gave them my fifty cents change.  What else could I do? 

The sun was hot and I needed to find my way out of the park to where I was due to teach.  There’s something about walking through newly-arrived tourists in your work-clothes with somewhere to be.  This is more like the dream.

New word for today: guiri (foreigner). We're all sunburned.