A short story of a love that time and borders attempt to quell, wherein anguish is channeled into art…
by: Alan Swyer
That Frank Timoni, who had grown reluctant to even make the drive to Los Angeles — less than fifty minutes even at rush hour — was about to board an airplane came as a surprise to his colleagues at the radio station. That he was bound for a place as far-away and exotic as Cuba was an absolute shock.
What they didn’t realize, since Frank was notoriously tight-lipped except when on-the-air, was that he’d come to feel that the world he inhabited — his self-imposed bubble — was nearing an end. There were rumors that the new management at the station where he hosted “Blues In The Night” every Saturday, was threatening a total overhaul, replacing mainstays like him with younger, less expensive DJ’s.
Even worse was the whispered end of his greatest source of pride, the station’s annual Blues Festival, for which Frank was the promoter. His position included an edict: no performers who didn’t meet his personal approval. Even as he was forced to expand his definition of what constituted the Blues, almost all the big names he cherished — Bobby “Blue” Bland, Little Milton, Etta James, Albert King, Freddie King, Koko Taylor — had disappeared from the scene, as had lesser-known favorites like Texas Johnny Brown, Lazy Lester, and Hubert Sumlin. Despite the urging of the station’s new administrators, Frank was adamant in refusing what he called “self-styled guitar heroes” — Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Walter Trout, and Joe Bonamassa — who played ten, fifteen, or even twenty notes where a giant like T-Bone Walker or B.B. King would have played only two or three, but two or three great ones. That made some managers, booking agents, and musicians think of him as a purist, while others called him a snob.
For Timoni, who normally shunned organized activities, to participate in an international exchange program, even one with all expenses paid, was a first. But since his days at the station seemed numbered, he chose to go out in style by joining others from the music world — DJ’s, producers, execs, composers, musicians — on a trip to the normally off-limits island whose music, especially by Benny More, Chucho Valdez, and Los Van Van, pleased him almost as much as his beloved Blues.
Interestingly, it was politics, not music, that provided Timoni’s initial career path. Right out of college, he wangled an interview with a political fixer named Manny Hernandez. In less than two years, he rose from apprentice to heir apparent. Any reservations about his mentor’s methods, which ranged from questionable to cutthroat, were rationalized by a sense that the end justified the means when fighting for civil liberties, or against racism.
Frank’s employment ended abruptly when Hernandez’s office and home were raided by the FBI, with his mentor led away in handcuffs.
Called before federal agents, Frank claimed total ignorance, which made him a stand-up guy in the eyes of those who soon reached out with offers. But after a series of sleepless nights, he decided he was done with politics.
With no clue whatsoever about what to do with the rest of his life, Frank sat alone in his apartment day after day, listening to old vinyl he’d scored at swap meets and used record stores: Ray Charles, Slim Harpo, Nina Simone, the Chambers Brothers, and above all, Bobby “Blue” Bland’s great Two Steps From The Blues album.
Then came a life-changing September morning. Eager to leave his past behind, Timoni drove on a whim to the local Public Radio station. Swallowing his pride, he applied for an internship. In the year-and-a-half that followed, he worked relentlessly until he was given the green light to host a show of his own. That meant two hours each Saturday evening of artists like Bessie Smith, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Bobby “Blue” Bland, Memphis Minnie, and Howlin’ Wolf, plus Little Milton, whose version of “Blues In The Night” became his theme song. When, a few months later, the promoter of the Blues Festival was caught embezzling, Frank assumed his duties as well. Soon came calls from small record companies asking him to write liner notes or introductions for Blues reissues and compilations. Next an overture from the Music Department at Cal State Long Beach, wanting him to be a guest lecturer. That was followed by a request from the African-American Studies Department at UCLA, asking him to teach a course on the Blues. Content with his responsibilities, Timoni said, “Thanks but no thanks.”
Though Frank’s first couple of days in Cuba proved to be enjoyable — eyeing the vintage Fords, Chevys, and Chryslers, visiting the studio where the Buena Vista Social Club album was recorded, downing a mojito at Hemingway’s old haunt El Floridita, hitting a nightclub filled with German, Dutch, and British tourists — he couldn’t help but feel that he was being shown a carefully curated version of Cuban life.
With no great interest in checking out a cigar factory, the Museo de la Revolución, or the Botanical Garden, Frank feigned a hangover the next morning. Ignoring guidelines that discouraged group members from wandering unaccompanied, he left the Hotel Nacional, then began strolling with the hope of discovering the non-touristy Havana.
Encountering kids playing baseball in the street with a beat-up ball and a wooden bat repaired with nails assured him that his instincts were sound. That was reinforced when he stumbled upon Callejon de Hamel, an alleyway lined with voodoo-like murals, plus exotic sculptures constructed from found objects. Then Timoni grew even happier when he encountered a group of old-timers arguing about a hypothetical fight between Muhammad Ali and Cuba’s Teofilo Stevenson.
Reaching the section called Havana Vieja (Old Havana) Timoni paid scant attention to the cathedral, the capitol, or the Gran Teatro. What interested him were the locals: young and old, haves and have-nots, with skin tones ranging from Black to white to clearly mixed.
Enjoying the people-watching, Frank strolled to a cafe with outdoor seating. As he took a seat, he was surprised to see two young women at a nearby table start to wave.
“Americano?” asked the taller woman, whose complexion was the color of cafe con leche.
Frank nodded. “Is it that obvious?”
The shorter one, with braided hair and a red blouse, gestured toward the Cubans walking by. “Well—”
“Guilty,” Frank acknowledged with a smile.
“Alone?” the shorter woman then asked.
“Guilty again.”
“Sit with us.”
To the women’s surprise, Frank started to laugh.
“What is funny?” asked the shorter one.
“Never,” Frank began, “have two women…two young women…two young, pretty women invited me to join them. Really?”
“Yes.”
Happily, Frank came over to their table. “I’m Frank.”
“Beatriz,” announced the taller one.
“Ava,” added the other.
“Both of you speak English?”
After Beatriz shook her head, Ava answered. “I speak a little.”
“Sounds like you speak well.”
Ava shrugged. “Tourist?”
“Guilty again.”
“So why here instead of a museum?”
“I’m not very touristy.”
“What would you like to see?”
“Your Havana.”
“Then I will show you,” said Ava.
“Both of you?”
“Beatriz has to get back to work.”
“You don’t?”
“I am a student. More free time.”
After walking with Frank to the art studio where she studied painting, Ava led him to the children’s hospital where she volunteered on weekends. Then, somewhat guiltily, she faced him. “This is not too …I am trying to find the word…boring?”
Frank shook his head. “I’d rather see how you live your life than be stuck with people taking selfies. Can I see where you live?”
“Really?”
Timoni nodded.
What struck Frank most as Ava steered him to a street lined with apartment houses badly in need of repair was how she was greeted by one and all. People from afar smiled or waved. Those nearer exchanged kisses with her, then turned to Frank, men to shake his hand, women to kiss him on the cheek.
“The friendliness is incredible,” Timoni said once he and Ava reached her building.
“In America no?”
Frank shrugged. “On my block, I hardly know anyone. Those I do know, mostly I avoid.”
As he was led into Ava’s family’s apartment, Frank immediately got the impression that time had stood still. Though clean and tidy, the furniture and decor remained as they must have been in the fifties, albeit with considerable wear and tear.
Sensing that work in Havana was far from a given, Timoni was introduced to multiple generations of relatives, plus friends and neighbors who kept stopping by. Though no one had much command of English, everyone greeted him with more kisses and handshakes.
After seating Frank on the living room sofa, Ava accompanied her grandmother into the kitchen, then returned with coffees.
With Ava as interpreter, questions were asked: where Frank resided, what he did for a living, and above all what he thought of Havana.
Fearing he was being overwhelmed, Ava leaned close to him. “We can leave,” she whispered.
“This is great,” Frank replied to Ava’s surprise.
Moments later, her mother asked a question that Ava translated. “Will you stay for dinner?”
“Can I take a rain check?”
“What does that mean?” asked Ava.
“Another time. Tonight I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Really?”
“Really and truly. Pick a restaurant you’ve been wanting to try.”
Instead of a restaurant, it was toward a private home that Ava brought him. Seeing his dismay, she explained that it was a “paladar” — gray-area entrepreneurship Cuban-style, with cooking outshining the state-run restaurants.
At the front door, Frank saw Ava suddenly hesitate. “Something wrong?” he asked.
“I cannot help pay,” she said softly.
“You’re not supposed to,” he answered, ushering her inside.
During their meal, Frank learned much about Ava, whose family was a matriarchy. Both grandfathers died young, as did her father when she was only five. That was why, in the hope of helping out financially, she was studying accounting even though her real love was art.
By the time they were enjoying dessert — arroz con leche accompanied by shortbread cookies known as torticas de moron — the owner asked if they would like coffee or an after dinner drink.
“How about doing it at my hotel instead?” suggested Frank.
“I cannot,” said Ava.
“Because?”
“I am not allowed,” she stated, explaining that except for employees, Cubans weren’t permitted in hotels like the Nacional.
“That’s crazy!” exclaimed Frank.
“Cuba,” replied Ava with a sigh.
Reaching Ava’s building, Timoni was at a loss as to what to say or do. “Any chance I can…umm…take you to lunch tomorrow?” he asked, fumbling.
“I have class,” Ava replied, leaving Frank momentarily crestfallen.
“And after?” Frank asked hopefully.
“After, yes!” she exclaimed.
Lying in bed at the Hotel Nacional, which he no longer viewed the same way, Timoni tried to make sense of the day’s events. Was he simply the recipient of Cuban friendliness and hospitality? Or, despite the fact that he was twice Ava’s age, was it possible that what was happening was in some unlikely way akin to romance?
Having been burned by an early marriage, plus hook-ups, flings, and relationships that went awry, Frank had reached the point where he had trouble trusting his own judgment.
Yet one thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t wait to see Ava again.
Once more avoiding his group’s itinerary, Timoni spent the morning strolling along the Malecon, the esplanade stretching from the harbor through Centro Havana and Vedado.
Minutes felt like hours until at last it was time to rendezvous. When Ava was late, later, then later still, Frank’s heart sank. Could it be that he was being stood up?
Then, with a flower in her hair, Ava ran up and greeted him with a kiss.
Suddenly life was perfect.
So were the hours that ensued. First, Salsa bands at Casa de la Musica. Next, dinner at another paladar. Then a stroll through Havana’s quaint Chinatown.
“Any place you want to go for a drink?” Frank asked.
“My aunt’s apartment,” Ava answered coyly. “She is visiting friends near the beach.”
For Frank, the three days and nights that followed were a dream come true. Whenever Ava was free of classes, the two of them immersed themselves in music — Jazz, Salsa, and an old Cuban form called Son, plus Rock, and even Hip-Hop — as well as meals, long walks, and above all romance.
Though magical, their time was tinged with an ever-increasing sadness, with both aware that each moment brought them closer to the end of their time together.
On their last night, while strolling, Frank suddenly faced Ava.
“If I can make it happen, should I come back?”
“Soon?” she asked.
“Not just soon,” he stated. “Often.”
Ava’s smile was the answer he hoped for.
The next morning, as the members of the tour group boarded their flight back to Los Angeles, only Frank was unencumbered by gift boxes of cigars and rum. Other than his carry-on bag, all he toted were memories of Ava.
Not participating in the reminiscences of the other travelers, Frank spent the flight wondering not just how, but when he might possibly see Ava again.
Despite the high Timoni was on, grim reality quickly intruded. The radio station seemed morgue-like, with everyone waiting for the hammer to drop. Nor was the Blues Festival a source of joy as he scoured lists and phoned booking agents in search of a lineup that wouldn’t be an embarrassment.
Worst of all was how much he missed Ava.
Just to hear her voice required herculean effort. Because her family, like many in Havana, didn’t have a phone, she had to hike to her aunt’s place for Frank to reach her, a task made more difficult by the terrible government-run telephone service.
Fighting against negativity both professionally and personally, Timoni began exploring ways to get around the prohibition against tourist travel. There was no chance he could justify it as a family visit. Or official government business. Nor could he pose as a scholar, or a journalist, or a cleric engaging in full-time religious activities.
Frank’s only hope would be to fly in from a third country. Mexico was his first thought, since there were frequent flights from Cancun. That was dashed upon learning that the authorities there often sold the names of Americans. That was also true, he heard, of departures from Canada.
The best solution seemed to be to fly from a small Latin American country.
Whereas earlier in life that would have seemed mildly daunting, in Frank’s current state it was totally nuts. But every phone call with Ava made it feel imperative.
Despite the fact that his financial situation was potentially precarious, Frank felt like a secret agent as he boarded a night flight to Costa Rica, then another to Havana, where he slipped a Customs agent cash not to stamp his passport.
Though he did his best to come off cool and inconspicuous, in truth Frank was a nervous wreck, his heart pounding each time he had to display his passport.
Compounding his fear of being busted was yet another possibility. What if he had somehow exaggerated – or romanticized – his brief time with Ava? What if he was taking a risk only to find she didn’t really care?
Yet everything felt worthwhile the moment he emerged from Jose Marti Airport and was hugged by her.
Even better, instead of checking into the Nacional, he moved into a small apartment where Ava was able to keep him company.
Feeling like a lame duck professionally, Frank started living almost exclusively for his trips to Cuba. The next flight was via Colombia. After that, Panama. Each time he brought a care package — chewable vitamins, Flintstone band-aids, Ace bandages, children’s aspirins — for the hospital where Ava volunteered, along with presents for her family.
Then came a period of soul-searching. At a moment when his future earnings were imperiled, his savings were being depleted by his voyages. Worse, each trip increased the chances that the FBI would knock on his door. Worst of all, though being with Ava made him feel alive, jubilation quickly turned to emptiness on the flight home.
Was he, he started wondering, delusional? Obsessed? Hopelessly in love? The answer, he realized, might be “all of the above.”
Most clear to him was that something had to give. There was no future with one of them in Havana and the other in Long Beach. But even if the Cuban government accepted him as a resident, he had no way to support himself in Havana. Being together would require Ava moving to California, which opened up a whole other set of problems.
Permission would have to be granted by both governments, necessitating attorneys in two countries sharing little reciprocity. Plus mountains of paperwork. And uncertainty galore. Even if their efforts were successful, Ava would be forsaking the support system of family, friends, and neighborhood that was the foundation of Cuban life.
Then there was an even touchier subject: the age difference. In Havana, that never posed a problem. But would that be true in youth-oriented Southern California?
Most importantly of all, would Ava even consider starting a new life?
Aware that these issues required more than a long distance call, Frank hopped a plane to the Dominican Republic, then another to Havana.
After distributing presents to Ava’s family members, Frank took her to dinner at their favorite paladar. Nervously, he started with chit-chat, which Ava saw through immediately.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Tell you what?”
“What is on your mind.”
“I can’t keep flying here all the time,” Frank said softly.
Ava quickly grew disheartened. “I won’t see you?”
“You can.”
“How?”
“By coming with me.”
“A-are you asking?”
“No, begging.”
Without hesitation, Ava leaned across the table and kissed him.
Since their only hope was to file a Petition For Alien Fiancee with the US Government, the first step was to buy Ava an engagement ring. That led to a celebration with her family that grew to include friends and neighbors.
But what followed was hardly celebratory. Lawyers were retained in both Cuba and the US. Documents were filled out. Fees were paid. Then their patience tested in unprecedented ways.
As Timoni’s funds were shriveling, the situation at the radio station continued to deteriorate.
“I wish you were here,” exclaimed Ava on every call. “And I wish you were here,” Frank always replied.
Despite the temptation to hop on another flight, he feared it would be just his luck to get busted for an illegal entree while the process was underway.
Then came a Monday morning that began with a double whammy. First, a call from the radio station, informing him that the last day of the Blues Festival would also be his last day as a DJ. Then, a call informing him that Ava’s fiancee license was approved. Miraculously, she could finally apply for a visa.
Less than a week before the start of the Blues Festival, Ava’s visa was processed. Three days later, Frank was at the Los Angeles airport when she cleared Customs.
Stunned that their dream had come true, the two of them hugged as never before. Only once they were on the freeway, with Ava taking in a world totally different from all she had known, did Frank explain that due to the festival, he wouldn’t be able to spend time alone with her.
“You saw my life,” Ava responded. “Now I will see yours.”
Frank became a whirling dervish — checking the sound system, greeting artists, interacting with security and the police, handling payments, placating vendors, and dealing with unexpected glitches and problems. But with Ava by his side, even the most trying situations no longer seemed stressful.
Seeing things through her eyes made the entire process seem fun, exciting, and new. Between the music and crowd, plus Frank at the center of everything, Ava was aglow.
“I am so happy!” she told him each morning when they woke up, then again when they climbed into bed at night.
“Me, too.”
Then suddenly the world changed. The festival was over, and so was Frank’s radio show. They waited a couple of days for their adrenaline to recharge, then busied themselves by shopping for art supplies and other of Ava’s needs.
Next came a couple of days of showing her around Long Beach.
Despite the hermit-like habits he’d lapsed into, Frank drove them toward LA early one morning so that Ava could see Alvarado Street, Rodeo Drive, Venice Beach, and other sights.
Still they woke up the following day to a new reality. There was no place they needed to go, and nothing they needed to do.
Though Ava made a few attempts at painting over the days, then weeks, that followed, she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious with Frank hanging around their one-bedroom apartment.
Even more awkward for Frank was that everywhere they went — the little cafe where each morning they grabbed breakfast, the local supermarket, even the hip stretch along Belmont Shore — he sensed that people were eyeing them strangely due to their difference in age.
One day before lunch, Frank surprised Ava by chuckling.
“What’s so funny,” she asked.
“A dumb joke.”
“Tell me.”
“I married you for better or worse, but not for lunch.”
Ava laughed. “Stupid.”
“Told you.”
Ava grew pensive. “But what are you going to do?”
“I’ll see once you’re fully settled in.”
“And then?”
Frank shrugged.
“What if I work?” Ava asked.
“Doing what?”
“The cafe where we go. They have a sign for a waitress.”
“B-but—”
“It will help with money,” Ava stated. “And make this feel more real.”
Even before Ava came into his life, Timoni had promised himself that when his run at the station ended, he would take all the time he needed to figure out what to do next.
But what was once hypothetical had become real. And he had no idea what “next” might be.
For him, politics was dead. In all likelihood, so too was radio, since he was hardly suited for the bottom-line approach of a commercial station. Yet there was nothing at all that he’d been longing to do.
Thanks to the almost monastic lifestyle he’d slipped into, he always figured that on his own he could get by for an extended period of time. Yet he was no longer alone.
What he’d failed to recognize on his visits to Havana was that there was no way to expect someone as vivacious and youthful as Ava to do little but chill.
Though Frank took pride in seeing Ava’s confidence and command of English surge, once she started waitressing, he began to sense a shift in the dynamic between them.
That feeling grew stronger when she enrolled at the local junior college, then started making friends her own age.
Despite Ava’s attempts to include him in dinners and other get-togethers, his presence invariably yielded a certain awkwardness.
Because he sensed that he was losing her, it didn’t come as a surprise when Ava, after getting home from class on a Thursday, joined him on the living room sofa. “Can we still be friends?” she asked.
“If?”
“I move in with people from school.”
Timoni studied her before speaking. “We will always be friends.”
“Thank you,” Ava, kissing him on the cheek.
Though he tried to be philosophical, there was no hiding that Frank was bereft. Not wanting to face the world, he holed up in his apartment, listening to Blues, then more Blues: Ray Charles, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Nina Simone, Jimmy Witherspoon, and above all Bobby “Blue” Bland. Then on came a John Lee Hooker song that made him cringe. “Serves you right to suffer,” sang the king of the boogie. “Serves you right to be alone.”
Another painful day went by. Then another. Then yet another, filled with Blues, Blues, and more Blues until it suddenly dawned on Timoni that his very life, filled first with joy, then with heartbreak, had become a Blues song. A song he titled “Havana Blues.”
One tune in particular seemed to sum up his experience, Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “Two Steps From The Blues” with the most pertinent lesson: “It’s better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all.”
Dwelling on that enabled him to see that the hermetically-sealed world he’d been inhabiting before meeting Ava had been a self-inflicted imprisonment — one he wasn’t about to re-impose.
Instead of moping or giving up, he started reaching out to people who had made overtures in the past.
First came nothing, then more nothing, until an opportunity to write liner notes for a compilation of songs by the late guitarist Pee Wee Crayton.
Ten days later, another break: the chance to pen an introductory essay for a reissue of tunes by Lowell Fulson.
Three quiet and unsettling weeks followed. Just as he was fearing he was finished, Timoni got a call from a professor in the Music Department at Cal State Long Beach asking him to speak about Texas guitar players — from T-Bone Walker through Wayne Bennett, Albert Collins and Johnny “Guitar” Watson.
Ten days later, he was invited to lunch by the head of UCLA’s African-American Studies Department. Queried as to what they could focus on that hadn’t ever been sufficiently examined, Frank smiled. “How about doing ‘When LA Got The Blues?’” Asked to elaborate, he explained that Los Angeles music too often meant the Beach Boys or Mamas & the Papas. Yet a powerful argument could be made that LA’s legacy in Black music outranks New Orleans, Chicago, or even New York.
After he recited some of the giants he’d discuss — T-Bone Walker, Big Mama Thornton, Dexter Gordon, Charles Mingus, and Louis Jordan, on through Ray Charles, Sam Cooke, and Etta James — it was decided that the best approach would be a series of lectures. Starting with Central Avenue, which was the West Coast equivalent of Harlem, Timoni would track the post World War II blossoming of Jazz and Blues. Then talk about the impact of the Great Migration, which brought the likes of Charles Brown, Amos Milburn, Percy Mayfield, and Ornette Coleman. Next, with Roy Brown, Roy Milton, and Johnny Otis, he would make the case that LA was the birthplace of Rhythm & Blues. Finally, the Doo-Wop scene that spawned the Penguins, the Shields, the Robins, and Jesse Belvin.
Remembering F. Scott Fitzgerald’s observation about no second acts in American lives, Frank shook his head. For he was embarking on the third act in his professional life. Better yet, instead of hurt, bitterness, or regret, what he most felt toward Ava was a sense of gratitude. She was the one who lifted him from his doldrums and gave him the desire to embrace life.
That brought to mind something once said by the one of his favorite songwriters. “The Blues,” said Willie Dixon, who wrote classics for Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and Koko Taylor, “are the true facts of life.”
Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera, plus a new one, When Houston Had The Blues. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel The Beard was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.
