Under the Mambo Moon

On summer nights Papi lets me help out  at the music store.  Papi says you can  read people’s souls  by the music  they listen to;  that hearts fly home when the music’s  Just Right. Papi says people come here  to buy dreams  and memories. Mrs. García gets off at the bus stop in front of the store. She walks slowly, one hand on her back,  trying to push away an ache.  She’s been cleaning houses  all day, but still she smiles and stops to talk. João hangs out by the door  pretending not to watch  the girls go by. “A boy that handsome  can only be trouble,” Mrs. García says. João likes to talk music  with Papi. Mrs. García On the day of my quinceañera,  I wore a gown of blushing pink and a gold tiara. The tiny rosebuds on my cake  matched the real ones in my bouquet, and my gifts reached the ceiling. A handsome mariachi band  played all afternoon and serenaded me with “Las mañanitas.” On the day of my quinceañera,  I was in Mariachi Heaven. João A girl from Ipanema (no one ever knew her name)  caught the eye of a composer  who would never be the same. “She’s a little bit of samba, with a pinch of jazz thrown in.  She’s the strum of my violão— such a girl there’s never been.” Then he wrote a brand-new song  for the girl without a name,  who strolled along the beach  and brought the bossa nova fame.