Free Havana Jazz Club by Lola Mariné

her onto the sofa, as if that was the only way to stop his impulse to keep hitting her. He took her face in an iron grip to make her look at him and brandished a threatening finger before her terrified eyes.
    “You will never raise a hand to me again in your life or you’ll regret it, do you understand me?” he said, clenching his teeth with anger. “I’m going to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’ve calmed down.”
    Billie remained in the living room, paralyzed by shock and panic, her face burning and throbbing with pain, unable to believe what had just happened. Her first thought was to leave, but where would she go? She sat there, stunned and motionless, for a long time, not daring to make the smallest noise for fear of waking Orlando. Eventually, when she supposed her husband was asleep, she got up from the sofa and headed stealthily into the bathroom. The image she saw reflected in the mirror horrified her: her cheek was inflamed, and her left eye was blood red and practically swollen closed. The sight provoked an attack of sobs that she tried to stifle by covering her mouth with one hand. With the other, she took an aspirin out of the medicine cabinet and struggled to swallow it with a little water. Then, she dampened a towel with cold water and pressed it against her swollen face. She went back to the living room and sat down again. It was the longest and bitterest night of her life. She felt pain where Orlando’s fingers had left marks from gripping her arms and where the swelling had become a muffled pulsing on the left side of her face. But the most terrible pain, the most unbearable, was in her heart, which had shattered into pieces.
    She passed the hours in a restless half sleep, not even noticing the dawn arrive. Around midday, sounds from the bedroom pulled her out of an intermittent sleep. Realizing that Orlando was awake, she was seized with terror. She heard him go into the bathroom, and she sat up on the sofa. She held her breath at the sound of the toilet flushing. She visualized each sound, each movement he made, his footsteps coming closer . . .
    When Orlando came into the living room, he stopped dead at the sight of her.
    “Good Lord, my love!” he exclaimed, running over to her. “Look at your face! Does it hurt a lot? I’ll make coffee and bring you an aspirin, okay? I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I’m sorry for hitting you and all the horrible things I said. It’s just that you drove me crazy . . . I swear it will never happen again.”
    He was speaking in a cloying tone. He took her hands in his and kissed them tenderly, stroking her hair delicately. Billie could see from the look in his eyes that he was genuinely upset by her battered face. She didn’t reply. She didn’t know what to think. In that moment, Orlando didn’t seem like the savage, violent being who had attacked her the night before. This was her Orlando, the one she knew and loved so much, her light, her sun god.
    He helped her get up from the sofa and accompanied her, lovingly, to the bedroom. He undressed her and put her in bed, tucking her in with the utmost care, then went to make coffee and bring her breakfast in bed. He brought her aspirin and an ice pack, lowered the shade, and kissed her forehead tenderly.
    “Rest, my darling. I’ll tell Gregorio that you’re indisposed and you won’t be back at work for a few days. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? I love you.”
     
    All week Orlando went above and beyond to be kind to her. He was more attentive than ever and ready to carry out her smallest desire. He brought her flowers and chocolates, bought her magazines so she wouldn’t get bored, and surprised her with records by her favorite singers. He even came home right after the party hall closed. Little by little, Billie regained her trust in him. She started to harbor the hope that something had changed between them and that they would go back to being as happy as before, like they had been in Cuba. She