Free The Freedom in American Songs by Kathleen Winter Page A

lose it all.”
    He was vague. He implied some sort of story that involved the kinds of things that might make you judge or despise a person. He had done something that had caused other people pain, maybe something worse than pain. It was in the past and there was thick fog between then and now and he didn’t want to think about it, though of course it was always there. I put it out of my mind as soon as he said it and focused instead on the Spanish hat and the idea of him tending seedlings in terra cotta pots in the sun on a balcony. This city had balconies for everyone, not just the lucky few. That was one of the reasons I lived here and not in a more utilitarian town.
    â€œThe thing I wanted to ask you,” I said, “is if you might know another teacher, not Juliana de la Fuente …”
    â€œIt means of the fountain .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHer name. You wouldn’t think someone with a name as lovely as that would be so uncaring. Fountains are generous … always bestowing.”
    â€œWhere did you live, before …” It was hard for me to imagine a person who knew the Spanish word for fountain living on the street … a person who used the word bestowing .
    â€œBefore I got my new apartment? … There are shelters. You get to know where to go. There’s the Old Brewery Mission. A lot of men are there quite long-term.”
    â€œSo, you know another teacher?”
    â€œI have a friend,” he took a bashed cellphone out of his pocket and fiddled around to look up a number. “I can call her now and ask her if she minds my giving you her number. She’s the real thing. A good flamenco dancer and a caring teacher. I go to church with her and her little girl and she doesn’t charge me for lessons.” He punched in her number. “Leni? …” He turned away and I heard him say, “… a woman in the park … wondering if … ” When he was finished he wrote Leni’s number on the back of his dollar-store sales slip and gave it to me.
    After that it was a long time before I saw Ben, and when I did he was selling L’Itin é raire in front of the liquor store at the outdoor fruit market. I had taken his advice and bought many copies from other sellers by then: a new issue came out every couple of weeks. Sometimes I bought the same issue several times, from different vendors. I bought one from him now and was not sure he remembered me. I had not called his friend Leni or taken any more flamenco classes.
    â€œBen,” I decided to remind him. Normally I’m happy when people forget they know me. I like to go around the fruit market without meeting people to whom I feel obliged to talk, but Ben was reserved, not ebullient. There was no danger he’d try to get too close. “We met in the park and you were practising flamenco. You might not remember …”
    â€œRight,” he said. I still wasn’t sure if he had any recollection.
    â€œYou gave me Leni’s number … I haven’t called her yet …”
    He brightened. “I’m doing a show with Leni next Thursday night.”
    â€œYou’ll be dancing?”
    â€œYes. It’s just a small part.”
    â€œIs it open to the public?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œCould I buy a ticket?”
    He told me where to go. I knew the place because it had a cabaret-style set-up and I’d seen a comic book artist do a reading there with a cello player and a burlesque dancer. I didn’t want to infringe on Ben’s dancing life but if it was a public performance then what was the harm? The tickets were only ten dollars and I bought one. I wanted to see Ben perform his flamenco in a formal theatrical setting—it would bring to the foreground the elegance that came before his fall from grace in the world. I wanted to see that.
    But on the night of the show there was a big electrical storm. Traffic chaos filled the whole