A ritual would play out in
the living room of our house on Roosevelt Avenue, in Corona, Queens, New York,
as time-honored and unvarying as a liturgy. Every Sunday, my father would play
his old records. Lovingly remove the vinyl from its cardboard cover, hold it
between his small, thick fingertips and give it one good blow before placing it
on the turntable. Lower the needle onto the spinning disc, adjust the volume to
the highest mark on the knob, then retire to the master bedroom upstairs, where
he would pass the rest of the evening smoking his Kents.
At that time of the day when
my father, whom we referred to as Capote – my family’s surname – played his
music, the house would always seem empty. Desolate, almost, my younger sister soundly
asleep in her bedroom upstairs, my mother cleaning the rooms that were not
normally used – rooms, such as those in the basement and attic, that she did
not fuss over on weekdays, but was suddenly inspired to make spotless once the
music welled.
On Sundays, I was the only
one who wandered about the house. I tiptoed down the staircase, walked across
the living room, and stared at the spinning record on the turntable. The music
was always so loud, yet no one in the house dared adjust the volume for fear my
father would storm downstairs and shatter the calm of the house.
On the first story of the
house on Roosevelt, Barbarito Diez, Trios Los Panchos, Carlos Gardel and Beny
Moré didn’t sound so much melancholic as heartless in their loud insistence
that everyone feel sad and lonely just like them. Generally, Capote’s beloved boleros and its singers, whose romantic lyrics, when heard at a moderate decibel level, could
“charm” anyone, were far less seductive at a boom. But from my father’s
listening post – upstairs, behind the closed doors of the master bedroom – of
course, the music worked its magic.
On those Sunday evenings, my
entire family felt banished into internal exile by a standing, unspoken decree.
My mother, who normally cleaned with gusto to the accompaniment of scorching
words, could not be seen or heard; my sister, who hated going to bed, snored in
her sleep; my father, who never sat still, stayed in his room the rest of the
evening; and I, who loved watching television in the living room downstairs, never
dared turn on the set. Like the rest of my family, I traveled with my father to
a torch-song world of wistfulness, but, unlike the others, I loved it there. I
loved how Capote set up the house as a background for his sadness, how every
sound, color, and smell captured and honored his Sunday mood. Like a used car
salesman or Baptist minister, Capote was all about the “set-up,” about getting
the words, feelings, gestures and emotions right enough to convince one to
drive the car off the lot or to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as one’s personal
savior. On any other day the living
room was ordinary. It was the room you
passed on the way to the dining room, kitchen,
Sundays were when Capote’s
creative vision was at its purest, its product flawless. He shut off all the lights downstairs, except
the one lamp he threw a dark sheet over to recreate the red/orange haze of a
speakeasy. He turned the knob on the turntable to the highest volume. He
chain-smoked upstairs until the entire house reeked of Kent cigarettes. He
never left the room the entire evening, so that his downbeat mood became rooted
in the rest of our worlds, and there was nothing else to be felt on a Sunday
but sadness. I’ve missed Sundays ever since, and all my attempts to make the
most of the day, including designating it as a church day or day of rest, have
never been entirely convincing.
No comments:
Post a Comment