Chapter Text
OCTOBER 1947
Belle Chasse, New Orleans, Louisiana
United Service Organisations Presents
The American Heroes Tour
Dear Mr. Varga,
I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to join the USO Camp Show as a vocalist and pianist. You will be performing under Lalo Salamanca throughout the tour until December of 1947. This exclusive opportunity will take you across the country, bringing music, joy, and hope to those who need it most.
Your presence is requested at a private orientation on:
Date: October 5, 1947
Location: 1483 White Blvd, Sanford Station, Florida.
Please bring this invitation for entry. We look forward to seeing you take the stage with your wonder.
See you on the road.
Regards,
James M. McGill
Tour Manager | USO Camp Show Inc.
"What does it say?" Ignacio heard his mother asking eagerly.
He closed the crisp invitation card with a sigh. This wasn't what he had hoped for when he first auditioned to be a backup vocalist for the renowned jazz singer, Lalo Salamanca. Truth to be told, Ignacio wasn't sure what he had hoped for. Getting into the audition was against his will in the first place.
One morning at the break of dawn, his mother had woken him up. She announced with excitement brimming in her voice, that Lalo Salamanca was holding auditions for dancers and musicians to join him on his military tour. Ignacio had barely registered the new day before she shoved a flyer into his hands, the ink still fresh from where her fingers had gripped it tightly. She said, "I've registered your name for the audition. You will go."
Unbelievable. His mother had always been awfully fond of that Mexican jazz singer. In the living room, they had a special shelf just lined with vinyl records of his albums. From his debut back in 1930, to his third, fifth, and eighth album he released just before America joined the Allies for the second World War. The memories of the spinning record were vivid in Ignacio's mind. Summer of ‘30, when Ignacio was 13, Lalo Salamanca had taken the world by storm with his ethereal voice, and his iconic moustache. The new era of music: Jazz. Although the genre had existed since early-19th century, Lalo Salamanca had helped popularised it beyond the streets of New Orleans. It was absurd to think that Lalo had stepped foot on the same place as Ignacio—now Ignacio got to meet the very man of jazz himself.
The house would echo with his lively trumpets and sweeping violins in the afternoon, only to fade into slow, melancholic melodies by nightfall. His mother was obsessed. To the point where his father had to jump in the Salamanca love-train as well. She said the singer made her feel seen, represented, giving that they all shared the same ethnicity—in a country where they were treated like an afterthought. Ignacio understood it.
And Ignacio may or may not had memorised the lyrics to some of his songs too. He couldn't help it. They were good. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud to his mother. He wouldn't hear the end of it.
Ignacio had refused to join the audition countless times. He had always treated his ability to play the piano and singing as private things—his things. Not meant for the world to see. And certainly not for someone as famous as Lalo to see.
But when he looked at his mother that day, he saw the spark in her brown eyes. Alight with such oblivious hope, something tugged at his chest. Now standing there with the envelope in his hands as he rubbed the back of his head. His fingertips prickled by the velvety buzz of his hair. Perhaps, it was time for a change.
"I ... I got in."
"Oh!" His mother giggled while hopping like a bunny. Sometimes, Ignacio forgot that she was supposed to be 57 years old. That got Ignacio to crack the tiniest smile and he ended up in his mother's embrace. "This is wonderful news! It's about time you put that talent to a good use, sweetheart. Let the whole world see what a talented musician you truly are."
"Now, ma." Ignacio pulled away, already regretting his choices. "This is just a tour around the country. I'm not about to perform for the King of England."
"It's a start," his mother said with certainty. "Besides, this can get you out of the restaurant for a while. You've been working on that darn place your whole life. You deserve to be out there."
Ignacio furrowed his brows in confusion. "Are you firing me right now, ma?"
"Oh, don't be so silly." His mother waved a dismissive hand. "What I meant to say is, I don't want me to be the reason why you're not exploring the world outside of New Orleans. You're still young, my darling. This is the golden age where you create memories and live life to the fullest!"
For Ignacio, 30 years old wasn't so young anymore. He couldn't afford the luxury to be curious the way young people could. It was already too late for him to do anything remarkable in his life. Hence why he was stuck in this place he called home. Most of his friends from college had already moved abroad, likely inventing life-changing technologies while Ignacio was busy baking his mother's signature bunuelos in the kitchen. Ignacio looked around the living room, searching for ideas to make excuses, grasping at anything that might keep him tethered to the dull life he was too familiar with. Yet, the only thing that stared back at him first was the vibrant Salamanca's 'Lonesome By Yourself?' album. Curse that man.
"The supplies and ingredients. Who's going to stock 'em up?" Ignacio tried.
"Carlos can do that."
"Yeah, but you know Carlos ain't strong enough to carry those crates of corn flour all by himself. And the stove? That old thing is so sensitive. I am the only one who always have to fix it."
"I've been running that place for over twenty years. I've dealt worse than a busted stove. Remember that one time we had a raccoon loose in the pantry?"
"Ma ..." Ignacio whined as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mrs. Bradbury is going to be mad when she comes in and doesn't see me behind the counter. She'll miss my flautas like crazy! Two months is not a short time."
His mother sighed, and her face softened. Ignacio knew by then that reasoning with her would do no good when she pulled that expression. He had to look away, to brace himself for what was about to escape her tinted lips. Something about father. Something about being proud. The deadly words to get Ignacio to believe that life had meanings. Ignacio hated hearing them.
"You remember the day your father brought home the baby grand," his mother mused. The reminisce had begun. "I remember asking him if he'd lost his mind—how in the world were we going to fit a grand piano in our little house? But he just patted the lid, said, 'This is for Ignacio. He'll play for us every night, just you wait.'"
Ignacio had been fifteen years old then. He remembered telling his father about his desire to become a well-known pianist. A naïve, childhood dream. To be frank, Ignacio didn't really mean anything by it. It wasn't supposed to come true, that dream. But his father always granted whatever Ignacio had wished for. Spoiling him. He could still picture it: the glossy black piano standing proudly in the corner of their cramped living room, looking almost too grand for the modest space. Stuck out like the sorest of thumb. His father would sit beside him, guiding his hands over the keys, humming softly as Ignacio played.
"He loved to hear you play," his mother continued. "Every night, after dinner, he'd sit in that old sofa of his. The red one with the squeaky legs. He'd close his eyes, just listening. He never said much, just smiled like he had everything he ever wanted in life."
Sometimes, when Ignacio struggled with a piece, his father would lean forward, open his eyes, and say, "Take your time, mijo. The music will come when it's ready."
But there was no time left.
No music waiting to be played. No father sitting in the sofa.
"You leaving for a couple of months isn't going to be the end of us." His mother smiled tenderly. "And it's certainly not going to be the end of you."
The familiar hand of his mother reached out to touch his face. He leaned into the contact and revelled in the sensation of warm fingers against his skin. A slight tremble. And Ignacio closed his eyes. Soft tunes from the piano carried him away—to a place where everything was right, and everything was sound.
"Oh, your father would be so proud of you right now."
There it was. The killing words.
But, Ignacio never said that the words never work on him.
So, he opened his eyes and looked at his beloved mother once more. His tired brown eyes matched hers, and he whispered, "I know."
An autumnal chill of early-October evening prickled the skin of Ignacio's exposed arms. The window of his second-hand 1939 Ford was down as he cruised his dead-quiet town of nothingness but a few stores and miles and miles of deserted roads. The houses lining in the streets nearly got the same format, built in the same predictable style that defined these rural Belle Chasse neighbourhoods. Some were compact yet spacious Cape Cods, with their slightly rotten wooden shutters, and the unkempt grasses that were browning hideously. Others were low-slung, big windows Ranch-style homes that overlooked the space where families gathered. Blissfully unaware of what the outside world had to offer. Many of the houses had unruly front yard swamped by mulberries and wild roses. They had surrendered over time to keep the flowers bloom a lush red, thinking that they had no one to please anyway. Somewhere in the distance, a radio crackled from an open window, playing a tune so faint and warbled by the wind that Ignacio didn't bother to decipher what was said.
This was it, the stretch of endless horizon unfolding in front of him was his entire life. His home. In this rural outskirt of Belle Chasse where he had driven down a hundred times before, the same buildings he had passed since childhood, the same familiar dead ends. Even when he thought there was a crack of a new light—it disappeared before it had the chance to blind him with hopes.
The more he looked, the more he wondered why he chose to stay. Driving in the shadow of this old town. Did he hate it? Not quite. 'There's no place like home.' True that. But, if he was given an option to live anywhere he'd say New York City or Hollywood or somewhere that had the glamorous lifestyle. Swimming in pools the size of an elementary school, having parties in royal ballrooms, and drinking champagne that cost a year of Ignacio's life-saving. Opposed to what his parents preferred. They had always preferred the quiet life, away from the bustling crowds of the city. After all, Papa had to work at the Naval Air Station, so they weren't given the choice to live somewhere else in the first place. And Mama had to work at her restaurant. However, at the end of the day, they'd come back to the same house downtown where everything was peaceful.
Ignacio envied his parents. He was envious with their masteries of making the trivial things so important. He wished he could see it too.
Changing lane to enter a flyover heading to the main road, Ignacio tried to give the moment a chance. He gazed at the sky that hung white jewels on a blanket of pitch darkness. Ignacio found it: the transition from his town to the city would always be the little thing Ignacio loved most on a daily basis. He was eternally grateful that his mother's restaurant was far from his home, giving him a reason to waste his days, noons, nights away when he finished his shift. He hated going back home so soon.
That was one of the few things he appreciated in his life. Other than his car that we worked tirelessly to own, the baby grand, and the hand-made leather bracelet that his father gave him when he was a kid.
Then he saw it—Lalo Salamanca's face, plastered across a towering signboard. The advertisement glowed under the streetlights, his image larger than the damn state itself. Lalo stood poised in a pristine white suit. The background was plain black with a stylized, spotlighted stage. His grin was effortless, the kind that made people believe he had never known sorrow. A microphone was clutched in one hand, his other pointed to the audience which was the people who drove past the signboard. His dark eyes stared back at Ignacio's.
Beside him, in bold, yellow letters, the text read:
"When home is far away, we bring the strength of home to them."
Ignacio saw that man more than his own father. He was everywhere. In the living room, in the city, even in his dreams. An unavoidable reminder of what lay ahead.
Past the row of billboards, the city loomed in the distance. Its skyline a blend of old and new. When the war fell upon them, the city had served as a Port of Embarkation for thousands of soldiers, hosted multiple military installations or training facilities, overall a major contributor to the war effort. The industrial skeleton still stood, massive warehouses with soot-stained windows, smokestacks that had, for years, exhaled clouds of war-bound labour into the sky.
But the war was over.
Now, the city was something else entirely. Something beautiful. Something alive.
The grey haze from factories that choked the air had lifted. The scene was replaced by the warm glow of streetlights and the brilliance of newly opened shops. Various memorials had been erected throughout the metro area to celebrate the legacy of World War II veterans. There were people everywhere, no longer just workers in coveralls trudging between shifts, but families strolling along sidewalks, young couples walking hand in hand, laughter echoing from diners and theatre halls.
Music was everywhere too. From the open windows of apartments where radios hummed the latest jazz to downtown bars where local bands played late into the night. That post-war energy as if the city had collectively taken a deep breath and finally exhaled.
In the car, Ignacio wished his father was still alive and could see them all.
Ignacio gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Then, he realised he had arrived at the restaurant. It happened a lot, these brief moments of dissociation. Ignacio thought it was normal, so he never went to the doctor to ask what was wrong. A red neon sign read, Ruben's Haven at the entryway. A two-storey, brick-walled building that had been around for decades. The family on his mother's side had been working on this restaurant for many generations since the early 1900s—bringing Mexican delights on the American soil.
It was Saturday, so the restaurant was rightfully packed by the time Ignacio went through the bronze grille door. There were throng of adults sitting near the door to the kitchen area, all of them eating what appeared to be chicken enchiladas. Carlos, his cousin, peered at Ignacio through a small opening from the kitchen area, and signalled him to hurry. Full house, Ignacio knew by the gesture. He immediately put on his apron and got to work. Customers were chatting loudly, leafing through the menus, smoking. Both the smoke from cigarettes and from steaming food filled the air, emerging into a chaotic aroma of lung cancer and hungry stomachs.
No entertainers for tonight. Ignacio noted.
The family's old grand piano sat idly at the corner where a small stage was placed. Usually, singers and musicians would fill the place with their mesmerising music. Jazz, rhythm and blues, soul, whatever that could accompany customers through their meals in a euphoric atmosphere.
Ignacio had played on that piano more times than he could remember. It was given to him. The pianist of the family. But he wasn't hateful when it was borrowed to someone else. As long as the piano was there, Ignacio was glad.
The New York Times had once named the place as the second "Most Unique" restaurant in America. The first one was an Italian restaurant owned by a world-class Italian chef, so Ignacio knew they stood no chance. Though second-best wasn't all that bad. Word spread fast, and suddenly, the restaurant had become a tourist attraction and not just the typical local Mexican place to eat. Outsiders came looking for the location they had read about, eager to experience the authenticity. Journalists followed, eager to dig into the story of its origins. The title sure had put them on the map. It was both a blessing and a curse at the same time.
Ignacio floated through the night dreamily. He could do his entire routine with no brainpower and with his eyes closed; taking orders. Sorry, we ran out of those. Sorry, we're not serving that tonight. Cooking in the kitchen. The stone oven was on the far-left corner, the walk-in cooler was on the right, the service area was just beside the door. You need to sauté those potatoes for five more minutes, Dorothy. Need them to be golden brown. Carlos, where's the lamb sauce? Mateo, table 8 asked for more sour cream. Come on, people. Look alive! Serving customers. Oh, this is not your order? Alright, sir. I'll be right back with your glass of water. Billing them. There were occasions where the privileged customers tried to negotiate the price, saying that Mexican food should be cheaper, and Ignacio always countered them politely despite wanting to punch their faces. Instead, wishing them a good night and telling them to dine in again soon.
All of that routine while his head was high in the clouds.
On this particular night, his mind kept tracing the cursive lines of the invitation card, the word tour was mentally highlighted.
After what felt like forever, it was time for Ignacio to take a break. The chattering outside had quiet down a bit when most big families had left the premise, stomach filled, satisfied. Ignacio was drinking a glass of water in the kitchen when the phone rang. He mentally groaned—of course the only time he was on a break someone had to call.
He went to pick it up, and he answered using his everyday-professional voice. "Evening, you're calling Ruben's Haven. How can I be at your service?"
"Ignacio," The man on the other line said. His tone was easy, and smooth. It was Dog.
Ignacio eased his shoulders. He switched off his professionalism. "Hey, Dog. What's up?"
"Tried calling your place first, but no answer. Then I remembered; you always take extra shifts on Saturdays."
"Yeah, covering for Ma. She deserves a day off." He rubbed his temple. "So, why you calling, pal?"
"The Salamanca Tour." A pause, and then Dog exhaled, like he was grinning. "I got in."
"You're kidding."
"Nah, man. I'm holding the invitation card in my hand right now."
"Shit." A sharp laugh left Ignacio. "Me too."
"No way!" Dog let out a thunderous laughter. "Well, would you look at that? Who would've thought, huh?"
This whole ordeal should've excited Ignacio like it did Dog. He should've jumped out of joy the moment he saw that he was accepted. Ignacio was one lucky bastard. Always got what he wanted yet he was always ungrateful for all the good things that were thrown at him. A familiar weight pressing against his ribs; the same one that always came when something seemed too good to be true.
Because that's exactly what this was, wasn't it? Too good to be true.
And absolutely nothing that was too good to be true lasted. They'd eventually rot, fade, forgotten, dead.
So, why hope?
The future untangled in front of him. He'd pack his bags, board the train, and step into a world that wasn't meant for someone like him. When he got on stage, he'd messed up a chord, he'd be belittled, he'd be a disappointment for his family. All while standing next to men and women who had spent their whole lives shining under stage lights, people who belonged there, while he fumbled behind them behind the velvety curtains. A mistake. And Lalo Salamanca would take one look at him and wonder why the hell he'd been invited in the first place.
Ignacio tightened his hold around the cord, swallowing hard. He should back out before it was too late. Save himself the trouble, the inevitable disappointment.
"But ..." His voice came quieter, more hesitant. "Do you really think I should go?"
Dog on the other hand wasn't hesitant. "Hell yes, Ignacius! A big fat yes! You ain't passing an opportunity like this one. I'll make sure you get on board on that train with me, whether you like it or not."
Quiet.
"So," Dog continued after some time, "how do you wanna celebrate? I'm in the city right now. I just signed us up for a show at House of Cards. For old time's sake?"
Ignacio scoffed. "We just did a show two weeks ago. That ain't 'old times.'"
"C'mon, let me be dramatic."
A smirk formed on his lips despite himself. The grin in Dog's voice could still be heard. "Alright, alright. I'll see you tonight," Ignacio said, then swore under his breath as he glanced through the service window. "Shit. Mrs. Bradbury and her family are asking for a second plate of my signature."
"Best damn chef in that restaurant, bud. No wonder they're asking for seconds."
"Alright, enough with your excessive flattery. Talk soon."
"See ya, Ignacius."
Ignacio hung up, staring at the phone for a moment. He wiped the greasy residue from his hands onto his trousers, letting himself be soaked into the conversation again.
That was pretty much his routine. After working his ass off, him and Dog would do small shows in local pubs and jazz bars. They'd sing, dance, play music to get some extra pocket money. Over the years, they had become quite-known around town. But they never went beyond. The two of them did it just for the fun of it. Ignacio never deemed himself as a big-time musician anyway.
He looked at the menu that he had handed customers again, and again. Every word, every recipe had been burned in the back of his head, leaving deep, permanent marks that he could never get rid of. No doubt that when the time came for him to leave this Earth and life flashed before his eyes, he'd recite the recipes instead of remembering his loved ones. 'Sauté jalapeños with lime and soy sauce, tomatoes, onions, cilantro, fried pork skins cook in a spicy tomatillo sauce. Not now, Mama. I need to impress the Grim Reaper so that he doesn't take my soul away so soon.'
He had handed them to familiar faces, sometimes for foreigners completely. They have travelled from all across the world——France, Britain, Vietnam—places where Ignacio knew he'd never stepped foot on. Places he only saw in books, and holiday flyers. Hell, he never truly left New Orleans. 30 years in and the furthers he went was to Colorado to go on a hike with his father a few years back.
With the knowledge of his good friend joining along for the journey, he supposed this whole trip won't be so bad after all. Ignacio needed to get out of that god-forsaken place anyway.
Every day he woke up, he looked at the same thing.
This time he wanted it to be different.
And it all began with the invitation.
***
New York City, New York
"You better be on your best behaviour throughout this whole tour, Lalo."
Lalo sighed. His manager, Jimmy had been repeating the same warning over and over again. Lalo was convinced that Jimmy was telling that mantra to himself more than to him. Jimmy's office overlooked the busy roads of New York City. As busy and cramped as the room itself. Tall bookshelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling just filled with golden plaques and academy trophies of Lalo's. The walls adorned with an array of framed photographs of Lalo's journey to becoming the renowned singer that he was now. It was hard to believe some times that him and Jimmy had been working together for more than ten years.
Through thick and thin with this unscrupulous man dressed in a flashy suit-and-tie. His outfit, as always, was just a little too much—too bright, too patterned, too expensive-looking in a way that screamed trying too hard. Today, the suit was pinstriped, the lapels just a touch too wide, paired with a matching vest and a tie that didn't quite complement the rest. Contrary to Lalo who preferred simple, soft-coloured buttoned-down shirt. And if he was feeling bold, he'd wear shirts with the ones that had floral pattern on them.
It took a few more minutes of rambling before Lalo finally got the chance to speak. He fixed his posture in his seat and said, "You worry too damn much, Jim. You're going to grow more wrinkles than I do. And we're the same age!"
"I had to scour some nobodies to form your little jazz band. Not because our own band literally left because of you, but because oh, we're doing this for the veterans and to shine some spotlight to these musicians that think this tour is going take them big places! We're back to square one, thanks to you."
"Aye, aye, I'm not all at fault here. You said it yourself that we needed a fresh start anyway, no? Besides, Franco has gotten rusty with his trombone, anyway."
"Oh, don't give me that." Jimmy swatted a hand. "You know exactly what you did. And this isn't about finding fresh talent. It's about cleaning up your image. Again."
Lalo rolled his shoulders, stretching out like a cat. "Is it so hard to believe I actually want to do this tour? Play for the boys in uniform. To bring hope. Not because of the complications I had with Franco."
"Yeah, buddy. Keep telling that to yourself."
Lalo's smile faltered briefly. But Jimmy caught it.
"It's a win-win situation, Jim," Lalo countered. "They get music. I get a fresh start. We all go home happy."
Jimmy scoffed while shaking his head. "Exactly. 'Fresh start'. You're ought to make good headlines this time. I'm done cleaning up after your mess. For crying out loud, I'm your manager. Not your babysitter."
"Isn't that your job?"
"My job is to make you look good. While you stay out of trouble."
"It wasn't even that bad—"
Jimmy raised a hand up. "Just save it for later. Let's go meet your new amigos. Let's hope you're not sleeping with anybody's wives this time."
Lalo forced out a laugh, leaning back into his seat as Jimmy stood and headed towards the door.
That left Lalo to contemplate for some minutes. He hated bathing in silence, afraid of what his mind would do if it consumed his body entirely. Million thoughts that he wished he could destroy was beginning to paralyse him. Lalo gazed outside the small window of this messy office. His face on a billboard stared back at him with a sickeningly-huge grin.
The fakest grin Lalo had ever seen on someone's face. And that was his own.
He gripped the hand rests briefly before pushing himself up.
He put on his public smile—the same one he put up on that billboard.
Guilt would not purify him.
But perhaps, this tour could.
Passengers bundled coats and scarves around themselves to warm up the early-October coldness at the train station. The sky was silver-white and cloudless. They all rushed into their respective carriages, bidding farewells to loved ones, and promising to see each other again soon.
The American Pullman was the most luxurious train the era had ever witnessed. Its exterior was a masterpiece of its own. Large arched window frames with mahogany panelling that offered a glimpse of the splendour inside. Lalo had been in this train for many times but each time felt like the first. As though he was stepping into Gatsby's mansion. Entering the longue area for VIPs where the interiors were as lavish. Delicate etched-glass partitions separated private booths, allowing for quiet conversations while still letting the golden glow of the chandeliers on the ceiling to spill through. A minibar stood at the far end where a bartender in a white tuxedo polished champagne glasses with measured precision.
There were already two men and four gorgeous women sat waiting for the arrival of The Great Lalo Salamanca. The new band members. The women squealed, the two men nudged each other's shoulders. They all seemed eager. So passionate. So full of life. Lalo resented them.
He observed the foreign, young faces. The faces that Lalo would see and talk to for the next two months every day, every night. One by one, they all introduced themselves with such rehearsed modesty that Lalo could not help but to appreciate the effort.
Domingo—or Mingo as he'd liked people to call him was the first one Lalo noticed straight away. A Mexican and he was the double bassist. Late-20s. His black hair was neatly trimmed. Beard was also clean. His nose had a slight bend, like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. Kind, dark eyes. He spoke slow, so Lalo had to lean in a bit to hear what he was saying. But Lalo looked forward to their friendship.
Heath, an Englishman. Tall, broad-shouldered. Brown hair that was a little tousled, the type of messy that was intentional. He made it known first thing that he was a cocky son of a gun, with his mildly attractive face, and his paper-white teeth. A man who knew that he was good at what he was doing. The trombonist. How nice, just like Lalo's old pal, Franco.
Then there the dazzling chorus girls. A small group originated from Minnesota. Diamond Dollies as they called themselves. It shouldn't be something to point out but—Lalo still mentally pointed out that none of them had wedding rings on. Not that Lalo would want to try any of them anyway. No, they ain't his type. No matter how pretty.
Amber, dark auburn hair that framed her fair, freckled face in soft waves. The bangs that covered her forehead was a bit uneven—must've cut it herself. Adorable. Her green eyes preferred to dart at the ground rather than meeting another person's eyes. A shy one. In contrast to the next lady named Nikki. She had the confidence of a woman who knew she could hold a man's gaze and make him forget what he was supposed to say. But Lalo always knew what to say. And he craved a challenge. She was blonde with deep blue eyes. Lalo could sense that she'd do something bold in the future. Lalo would be waiting for it.
Joanne or Jo, was Chinese-American. She wasn't loud like Nikki, nor shy like Amber. She was laid-back and had no worries in the world. Black hair tied to a neat bun, round face with high cheekbones. The last girl was Mary, the shortest. Fair-skinned, bold makeup that defined her pointy nose. She was like a mixture of all the girls because Lalo couldn't quite pin-point who she was as a person. Not that was a bad thing at all. Perhaps she was still in search of herself. Whatever it was, Lalo hoped she'd find it.
The ladies were darn lovely. The gents were cultured. What a unique group Jimmy had form here. Props to him, truly.
"We have two more of our performers here ..." Jimmy trailed off, trying to read the names in the list, "... Ignacio Varga and Dog Paulson."
"We're here!" A voice declared from the doorway. Everyone turned their attention to the two gentlemen who just entered the car. Both were sharply dressed in tailored suits, two briefcases in each hand. The taller, blond man also carried a saxophone case. He was the one who announced their presence, and a shorter one pursued behind him. Lalo couldn't see his face because it was hidden behind his black fedora hat.
"We apologise for our inconvenience," the blond man said in sophistication. Immediately, Lalo could see that he was a Hollywood-star kind of handsome. The kind of face that you'd turn your head back for a second look when you walked past him. He had smooth, fair skin, sharp but boyish features. Slim-built, almost six feet tall. He reached out a hand to shake with Jimmy. "I'm Dog. Dog Paulson. You see, there was a bit of trouble on our way here. A herd of cows got loose and the main road was blocked. Our cab had to take the longer route."
"Ah!" Jimmy let out his professional laugh. The kind that could mean either, 'I don't believe you.' Or 'I don't give a shit.' Lalo could never differentiate between the two. Hell, if the term pettiness was a person, it'd be Jimmy McGill.
"Ignacio Varga," the second man said simply as he shook hands with Jimmy as well. Unlike Dog's out-going demeanour, this man carried himself with something more restrained. Another Mexican, Lalo thought. Already, he felt like he was back home in Chihuahua. For a split second, Lalo wondered what his parents were up to. He hadn't seen them in so long. Then again, they didn't miss him as much as he missed them.
The brief pondering wasn't enough to distract him from the dark eyes with beautifully natural long eyelashes of Ignacio's. A faded scar on his left brow, sparking instant curiosity within Lalo. But they met each other too soon to learn about each other's flaws. Perhaps he did something heroic like falling off a tree and hit his head after trying to save a kitten that was stuck on a branch. His bottom lip was naturally puckered as if inviting for a kiss or some sort. It looked soft. Tempting. His fedora hat covered his head, but Lalo could tell that the man had short hair, buzzed maybe. Or bald entirely. Lalo didn't mind. Squared jaw, and a little beard on his chin. He was the shortest out of all the men in the carriage. But taller than all the ladies. And the line of his shoulders, correlated with his lean hips. Loose pants, but the suit fitted him well.
When he went to shake Lalo's hand, the sleeve of his blazer was pulled up slightly, revealing a leather bracelet underneath. Firm hand, Lalo noted. This man was exotic, to the say the least. Erotic, was the better word to describe him. The ladies were already gushing about Dog, but Lalo was a lot more interested with the man in front of him. It's not every day you see a gentleman that carries himself so uniquely. Ignacio did just that. Lalo appreciated the choice of characteristics.
"It's an honour to be working with you, Mr. Salamanca," Dog said diplomatically.
Lalo held a hand up in protest. "The honour's all mine, gentlemen. And ladies." Lalo turned to the girls and gave them a wink, earning a shy giggle from them. The two gents greeted the others, exchanging handshake and pleasant compliments. At last, they settled to sit nearest where Lalo was standing.
"You wanna give some inspirational words to these people?" Jimmy whispered beside Lalo. "Make them like you or something?"
"They already like me enough, Jimmy," Lalo whispered back.
"Not after the rumours, no."
Lalo shot Jimmy a glare to which Jimmy just shrugged. Of course, Jimmy wouldn't let go of the topic for as long as they both lived.
A sharp clap of his hands drew the room's attention, and Lalo stood tall with a grin. None of them were giving any sign of mockery or hostility. Jimmy was wrong then. People loved Lalo. "Matter of fact, I get to be on stage with a bunch of talented people such as all of you. It's a noble act to do what we do here, folks. Out there, men are getting drafted, taken from their families, their sweethearts, their homes. Some bravely volunteered. Some had no choice. All to fight for this country. But all of them—everyone deserves to be reminded of what they're fighting to come back to. Joy. Music. Hope. So, our job here is to bring it to them. As long as a man has the strength to dream, nothing can stop him. I truly believe we can make some real changes here. During these dark times, we're here to shine them some light."
Everyone nodded in unison, mumbling in agreement. The girls watched Lalo with admiration in their glistening eyes, the men did too.
Lalo was so lost in the glory of pride that he almost missed it.
The subtle eye roll from Ignacio.
He laughed faintly in disbelief. Pointing a finger to the man, Lalo was about to ask him what was the matter when the train let out a defeating horn. A staff member shouted, "The train will now depart to Miami!" Then, the door was closed shut.
Jimmy cleared his throat. "Alright. Thank you for that very inspirational speech, Lalo. Now, I'm going to give you people the overview of this whole tour. First thing first, we'll be on our way to Miami and we're going to rehearse the basics all of our little happy songs and choreographies in just a week. So, I'm going to need you guys to cooperate. Then, we'll do the rest on the road to different states. We're going to do multiple shows a day at airfields, military bases, hospitals, camps. And also, for the socialites on grand theatres, bars, and pubs, whatever. There will be a lot of eyes on you folks. One bad performance means hundred bad crosses on my behalf and Mr. Salamanca's. So, yeah. Have fun but not too much fun. We got to cheer some faces up. To give lights on the darkest days as Mr. Salamanca stated just now. Any questions?"
The lounge room turned silent. Lalo glanced at Ignacio, who was whispering something to Dog. They seemed close. They came here together too. Good friends? Hopefully just that.
One of the ladies—the blonde one, Nikki if Lalo remembered raised a hand but Jimmy dismissed it with a clear of a throat. "No questions? Good. I'll be on the next car if you folks need anything."
Jimmy walked away. "Ugh, rude!" Mary said, trying to console her friend.
Poor Nikki, Lalo spared some sympathy. Dog was laughing at something he said at Ignacio now. They were still in the same topic as they were discussing early. Ignacio nodded along as if he was focusing on the words too hard that he forgot to understand them. He chuckled eventually. Slow, and calculated. Lalo approached the two with heavy steps. Ignacio's laughter quiet down, and he squirmed a little when Lalo squeezed next to him. The seat too small for them both to sit comfortably. Their clothed-thighs pressed together, and Lalo sort of wished there were nothing but bare skin between them.
Lalo wistfully misinterpreted Ignacio's annoyed expression as a way to be included in the conversation. "Ignacio Varga, correct?" He asked. The name left a sweet sensation on his tongue.
"Yes," Ignacio replied. The same expression plastered on his face. He had this profound, elusive sadness about him which Lalo recognised slowly as an emotion he possessed years ago that he didn't dare to have again. He was tired of seeing the frown from Jimmy all day, and the frown from Ignacio wasn't making his own day any brighter.
"You're the pianist?" Another yes. "A big role you're assigned here, you see. The backbone of the band. Without you, we're just group of people trying to perform a soulless choir. You got to put a smile for these men, Mr. Varga. But, you got to put a smile on yourself first."
They stared at each other for a moment. Unmoving. Ignacio looked directly at him in a way that nobody else had ever done before. Lalo had meant to dismiss this whole interaction by standing up, and walked away like Jimmy did. But now, in some gnarling sense of bravery, he stayed put. It never crossed his mind that someone else would feel miserable about this tour as much as him. Should that knowledge comfort him? Knowing that he wasn't alone was always a good thing. Anyone else would be over the moon for chances like this; to perform in front of an audience. Cherry on top with Lalo Salamanca by your side too. Then, why did Ignacio seem so blue?
"Come on," Lalo said, leaning forward just a little. "Smile for me."
Lalo was aware that his demand was foolish. Ignacio was surely aware about it too. But, Ignacio pretended to consider—eyes narrowed, mouth drawn to a straight line. A teaser, this one. Would like a challenge? Fine.
"Fellas!" Lalo addressed dramatically to everyone in the room. All of them turned to Lalo and Ignacio. "Your poor friend, Mr. Varga here's not too thrilled to be with us. What do we say we give some encouragement, aye? We certainly don't want any gloomy spirits to be in our tour. Oh, no, no, no. It could ruin everything!"
"Sir, that won't be necessary—" Ignacio's stoic expression was mauled by a built-up embarrassment. The faintest pretty pink crept up his cheeks.
"Oh, lighten up, mate," Heath was the first one to speak. "You're living the dream. People would sell their teeth to play second fiddle to Mr. Salamanca."
"Yes, darling," Nikki chimed. "You get to share a train with Mr. Salamanca and rehearse with us? Darling, you're practically in showbiz heaven. If I were you, I'd be smiling until my cheeks hurt."
Amber, gentle and sweet had said, "It's quite alright to be nervous. First days are always strange. But it gets easier."
The other also muttered their senses to Ignacio who sunk deeper into his seat. Most people would feel guilty about putting someone unwilling on the spot like this, but Lalo never claim to not be cruel.
"Stop this," Ignacio whispered desperately to Lalo whilst blushing furiously now. The flush deepened even more as he said the next words, "And I'll smile for you."
Lalo's smug grew wider until his tongue got caught between his teeth. He was pleased. Beyond pleased.
"Thank you for your help, fellas," Lalo said. "I think we've accomplished something marvellous today. You can cure a man's sadness with collective bullying. We make a one good team!"
A wave of laughter rolled through the room. Some leftover remarks were thrown, 'If you can play half as well as you sulk, we're in good hands.' And, 'Cheer up this is a musical tour not a prison sentence.' When everyone had finally diverted their attention away, Lalo waited for Ignacio's next move.
Slowly, Ignacio's lips curved on one side before the other. Finally, a full, boyish smile. Lalo wanted to do something to this lovely face of his that would make it impossible for him ever again to smile at anyone the way he was smiling at Lalo.
"There you go!" Lalo beamed. He wrapped an arm around Ignacio's shoulder, subtly pulling him closer. He rocked Ignacio side to side as if they've been the best of friends for a long time. The pretty pink had spread on his neck, and Lalo wanted to catch it with his mouth. "You can light up a whole room just by doing that."
"I'll be sure to smile more often," Ignacio said in a monotonous voice. His impassive expression was back.
Something about Ignacio Varga invited a curiosity within him. And what Lalo most unexpected was the man's voice; so tender, soft-spoken, despite his hard-mannered look. Lalo didn't realise he was chuckling out loud at the thought.
Ignacio heard that and he turned to Lalo, his eyes were wide even when he wasn't trying to make them. "Pardon me," Lalo said as he stood up. He fixed his suit and chose to move to his private room. When he reached the door, he glanced at Ignacio over his shoulder once more.
Ignacio was still watching him.
Lalo smiled. Ignacio Varga, I won't let you be sad for too long. For someone like you deserve to be dreamful. I'll carry your sadness as it is my duty as an entertainer. As for you, you just have fun.