Stopped at the Light
The air outside my car registers a scorching 91 degrees. Nevertheless, there is a team of performers and street vendors standing at the intersection of Via Espana and the little street with no name that is a short cut to Calle Samuel Lewis. It is 12:00 noon, and they are all trying to make a buck.
Waves of heat rise from the asphalt as the three lanes of this short block fill with the exhaust of about thirty cars, dump trucks, and motorcycles, many without mufflers. Diesel smoke billows into the air, carpeting cars and people with a fine layer of black soot that dulls clothes.
The air and heat deter no one. A trio effortlessly meanders through the mix of taxis and trucks with windows wide open and cars with their darkly tinted windows shut tight.
Inside my car, it is a very pleasant eighty-two, just enough air so that upon opening my door, I won’t swoon from the slap of stifling air against my face.
Rolling my window down to hear better, I reflexively reach into my purse, never taking my eyes off the light. The great part about keeping a soft cotton purse is that everything falls to the bottom. It’s a colorful sack with a traditional textile called a mola. I feel around for my wallet, finding the hard, chiseled edges of my keys first. Then my fingers become entangled with several receipts I intend to throw away. Finally, I retrieve my coin purse, pull out a handful of one-dollar coins called Martinelli’s, and place them on the smooth plastic console of my car.
I wonder aloud, “How can they stand the heat, hour after hour?” But I know they will all be there until they have nothing left to sell or lack the strength to play another note. Just the thought of it makes me perspire, and I redirect the vent’s airstream towards me.
Horripilation heaven. I love the chills I get when my damp skin reacts to the sensation of cool air across it. However, goosebumps can reach a point where the reaction almost hurts. When that threshold is approaching, I turn the fan back from five to two.
Today, a bandoneon player is serenading me. Anyone looking at the instrument would assume that it is an accordion. Actually, it’s a lighter-weight cousin that has a hard grill, making it durable even in Panama’s humid climate. The exterior is smooth and it’s as highly polished as a prized bowling ball.
The hot air around us seems to cause notes to hang in the air longer, like they were playing tag with the next musical phrase, trying to catch it.
Based on the ballad he was playing, I would guess his family came from the mountains in the Interior, about a two-hour drive west of the city. The people who created this music peppered it with shouts and whistles that could be heard from one valley to the next. It makes the composition sound like a marvelous combination of yodeling mixed with rueful tales of bravery and sweet-talking apologies for misbehavior. And it’s all set to a toe-tapping rhythm.
Initially, the chords and the vocals seem at odds with one another. Then the lyric reveals a conversation between a husband and his exasperated wife.
He asks, “How can the queen of my home not forgive the man who fought the very devil to keep her safe?” The wife responds, “Oh, is that why you’ve been gone for three days and smell like rum?”
When the chorus explodes, I watch the crowd. Everyone within earshot mouths the last line and smiles. “Will she forgive him? Oh please, yes. Because without her, he’s a sad, sorry mess.”
