—Our anniversary was six months ago, she snapped back. —Besides, we have no money to be going out like that.

—Today is the day I fell in love with you. Shouldn‘t we celebrate that?

—Estàs loco. We never celebrated that before. Besides, how could you remember such a day?

Esperanza didn‘t understand why he was insisting. As if he knew. As if he wanted her to feel more ashamed over the debt she had acquired. If he looked at her for too long, he would know. She turned away from him.

—How could I forget? Santo said, grabbing on to her waist, pulling her in again. He thought back to the dreamer he once was, the kind of man who would give anything to mop the sweat off a stage after Tito Puente played the drums.

—I have to get up so early in the morning, Santo. We could go next week. We‘ll plan it better. But today is not a good day.

—Forget that I asked. Santo walked away, grabbed his car keys and coat, wondering what had happened to the woman he married. The Esperanza he met back in 1965 would‘ve joined him for a night of dancing and she would‘ve been excited about it too.

But 1965 was another time. Everything about 1965 was about today or never. Do or die. Who could‘ve thought of a tomorrow, when bullets were then showering the city of Santo Domingo? There was no time for contemplation, everything was urgent. And when Santo closed his eyes, the machine guns reminded him of the timbales and the cry of the women could‘ve easily been La Lupe from the stage at the Palladium.

Santo had first heard of the Palladium in ‘65. On Saturday nights, the radio broadcast live bands and Tito Puente dueled it out with Tito Rodriguez, when Dizzy Gillespie, Celia Cruz, Mongo Santamaria bumped beats against each other until the sun came up. Santo planned on boogalooing his way to hanging out with the Bang Bang crowd. Oh yes, thought Santo. The music had helped him forget that he was in the middle of a war.

Santo remembered the way Don Chan had him hold the globe in his hands when he was still too small to grab a bottle. Don Chan would say, —This is the world. This is where we are. And D.R. looked so small in the context of the world. Even the United States looked small compared to China. —Every time you feel claustrophobic, mijo, remember we‘re but a grain of sand in the desert. Santo was his captive listener.

All that talk about the world, and his father never ventured far from his campo. What good were all those geography lessons when he hadn‘t even made the trip to the Palladium? Ten years. A hundred and fifty blocks away. A fifteen-dollar cab fare. Eight, maybe nine miles. Esperanza was right; if it weren‘t for her, Santo would‘ve never left Los Llanos. But since their arrival in Nueva York, all she wanted to do was work.