The East Side train was not quite an appropriate carriage for such a flaca tan linda, but she rode the ske-dat-tlin’ bobbin’ train as if it were the QE 2. At 86th Street she ran into a mess of young brothahs who callt to her, whispered, whistled, circled her, ran up behind her, got close enough to smell her, made her change her direction once or twice, til they realized she was determined to walk up the steps to the Corso and they couldn’t, cause they had rubber-soled shoes. We all knew you can’t wear rubber-soled shoes on the glorious floor of the Corso. So, cariña, the young girl who looked so beautiful, she looked almost as lovely as you do now, chica. She sashayed by the bar, through the tables crowded with every kinda Latin ever heard of, and stationed herself immediately in front of El Maraquero in the aqua lamé suit. Oigame, negreta. His skin was smooth as a star-strewn portegria night, see, like me, negra. Put your hand right there by my chin. Now, his bones jut through this face with the grace of Arawak deities. Like that, see. Now, run your fingers through my mustache porque his lips blessed the universe with a hallowed, taunting voice; high, high como a cherub, yes, a Bronx boy on a rooftop serenading his amante, sí. The way I speak to you, now, sí. This young girl was mesmerized. She was how you say when you bein’ bourgesa, “smitten,” right? No, don’t move your fingers from my lips, not yet. But the most remarkable feature of el maraquero, what did her in, as we say, had the young pussy justa twitchin’, ha, was el ritmo of the maracas in his hands. Ba-ba-ba/baba…Ba-ba-ba/baba. Oh, she could barely stand the tingling sounds so exact every beat, like an unremitant, mira, an unremitant waterfall, Ba-ba-ba/baba…Ba-ba-ba/baba…Ba-ba-ba/baba. Oh, she started to dance all by herself. It was as if your folks said the Holy Ghost done got holdt to her. She was flyin’ round them bambos, introducing steps the Yorubans had forgotten about. She conjured the elegance of the first danzón and mixed it with twenty-first-century Avenue D salsa. The girl was gone. No, dulce, don’t move your fingers. Here, let me kiss them. One by one. Cause that’s what happened to the beautiful mad dancin’ girl and our maraquero. For she was so happy movin’ to the music he was makin’ and she imagined he meant for this joy to overwhelm her. She started to cry ever so slightly. Let me kiss the other one. No not that one, the littlest one. With all her soul she thought he was tossin’ those maracas through the air for her. So naturally her tears fell on the beat. No, don’t laugh. Listen. Listen. The tears fell from her cheeks slowly and left aqua lamé streaks on her cheeks. Really. Then once they hit the floor; it was like a bolt of lightning hit El Maraquero, who jumped into an improvisation whenever one of them tears let go of that girl’s body. Soon it was she who was keepin’ el ritmo and he was out there on some maraquero’s sueño of a solo. Now you know, El Maraquero has to be disciplined. He’s gotta control, oh, the intricacies of Iberian and West African polyrhythms as they now exist in salsa music, right? Okay, let me have the other hand. No, I want to lick the palm of your other hand or I can’t finish the story. You want me to finish the story, don’t you? Well, good. Now I’ll have kissed all your fingers and your palms and the bend in your arm. So El Maraquero became agitated. He wanted to know where his sound had gone, and to be honest so did the rest of the orchestra. Well, he hadn’t noticed our beautiful young girl in her slips and organdy, her shoes with twirlin’ butterflies. He wasn’t like me, huh, he didn’t see the surrender in her dancin’ to his music. So he was astonished when he went to play and no sound came from the maracas. Our young girl, Liliane, who was so much like you, saw what he felt and she knew as he did not know that you do not own the beauty you create. Right, hear me. You don’t own the beauty. Oh, I wanta kiss one of those rose tits of yours. No, I’m not finished with the story. Yes, let me nearer. No, don’t move your fingers. El Maraquero is fuming. The young girl who’s been dancin’ and crying all filled up with something she can’t call by name ’cept to say that she likes it. She starts cryin’ inconsolably cuz El Maraquero has lost his music and she doesn’t know where it is ’cept that not owning beauty doesn’t mean you lose it. Well, let’s see that finger again. No, I want the next one. No don’t rush me. The young girl runs toward him and he’s really pissed. I mean, no, I’m not pissed, I’m lickin’ you, pendeja. He doesn’t understand that he’ll be playing no more music, no nothin’, til he accepts that this young girl in her frilly dress and mariposa slippers has got holdt to his music. She’s so upset about him not tink-tink-tink-tinktinkin’ for her. Out of desesperación she starts to sing to him and one by one the seeds that had been her tears that had been her legs and hips dancin’ to his ritmo all returned to the maracas and El Maraquero never lost sight of her again. Turn over. From then on, negrita, he played for his life every cancion, cada coro, cause his chabala would dance and cry his ritmo for him and then give it all back with her tears, her tears from feelin’ what she had no name for, had never felt before, and couldn’t do without. Right, Liliane, isn’t that how it is for you?