The Last Dance

It was a warm Wednesday night in the Zocalo.  An excellent Danzon orchestra was playing 'Nereidas', which is traditionally the last dance of the evening.    I was absorbed in leading Adi with as much grace as I could master, when a new sound slowly emerged into my awareness. It was the bright syncopated chirps of claves, weaving their happy tempo above the measured notes of the orchestra.  The sound emanated from somwhere on the dance floor, and the musician was obscured by the other dancers.

"Could it be Manolo?" I asked Adi.

The sound drew nearer, and Manolo, the two short Mahogany sticks in his hands was standing next to us.  We last saw him more than two years ago, yet here he was, just as I remembered him.  A bit wrinkled, a bit bent, and with the same childish joy in his eyes.  We would have hugged him right then, but interrupting a dance is a serious breach of etiquette.  We continued to dance while Manolo circled around us, smiling and  marking the 2-3 rhythm with his claves.

Manolo was a good friend of Gabriel Domingo, the founder of the "Danzon Wednesday" event.  They both loved this  traditional dance.  Gabriel was the businessman and organizer, while Manolo worked the crowds.  Manolo, striking his cuban-made claves, would circulate among the dancers, and with great enthusiasm encourage the spectators to join in.  Together, they made Oaxaca one of the top Danzon spots in Mexico.  When Gabriel Domingo died, Manolo assumed the role of organizer and  master of ceremonies.  He was in that role when we  first arrived in Oaxaca, fell in love with the dance style, and became Danzoneros.  We, or more accurately, Adi, stood out among the dancers, and Manolo used us to promote the event.

"Danzon is international!" he would exclaim during a break in the music, "Here in the corner", he would continue, pointing at us, "wearing black, is a couple of dancers from South Korea!"

Adi would join her palms, raise her hands to her chest in the traditional Asian gesture, and smilingly bow to the cheering spectators.  Next summer, while we were traveling, Gabriel Domingo's daughter returned to Oaxaca to claim her father's event and the significant government subsidy that came with it.  Manolo was not allowed near the microphone, nor did the daughter give him the small amount that he used to receive from her father.  He stayed for a while, but eventually his spirit was broken.  When we came back to Oaxaca, he was not there.  We were told that he is ill, and staying in his distant home town.

The music ended with a flourish.  As we turned to hug Manolo, he was gone.  We looked around, but he was nowhere in sight.  Strangely, none of the other dancers has seen him.  A few days later, friends told us the sad news.  Despite his deteriorating condition, Manolo left the hospital and disappeared.  He was last seen Wednesday afternoon, walking on the road to Oaxaca.