As soon as the last words fell from the balcony, our Muñeco set the marching band in motion with an arrogant drumroll that reverberated across the rolling green school grounds. Such magnificent trumpets, such bold percussion, it was all-out, even the humble triangles with their thin glass voices seemed to shine.
And the haughtiest of all was their beautiful conductor, up front. Our Muñeco. Long rock star hair, chest puffed like a nobleman, an enviable blue blazer made taut by broad shoulders and a formidable back. He was something to see, Muñeco, wielding his conductor’s baton with a circus performer’s bravado. He was brilliant. The rest of them were under his command: the smallest ping! of the triangles, the least gifted clashhh! of cymbals, trumpets on fire, kettledrums and timba drums blaring the way forward.
And Chucky as general in the first line of offense, at the helm of those troops, that cavalry, those cannons.
To the left, at the flagpole, the national flag rose.
But no, sir, not even the flag could compete with our Muñeco.
Because he, radiant and unique among his species, proclaimed himself a one-man show, tossing his conductor’s baton higher and higher.
Already there was nothing more prestigious than this role, leader of the band. It meant you won contests, had authority, showed off in front of others, got to visit girls’ schools, drew admiration, inspired passion. All of that, every bit of it: Muñeco’s dominion. And not only was he a role model, he was also the best looking. Well, he tied with Tarabeo when it came to stunning looks. They were known as the Divine Boys, and, when they strolled together like two peacocks under the campus magnolia trees, they were irresistible.
It was crazy how similar they looked, like two drops of water, though Táraz was taller, more Apollonian, with an intense gaze, while Muñeco was burlier, with long eyelashes and straighter teeth. I don’t know which of them envied the other more. That I couldn’t tell you, though there’s this: if anyone could cast a shadow on Muñeco, it was Tarabeo. But better to ignore that love-hate bond, it’s not what matters here.
Back to that sunny day of the minister’s visit to campus, the moment when Muñeco claimed the absolute limelight.
The baton was spinning in his hand in a show of extraordinary skill. Then it shot upward again, into the air, slightly higher. Meanwhile, the national flag tried to fulfill its duty, seeking attention, but it was helpless in the presence of Muñeco’s baton as it launched into the air against a backdrop of trees, flying higher than the flag itself, outshining it, shrinking it, diminishing its meaning.
Up goes that baton, hard as a phallus and splintering the sun over rooftops, over the eastern hills gleaming in the distance.
Meanwhile, on the shaded balcony, the dean and the alumnus wait for a gesture of recognition. But nothing can compete with the absolute power of the great Chucky’s baton, which flies up higher, and higher again, and another rise to scrape the sky and blow the mind.
The rest of us hold our breath. Will he catch it? How high can Muñeco hurl that damn baton of his without dropping it and ending in disaster? He insists, pushes the edge, revels in it, sure of himself, knowing all eyes are on him. Because nobody’s looking at the flag anymore, or at the minister, much less the dean, dwarfed at his podium.
The alumnus, on the verge of screaming or breaking into barely contained laughter, watches Muñeco’s suicidal moves like a man possessed, mesmerized by that sublime stick with its gold and red tassels as it flashes like a meteorite about to crash to Earth. But no. As if by magic, it lands again, triumphant, in Muñeco’s gloved hand.
I recall it so clearly it’s as if I were there again. That was his zenith. Muñeco’s star moment, his cosmic explosion. The way I see it, after that day, his decline began.
Even so, only Alicia, hypercritical Malicia, dares to foresee what’s coming. What’s going unacknowledged, which, according to her, will be serious. Something is cooking, at the boiling point, it won’t be long.
There were five of us, the Tutti Fruttis: Tarabeo, Muñeco, Duque, Píldora, and yours truly, this humble servant, people call me—or, I’m called—Hobbit. I say we were five, and we still are. Because what could happen hasn’t gone down yet, if it’s really what’s coming. Together forever? Like the five senses or five fingers of a hand or the lines that form a pentagram? Better yet: five treacherous males full of hormones, pushing arrogance to the edge, moving forward in the world.
Tarabeo (a.k.a. Dino-Rex, Rexona, Táraz, Taras Bulba), Duque (a.k.a. Nobleza, Dux, Kilbeggan), Muñeco (Ken, Kento, Chucky, Mi-Lindo, Baby-Boy), Píldora (Pildo, Piluli, Pilulo, Dora, Dorila, Gorila), and me, Hobbit (Bobbi, Hobbo, Job, Bitto): we were a tight group back in those school days. And still are. More or less.
Our crew’s name changed over time. It must have been in second or third grade that Píldora, Muñeco, and Duque started it all, anointing themselves the Apache Trio. They sealed their pact with blood and a hymn that established three core tenets. One, the Apaches were macho. Two, the Apaches were friends. Three, the Apaches stayed united to defeat their many enemies.
Though they called themselves a trio, they had nothing to do with music; it only meant there were three. Plus, “Apaches” wasn’t meant as a reference to Native Americans, and was only indirectly inspired by that other group, which had used the moniker, in the brawling criminal underworld of the belle epoque. The name was something of an accident, even if later there were more elegant accounts of where it came from.
I for one believe the version where the three of them, Chucky, Dux, and Piluli, were watching TV in His Majesty Duque’s mansion when his mom came in to say goodbye before leaving for an adult costume party. Píldora and Muñeco had always lost sleep over this woman, who was very beautiful, and I suppose Duque did too, even though he was her son, or maybe because of this more than anything. His mom’s name was Betty, and she was very young. Her name is still Betty, and she’s still young in spite of her age, a full-on cougar Barbie who looks younger than Duque himself thanks to the miracles of Botox and macrobiotics. That night, the rich and beautiful Betty explained to the boys that she was dressed as a Parisian gangster, that is, an Apache: brimmed hat tilted to the side, black hair smoothed into a lustrous ponytail, bandanna around her neck, the lethal zarin blade at her belt, and, above all, a vest so tight it showed off her waist and spectacular breasts, which left the kids stunned and wide eyed. If that’s how the Apache ladies were, then that’s what they wanted to be. Apaches. The Apache Trio.
Táraz joined later on, then I did a few years later. I was the last one, and I still don’t know how, against all evidence, I ended up linked to them; for now, enough to say that when I arrived, the Apache thing had already started sounding naive and easy to make fun of, and, in fact, we got called the Apapaches—Spoiled Boys—as well as the Mapaches—Raccoons. That’s when we held a meeting and decided to change our name to something lighter, closer to the sarcastic, mocking, prepubescent mood in which we found ourselves. Tutti Fruttis won by simple majority and has stuck to this day. With luck, and barring disaster, it’ll last even longer.
The source of that term, “Tutti Frutti”? Nothing fancy, just the opposite: fruit candies, chewy and sweet, very popular, sold by street vendors at the school entrance, along with assorted gum, chips, raisin boxes, and Cocosette wafers. Sweet memories of childhood—or, at least, bittersweet ones, when they’re not bitter all the way through.