“You know, I think all this religiosity is seriously
affecting your mood, Marc,” said Lady. “Surely Bach must have written something
cheerful? Of his two hundred whatever cantatas, they can’t all be entirely
gloomy….”
“In fact, he wrote twenty or so secular cantatas,” I told
her. “And I just got done listening to two of them. The first is the Wedding
Cantata, and the second is the Coffee Cantata.”
“Bach wrote a cantata about coffee?”
“He certainly did, since it was a big issue at the time.
Coffee was relatively new in Germany in the 1730’s, and people were still
getting their heads around it. It had a buzz, everybody agreed, but was that a
good thing? Was it sent from the devil? So some sects of some churches were
banning it—I could tell you which, but the Internet at the café took off last
night on a bender, and is lying drunk in the gutter somewhere. If you see it,
would you tell it to come back? Anyway, coffee was taking Europe by storm, and
the coffee houses of the day were filled with people, all arguing the latest
political, social, and religious issues of the day. Must have been lively
places….”
“So what’s the cantata about?”
“Well, it’s Bach trying to be light-hearted, which is about
as painful as seeing Karl Marx do stand-up comedy. Anyway, a father is
distraught because his daughter is spending all her time hanging out in the
café, guzzling coffee, and he goes through a gamut of threats to get her to
stop. No new ribbons, no new dresses, no going out or even looking out the
window. The girl always says no, so what does poppa do? He tries the carrot
instead of the stick, and says that he’ll run out and get the girl a husband!
So the girl goes into a really lovely little aria about how good poppa is; the
little minx does, however, put the word out on the street that any suitor will
have to sign a marriage contract. And guess what that specifies?”
“That she can drink all the coffee she wants?”
“Right—and not particularly subtle. So it ends up with the
father throwing in the towel, since if granny, mamma, and all the rest of
womanhood are drinking coffee, well, how are you going to keep your daughter
from doing the same?”
“And?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“I told you, it’s as weak as a wet, sick kitten. But there
is some nice music, though.”
“OK—one down. What about the Wedding Cantata?”
“Well, he wrote it about the time that he got married to his
second wife, Anna Magdalena. And she was a professional singer, whom he may or
may not have heard even before his first wife died. At any rate, it’s for solo
soprano, and it’s in turn rapturous and then joyful. No wonder everybody
records it….”
“So is that what you’ll play for your wedding?”
“Ugh, let’s not talk about that—I’m getting some serious
cold feet about getting married.”
“Why? You’ve been with Raf for what, thirty years?”
“Think it’s 32, but who knows? But anyway, that’s not the
problem. The real issue is the time and the organization and the planning of it
all. Just thinking about whom to invite is a nightmare, since even if you keep
it at immediate family only…”
“Yes?”
“There are little tensions in all families,” I told her. “And
trying to organize Raf’s family—six siblings, many with titanic
personalities—is like trying to herd cats. Anyway, I don’t even like parties,
so why would I want to organize one? It’ll be thirty people at least, if
everybody comes.”
“So do it somewhere where you can escape and recharge.”
“A thought,” I told her. “But it feels kind of weird,
getting my brothers to come all the way to Puerto Rico to see me get married,
especially since I am married—though by a justice of the peace with a
couple of clerks as witnesses. Besides, we’ve been together for so long—I mean,
none of Raf’s or my nephews and nieces have ever not known us. We’re sort of
like the Queen, you know—always been there.”
“All the more reason to get married.”
“Then there’s the money,” I said. “And don’t tell me to keep
it simple, because absolutely every couple starts down that road, and
guess where they end up? Deciding whether they can afford the tray of asparagus
wrapped in Norwegian smoked salmon as canapés for the sit-down dinner of
Scottish grouse in a truffle sauce. The grouse having been hunted especially by
gentlemen of your favorite Scottish clan, wearing their authentic kilts. Oh,
and they’ll be flying over the Atlantic to serve the grouse at your table—one
Scot per table—since only they know how to carve the grouse. Cheap at $75,000,
don’t you think?”
“Marc?”
“Then of course we come to the little matter of the
favors—you know, the little gifts you’re supposed to give the people who have
spent all this money to come to this event that you have spent all this money
to provide them. So…”
“Marc, I really think…”
“So that means that we have to commission Nick
Quijano—since he’s a friend—to do a special silk screen for the occasion. And
Nick is marvelous, as he should be, since his originals go for anywhere in the
six figures. So that will consume pretty much all of our vacation money for the
next sixty years, but no problem, since we’ve had so many nice vacations
already! I mean, who needs more? And we’ll always have memories of our
wedding!”
“Marc, you don’t…”
“Of course, you could see this as our contribution to the
Puerto Rican economy—currently in crisis—since I’ve got it into my head: this
is Puerto Rico, and a tropical paradise. So it’s obviously a destination
wedding, which means that…”
“It’s certainly not a destination wedding…”
“…so boutique hotels—I mean, is my brother the
Pulitzer-prize-winner gonna stay in a Hotel 6 or 8 or whatever the number is?
Of course not, so let’s see, El Convento—with
its charming atmosphere of 17th century Spanish Colonial
architecture, and its rumored ghost of the founding abbess doña María del Pilar del Zaragonza whatever she was….”
“Marc, you’re being completely…”
“Then the tours! You can’t have your guests wandering around
aimlessly all day, bored out of their minds by the white sandy beaches and the
azure skies and the emerald water, can you? Nay, nay—so you’ll have to hire
fifteen or so carriages authentically designed to mimic the early nineteenth
century style, each pulled by 8 pasofinos
to go deep into the mountains, where guides dressed in authentic jíbaro garb, specially created…”
“STOP!”
“Hunh?”
“Marc, you are being completely crazy! This isn’t a
destination wedding, and you don’t have to do all this stuff. We got married in
a courtroom, and there was a murder trial on one side, and a rape trial on the
other.”
“I remember—but wait. I thought you had a real wedding, and
you put up the French side of the family at the Atlantic Beach Hotel.”
“I did!”
“Lady, how could you!”
“Well, they said they wanted something cheap, and something
on the beach, and…”
“Lady, the Atlantic Beach is one step up from—wait, the
Atlantic Beach is a gay bathhouse. If not—quite frequently—a brothel!”
“Well, Nico’s family was a little puzzled at how very friendly
the other guests were, especially to the male members. But we assured them it
was that famous, Caribbean zest for living. Anyway, they loved it!”
“Only you could get away with it. Can you imagine if I did
it? It would confirm everybody’s worst suspicions….”
“The point is…”
“I finally figured it out. I don’t want to have a wedding!
But…”
“Yes?”
“I want to have had one!”
