There is a scene in an old music video by a Colombian artist, Juanes, where he is shown in the midst of a barrage of bullets, each one passing so close to him you can’t help but cringe. The image has always stayed with me and I’m often reminded of it when I think of my brother.

            The first time he dodged a bullet was before he was even born. Late in her pregnancy, my mother became ill with hepatitis. The doctors told her and the rest of the family, point-blank, that there was no chance of the baby’s living and that her own chances of survival were about 50-50. She spent the last months of her pregnancy in bed, staining the linens yellow with her sweat. In spite of it all, the baby was born; jaundiced and with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, but very much alive.

            The second time was when he was still a baby, not even a year old. In July of 1957 there was a terrible earthquake that shook Mexico City.  Te Angel which crowned the Column of Independence toppled to the ground. It was also the first big earthquake my mother experienced. According to her, the first thought that crossed her mind as she was awakened at around 2:30 in the morning was that the city was being bombed. Her second thought was, “The baby!”

Angel of Independence, 1957

            Lalo was in the next room, alone, and my mother could hear the blinds on the window rattling. My father held on to her and didn’t let her leave. When the quake finally abated and they rushed into his bedroom, the wall against which his crib had been had fallen. And the crib? It had rolled out into the middle of the room. The baby was fine.

            Throughout his childhood years, he dodged the bullets most of us manage to evade as well. All the childhood diseases, accidents and dangers associated with growing up, plus a few more emotional and physical blows dealt, unfortunately, by my father; theirs was not an easy relationship. The violence was mostly psychological, it seems, but violence there was. That is what probably led Lalo to start using drugs. The rocky relationship with my father seemed to create an essential need for approval, for fitting in and being “one of the guys”.

            During this time, Lalo evaded a few more threats, mostly to his well-being. In the very difficult years that followed, many of his friends, as well as so many others of his generation, became victims and either died or wound up “fried” as a result of their drug use. Again, Lalo made it through; although it took years and he was never really able to stop completely (he always openly admitted his addiction to pot) he did quit using all of the other stuff and survived again.

            The last great, amazing survival “exploit” of his, was once when he was talking to someone over the phone during a thunderstorm. There he was, happily chatting away, when a bolt of lightning hit the phone-line, travelled through it and hit Lalo. He said he felt someone had smashed a fist into his chin. He flew through the air a few meters, landed on his back on the floor and felt a funny tingling sensation throughout his body. Later, when he asked my mother if she thought God was trying to send him a message, my mother promptly answered, “Yes! He’s telling you not to talk on the phone during a storm!” The only aftereffect of this adventure was a bruise at the exact center of his chin. It was there for months.

            So, then, the question would have to be, why now? I wish I could tell you I’ve figured that one out. That I’m sure there is a grand scheme, a plan which now lies straight and clear before my eyes, but no such luck. I’ll never be able to understand why after all those other times he survived, this was the one that got him. And he almost cheated death again! For a while there, it seemed he had beaten the cancer; even his doctors were amazed. But he did get a reprieve of almost two whole years, when he should have died in three months.

            It could be, like I told my mother the other day, that God is shaking his head in disappointment. “What more do you want? I left him with you for almost 55 years, when he wasn’t even supposed to be born!”

            In the end, maybe that’s the whole point. We all die. Nobody lives forever. And, if we’re very, very lucky, we get to pass the time, dodging bullets, with people we can love.

Susana Olivares Bari

Hay una escena en un viejo video musical de un artista colombiano, Juanes, donde lo muestran en medio de una ráfaga de balas, cada una pasándole tan cerca que uno no puede evitar sentir horror. La imagen se ha quedado conmigo desde entonces y a menudo la recuerdo cuando pienso en mi hermano.

Chapter 2

Sam Bari

My mother and father met in Chicago Illinois in 1953. My Dad was studying at IIT, working towards an electrical engineering degree, and my Mom had just finished high school at Immaculata, a prestigious Catholic school run by nuns. My mother’s family was not at all happy with the arrangement: how could a nice American girl marry a no-good Mexican! On the other hand, my Scottish/Irish grandmother, Margaret Frew (a descendant of the royal Stuarts), who was the main opposer of this union, had already committed the "sin" of marrying an Italian crooner, Salvatore Schembari, who later changed his name to Sam Bari for artistic purposes (he shared the bill on a number of gigs with Billie Holliday, no less!), and came from a Sicilian family. (My mother has recollections of Frank Capone, sharing soup with her and my grandparents.)

Sam and "Mimi"

            It turns out Margaret or "Mimi" as I always called her, had had a stint as a "torch" singer herself when she met my grandfather at a Chicago nightclub. Then again, my father wasn’t your ordinary, run of the mill "wetback"; he also came from a "nice" family, and brought the Olivares and Riva Palacio surnames and pedigree into the deal. My parents finally married in Chicago. He at 21 and my Mom at 18. They decided to move back to Mexico City because, due to the recently ended Korean War, the draft was still in effect, which made my father’s joining the Armed Forces almost obligatory. As a young struggling couple, they had little money, so my dad, always the ingenious and resourceful type, found this guy who hired drivers to bring American cars down to Mexico.

            Enrique Jorrin's Cha-cha and Perez Prado's Mambo were all the rage when they arrived to Mexico DF on April 17, 1955. All of my dad’s friends were jubilant and my father himself was as proud as a peacock for having married and brought back a beautiful young "gringuita" from the States. My mother’s first years in Mexico were very difficult; she had only turned twenty, didn’t speak any Spanish, had left all her relatives in the USA and had to live with my grandma "Chayo" (Rosario Riva Palacio de Olivares) and my Father’s younger brother Efrén, so she found herself in a very difficult and isolated situation.     

Lalo, Pat and Lalito

            Little by little she adapted to a new country, a new culture, and started to learn how to live, speak, read and write in the Mexican fashion. Patricia Bari de Olivares got pregnant shortly thereafter.

Eduardo Olivares Bari
(This is the last full-text fragment Lalo left)

Capítulo 2

        Mi mamá y papá se conocieron en Chicago en 1953. Mi papá estaba estudiando ingeniería eléctrica en IIT (Instituto Tecnológico de Illinois) y mi mamá acababa de terminar sus estudios de preparatoria en Immaculata, una prestigiosa escuela católica de monjas. La familia de mi mamá no estaba nada feliz con

Chapter 1

This is one of the two complete fragments of “The Acapulco Hilton Experience” written by Lalo.

            I don’t know why, but for some bizarre, baroque, balmy and breezy reason the Acapulco Hilton became the “magnet” for quite a few significant situations during my lifetime, including “the” experience which is the excuse for the writing of this manuscript. I've lost count of how many times I’ve been to Acapulco, but onhy because I was born in Mexico City in 1956 to a middle class family. Back then, and all through the sixties and seventies, Acapulco was the favorite and closest vacation spot for “chilangos” as Mexico City dwellers are now called; so naturally I went there many times as a child with my family: parents, cousins, aunts and uncles, etc.  And, curiously enough, many other times during my puberty and early teens with my grandmother and my “cousin” Carlos and his father, who piloted a small one motor Cessna. Not that we ever stayed at the Hilton; that treat was reserved for the rich and famous.
            I don’t remember, but according to my mother, the first time I ever saw the sea was in Acapulco as a toddler; I hit the beach running, towards the sea, with my Mom in tow, the chase culminating in a broken toe for my mother and me stopping short of the surf’s edge, in awe. The last time I saw the sea, a few weeks ago, was in Acapulco.

Lalo and Alda Villacorta Olivares

            Acapulco bay is a natural harbor, like San Francisco in California, and has a very interesting history. When Alexander Von Humboldt arrived to this port in 1830, coming from Prussia, he declared it the world’s most beautiful place. I myself shared the same feeling when, as a boy, I saw photos of the bay from the 1930’s and couldn’t believe the virginal beauty of its golden, palm-filled beaches which, by then, had been inundated with all kinds of hotels, condos, and hordes of people. The bay was “discovered” by the Spaniards, back in 1521 and became the port of departure and arrival for the “Nao de la China”, a small fleet of ressels that sailed west to the Philippines, trading in Mexico’s native cocoa, beans, tomatoes, silver and gold (during the XVI century, ¾ of the world’s silver came from Mexico) for silk, spices, and other products from China. These fineries were then transported to Mexico City via mule packs, through the treacherous Sierra Madre pathways. One of these mule drivers eventually became the second president of the Mexican Republic and the first Afro-American president of the continent (way before Obama); he was Vicente Guerrero (of whom I’m a proud descendant).
            The port became increasingly important and fell prey to more and more pirate raids,          (including Sir Francis Drake’s) until the Spanish built the Fuerte de San Diego, a bastion with 22 cannons.
            After Mexico’s Independence, the bay was virtually forgotten, until it was “rediscovered”, supposedly by the Prince of Wales, in the 1920's. From then on it evolved into a getaway for Hollywood stars and celebrities like Johnny Weissmuller, Frank Sinatra and Elizabeth Taylor. Even John F. Kennedy and Jackie honeymooned there!
            By the time I was born, Acapulco was one of the foremost, glitzy, glamorous and exotic spots for "jetsetters” all over the world, as is mentioned in the song composed by Jimmy Van Heusen, with lyrics by Sammy Cahn, “Come Fly With Me”, in Sinatra's classic and superb interpretation. 
Eduardo Olivares Bari

Capítulo 1

Éste es uno de los dos fragmentos completos de “The Acapulco Hilton Experience” de Lalo.

 Capítuho 1

            No sé la por qué, pero por alguna extraña, barroca, agradable y despreocupada razón, el Hilton de Acapulco se convirtió en el “imán” para una serie de situaciones significativas a lo largo de mi vida, incluyendo “la” experiencia que sirvió de excusa para escribir esta obra. He perdido la cuenta de las veces en que

Lalo...

Tendría que empezar por decir que me ha costado trabajo escribir algo sobre mi hermano del alma.

Tengo un nudo en la garganta...

Mi historia es larga, es intensa y es hermosa.

Cuando lo conocí fue hace muchos años cuando Lalo regreso de EU en el año 1980. Un día Jorge me dijo que íbamos a ver a Lalo su amigo del cual ya había oído varias historias. El monkee era amigo de mi hermana Elena y resultaba que era el mejor amigo de Jorge.

En el momento que lo conocí supe quien era y cuanto lo iba a querer.

Y así empezó mi amistad (o más bien mi hermandad) con el hombre que sería parte esencial de mi vida.

Empezamos como hermanos, o sea que nos conocíamos y nos queríamos como hermanos. Nos peleábamos camino a la escuela (el Conservatorio), nos cuidábamos y nos contábamos todo.

Eso siguió a lo largo de toda nuestra historia; yo le contaba todo y él me contaba todo.

Él estaba a mi lado en todos los eventos de mi vida.

Y cuando digo todos es que son todos...

Lo recuerdo en todos los momentos de felicidad y de tristeza.

Y para mí fue siempre mi apoyo, mi consuelo, mi cómplice, mi guía...

Cuando nació mi hijo Daniel él me dijo:
“Yo voy a ser su padrino y voy a ver por el toda la vida.”

Y se encargo de cumplir su promesa.

Después recluto varios ahijados como a Isabel, Pablo y Beto.

Recuerdo sus llamadas periódicas, en las que me decía "¿Estelita como estas?".

Y empezaba yo a contarle todo, él me escuchaba...luego el me contaba lo suyo y yo lo escuchaba...

Recuerdo tantas veces que nos sentamos a tomar un vino y a platicar.
Extraño tanto estar así, una tarde platicando de todo, el y yo...

Desde que supe de su enfermedad, para mi cada instante de estos fue un tesoro. Yo sabía que un día solo sería un recuerdo para mí y lo veía tan bien, tan esperanzado, tan entero que difícilmente podía creerlo.

Veía a mi querido Lalo y pensaba en el día en que ya no estuviera conmigo.

Cuanto aprecio ahora cada instante de ese tiempo en que tuve la oportunidad de estar al lado de él. En el fondo el también lo sabía y por eso era tan especial.

No quería hablar de eso y yo lo respete hasta el último instante.

El estaba listo y esa era su manera de enfrentarlo.

Al final de sus días le dije, "¿Tú sabes cuánto te quiero verdad?"

Y me dijo: “Yo siempre lo he sabido Estelita; desde el día que te conocí.”

Ahora sueño con él y él regresa y me cuenta...y yo le cuento...

Estela Miller

Lalo…

I would have to begin by saying it has been difficult to write something about my spiritual brother.

There’s a knot in my throat…