Hail Cesar

By R.Z. Sheppard

THE MAMBO KINGS PLAY SONGS OF LOVE by Oscar Hijuelos;

Farrar, Straus & Giroux;

407 pages; $18.95

Wine, women and song, not necessarily in that order, keep the pages turning in Oscar Hijuelos' second novel. All are enjoyed by a Cuban musician named Cesar Castillo who immigrates to New York City after World War II and has a few good years in the 1950s as leader of the Mambo Kings. The band's biggest hit was Beautiful Maria of My Soul, which was first recorded in 45 r.p.m. and rose to No. 8 on the "easy listening" charts in 1955. Close but no cigar is the story of Castillo's career, the highlight of which occurred when he and brother Nestor were invited to play Ricky Ricardo's visiting Cuban cousins on an episode of I Love Lucy.

Hijuelos returns the courtesy by giving Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball guest spots in his novel, as celebrities who descend like deities for a potluck supper in the modest home of ordinary mortals. Arnaz turns out to be a sweetheart who eats second helpings, drinks heartily and sings Babalu long into the evening. Ball has good manners and a considerate way of peeking at her watch.

The scene mirrors the sitcom segment that earned Castillo his few minutes of fame, and adds poignancy to what came before and after those golden moments on national TV. Castillo's flamboyant plumage and mating behaviors seem dated and may not appeal to readers who now find machismo to be a dirty word. Hijuelos deflects this prejudice with sensitivity and a charged style that elevates stereotype into character. His hero may have urgent appetites and simple tastes, but he gives as much pleasure as he receives. In addition, his story strikes resonant chords when told against the rich cultural fusion of postwar New York.

Hijuelos, 37, author of 1985's Our House in the Last World, catches the rhythms and flavors of the streets, nightclubs and Latin family life. Castillo is all melody, by turns upbeat and melancholy. By age 60, his best performances on bandstand and bedstead behind him, he occupies a room in an East Harlem flop mockingly called the Hotel Splendour. There, his music out of style, his body failing, he thrives on memories of songs sung and women loved. Yet, as Hijuelos conveys with art and sympathy, the Mambo King is to be admired and envied as a man who squeezed the juice out of life before life squeezed the juice out of him.