Mona and Other Tales (16 page)

It happened when the regime was overthrown. He was tried and sentenced as an agent of the Castro dictatorship (all the proofs were against him) and condemned to the maximum punishment, death by shooting. Then, standing in front of the liberating firing squad, he shouted: “Down with Castro! Down with tyranny! Long live Freedom!” Until the full discharge silenced him, he kept on shouting. Shouts that the press and the world defined as “cowardly cynicism.” But I— and please write this down, just in case your machine is not working—I can assure you that this was the only authentic thing your father had ever said out loud in his whole life.

Havana, 1974

End of a Story

For Juan Abreu and Carlos Victoria,
triumphant, that is, survivors

 

THE SOUTHERNMOST POINT IN THE U.S. That's what the sign says. And how could we say that in Spanish?
El punto
más al sur de los Estados Unidos.
But it's not the same. It's too long and lacks precision, strength. In Spanish it's not so clear: there is no word as exact as “southernmost.” However, in English, that “southernmost point” is absolutely clear, with those †s sticking up at the end: the world ends right here; once you leave this “point” and go over the horizon, all you'll find is the Sargasso Sea, the ominous ocean. Those †s are no letters but crosses, markers—look at the way they stick up—clearly indicating that behind them lies death, or even worse, hell. And that's how it truly is. But anyway, we're already here. I finally managed to get you here. I would much have preferred that you had come on your own, and had sent your smiling photo by that sign to me, to the other edge of the Sargasso Sea (so everybody over there would have died of envy, or of rage), and that you could have spit, as I'm doing now, on these waters where hell begins. Anyway, I would have liked you to stay here, on this unique key, a hundred and fifty-seven miles from Miami and only ninety miles away from Cuba, right in the middle of the ocean, sharing the same sea breeze, the same ocean hues, almost the same landscape, but none of the horrors. I would have liked to bring you here—but not having to practically drag you here like this—and not precisely so that you would lose yourself in these waters, but so that you would understand how lucky you were to be this far from them. Despite my insistence—or perhaps because of it—you were unwilling to come here. You thought that what attracted me to this place was merely homesickness, the nearness to our island, and the loneliness, the discouragement, the sense of failure. You never understood anything—or maybe, in your own way, you understood too much. Loneliness, homesickness, memories—call it what you will—I feel all of that. It makes me suffer but, at the same time, I get some pleasure from it. Yes, I enjoy it. Above all, what makes me come here is the sensation, the certainty, of experiencing a feeling of triumph. . . . To be able to look southward, to look at that sky, which I hate and love so much, and to throw punches at it; to raise my arms and laugh out loud, while I can almost hear from over there, from the other side of the sea, the anguished, muted cries of all those who would like to be here like me, cursing, shouting, hating, and being really lonely; not like over there, where even being alone is persecuted and is enough to land you in jail for being “antisocial.” Here you can lose your way or find it and nobody gives a damn where you're going. And that, for those of us who understand how that other system works, is also a blessing. You thought I wouldn't be able to see the advantages here and make use of them; that I couldn't adapt. Yes, I know what you said. That I wouldn't ever learn a word of English, that I wouldn't write even a single line more, that once here I would have no more themes or plots, that even my most constant demons would be dying out when faced with the unavoidable spectacle of the supermarkets and of 42nd Street, or with the desperate need to find a place for myself in one of those towers around which the world turns, or with the certainty of knowing that there are no more secret files on us, and that we are no longer a cause of concern for the state. I know everyone thought I was finished, done for. And that you yourself had gone along with the system's maneuvers. I'll never forget how you laughed with a tinge of mockery and sad satisfaction every time the phone rang, and how you relished every opportunity to criticize my lack of discipline, my indolence. When I told you that I was settling down, adjusting, or simply surviving, and thus gathering stories, plots, you looked at me with pity in your eyes, sure that I had perished among the new hypocrisies, the inevitable relationships, the perversions of success or the intolerable gush of words, words. . . . But listen to me: it didn't turn out at all like that; look, twenty years of pretending, of forced cowardice and humiliation don't dissolve just like that. . . . I'm not going to forget how critical you were, always observing me, ready for disapproval, surely expecting me to break down and join the anonymous masses going through the noisy, frozen tunnels or the hostile streets, buffeted by the winds of hell. But that didn't happen, you hear? Those twenty years of shrewd hypocrisy, of repressed terror, kept me from going under. That is also why I have dragged you here, to make sure you are clearly defeated and at peace—maybe even happy—and to prove to you, I can't hide my pride, that you are the one who buckled under.

As you can see, this place is pretty much like Cuba, or rather, like some places over there. Beautiful places, no doubt, that I will never visit again. Never! Did you hear me? Not even if, after the regime falls, they beg me to come back to have my profile stamped on a medal or whatever; not even if my presence is crucial for the whole island not to sink; not even if the red carpet is rolled out right from the airplane exit to the execution wall where I am to parade martially on my way to discharge the grace shot in the dictator's head. Never! Did you hear me? Not even if they beg me on their knees. Not even if they crown me with a laurel wreath as they did with La Avellaneda. Or name me beauty queen of the district of Guanabacoa, the one with the most generous overpopulation of ass-fuckers . . . I meant that as a joke. But what I said about not returning, that's dead serious. Are you listening? You're different, though. You don't know how to survive, how to hate, how to forget. That is why when I saw, a long time ago, that there was no cure for your homesickness, I wanted you to come here, to come to this spot. But, as usual, you did not pay any attention to me. If you had, maybe I wouldn't have needed to be the one to bring you here now. You were always stubborn, human, and sentimental. And one has to pay dearly for that. . . . Anyhow, like it or not, you're here now. Can't you see? These streets are meant for people to walk on, and there are sidewalks, passageways, arcades, tall wooden houses with festooned balconies, just like over there. . . . We're not in New York now, where people shove you without looking at you or apologize without touching you; we're not in Miami either, where there are only horrendous speeding cars in asphalt pastures. Here everything is on a human scale. Like in the poem, there are female figures—and male ones too—sitting on the balconies. They are looking at us. People gather on street corners. Can you feel the breeze? It comes from the sea. Can you feel the proximity of the sea? It's our same sea. . . . Young people are walking around in shorts. There is music. You can hear it all over. Here you won't suffocate in the heat or freeze in the cold like up there. We're very close to La Habana. . . . I always asked you to come, I invited you. I told you about the little ocean drive and promenade, and the seawall, not like the one over there, of course, because it's here; and the trees, and fragrant sunsets, and stars in the sky. But I couldn't manage to convince you to come, and worse yet, I couldn't even convince you to spend some time here, so that you could also begin to appreciate the things available for your enjoyment up there. At night, walking along the Hudson, how many times I tried to show you the island of Manhattan as it really is, an immense, electrified medieval castle, an enormous light, well worth exploring. But your soul was somewhere else: over there, in a remote, sunny neighborhood with stone pavements, where people hold conversations balcony to balcony and when you walk around, you understand what people are saying, because they are you. . . . And what could I gain by telling you that I also wanted to be there, to be riding the noisy, crowded bus that's probably crossing the Avenida del Puerto right now, or to be strolling through La Rampa or going into a public urinal when surely the police are about to arrive and ask me for my ID? But listen to me: I'm never going back, not even if world survival depends on it. Never! Did you see that guy who just passed by on a bicycle? He looked at me. Quite intently. Haven't you noticed it? Here people do look you in the eye. If they like what they see, naturally. Not like up there, where looking at someone seems to be a crime. Or like over there, where it
is
a crime . . . “Anyone who purposely looks at another individual of the same sex will be condemned to . . .” Hey! Another guy also looked at me. And now you really can't argue anymore. Cars stop and honk their horn; suntanned young men stick their heads out the windows. “Where to? Where to?” They'll take you wherever you say. The truth is we're already in the middle of Duval Street, the “hottest” street, as we used to say over there. . . . That's also why (I won't deny it) I wanted to bring you here, so you'd see how the young men still look at me, and not think of your friendship as a gift, a favor granted that I must try to preserve by all means, so you could see that I have my admirers here just as I had them over there. I think I already told you that. But you seemed not to care about any of this: neither about the possibility of being betrayed, nor even about the possibility (always more interesting) of an act of betrayal. . . . I kept talking to you, but your soul, your mind, whatever it is, seemed to be somewhere else. Your soul, why didn't you leave it over there together with your ration book, your ID, and the latest issue of
Granma
? Go for a walk in Times Square, be daring and wander through Central Park, catch a train and enjoy the real Coney Island. I'll take you. Better still, I'll give you the money to go. You don't even need to go with me. But you wouldn't go out, or if you did, you came back right away. It was too cold or too hot. You always had an excuse to keep you from seeing what was right in front of your eyes. To keep on being somewhere else . . . But take a look: see how those people go out in spite of the weather (there's always bad weather here), see how those people brave the storm; a lot of them are also from other places (where they belonged), places they can't go back to, places that maybe don't exist anymore. Listen: homesickness can also be a kind of consolation, a sweet suffering, a way of looking at things, and even of enjoying them. We can only triumph by resisting. Our only revenge is surviving. . . . Get yourself a new pair of jeans, a pullover, some boots and a leather belt; shave your head, wear leather clothes or tinfoil, put a ring on your ear, a groovy ring around your neck, and a spiky bracelet on your wrist. Go out on the street in a Day-Glo loincloth, buy yourself a motorcycle (here's the money), go punk, dye your hair sixteen different colors, and find yourself an American black lover, or try out a woman. Do whatever you want but forget about Spanish and about everything you ever mentioned, listened to, or remember in that language. Forget about me too. And don't ever return.

But in a few days you're already back again. Dressed as I suggested, in boots, jeans, pullover, and leather jacket. You drink a cold soda and listen to the tape recorder that you could never own over there. But you're not dressed that way, you are not drinking the soda that you could never have over there, and you are not listening to that tape recorder because you don't really exist; those around you don't acknowledge your presence, don't identify you or know who you are, or even want to know; you are not part of all this and it makes no difference whether you dress in that getup or in a potato sack. With just a quick look at your eyes I knew that was how you were thinking. And I couldn't tell you that I too was thinking like that, that I too was feeling that way. No, not that way, but a lot worse. At least you had somebody: you had me, trying to console you. But what arguments can one wield to console someone who still lacks an undying hatred? How can one survive when the place where one suffered the most no longer exists but it's the only place that keeps one going? Look—I insisted because, as you know, I'm pigheaded—now for the first time we're human beings; I mean, we can hate, we can offend people openly without having to go cut sugarcane for it. . . . But I think you weren't even listening. Wearing elegant sport clothes and looking in the mirror, you see only your own eyes. And your eyes are looking for a street where people walk softly swaying their hips, and enter a park where there are statues you recognize and there are figures, voices, and even bushes that seem to recognize you. You're about to sit down on a bench, you sniff around a bit and you feel a mysterious transparency in the air, the fresh sensation of a recent rainfall, of foliage and rooftops, freshly washed. Look at the balconies where clothes have been hung out to dry. The old colonial buildings seem like brand-new floating sailboats. You go down. You want to lean over one of those balconies and look at the people down below, who in turn look up and greet you; they recognize you.
A city of open balconies where clothes
hang out to dry, a city of sun and sea breeze, with buildings billowing that seem to be sailing.
Yes! Yes! I would interrupt you, a city of propped-up, dilapidated balconies and a million eyes watching your every move, a city of cut-down trees, of whole palm groves sold for export, of water pipes without any water, of ice-cream parlors without ice cream, of markets with empty shelves, of closed-down baths, of forbidden beaches, of overflowing sewers, of incessant blackouts, of prisons that proliferate, of buses that don't run, of laws that make all life a crime, a city—do you hear me?—of policemen and compulsory slogans. And what is worse, a city suffering all the calamities that these calamities bring about. But you, you stayed there, floating, trying to go down and lean on that propped-up balcony, wanting to go down and sit in that park where surely there will be a police raid tonight. Go south! Go south! I told you then—I repeated again—sure that in a place that resembled the old one, you were not going to feel out on a cloud or anything like it. Go south! I say, turning off the lights in the apartment to keep you from continuing to look at yourself in the mirror; go somewhere else instead. . . . To the southernmost point in this country, all the way to Key West, where so many times I've invited you and you refused, just to annoy me! There you could find places like, or better than, your own: beaches where the water is so clear you can see through to the bottom, with houses surrounded by trees and people who do not seem to be in a rush. I'll pay for your trip, and for your stay. And you don't have to go with me. But as usual—without saying a word, without accepting the money either—you go out, we go out into the street. You walk ahead of me, down Eighth Avenue. You turn on 51st Street. Feeling more and more dissociated, you enter the Broadway maelstrom; birds darken the violet skies and perch themselves on the roofs of the National Theater, the Isla de Cuba Hotel and the Inglaterra, the Campoamor Theater, and the Asturian Social Center; they band together and take shelter in the only ceiba tree in Fraternidad Park or in the few remaining, and severely trimmed, trees in Havana's Central Park. The Capitol is all lit up, and so is the Aldama Palace. Young people stream along the sidewalks past the Payret Theater and between the lion statues on Paseo del Prado toward the Malecón seawall promenade. The beam from the Morro Castle lighthouse shines on the waters of the bay, on the people crossing over toward the docks, on the buildings down Avenida del Puerto, on your own face. The balmy weather at sunset has brought almost everyone out on the street. You see them, you're almost there with them. Invisible above the few trees, you observe them, you listen to them. Disturbing the birds, you're now watching from the towers of La Manzana de Gómez; you move up a little to see the city all lit up. Hovering along the shore, you feel the music coming from transistor radios, you hear the conversations (the whispers) of those who would like to take the leap across the sea, you watch how the young people walk. If they raised a hand, they would almost touch you without seeing you. A ship is coming into port, slowly sounding her horn. You hear the waves crashing against the seawall. You notice the salty smell of the ocean. You contemplate the slow, glimmering waters in the bay. From the Plaza de la Catedral, the crowd of people disappears into the narrow, badly lit streets. You descend, you want to mingle with the crowd. You want to be with them, to be them, to touch that corner, to sit on precisely that bench, to pull off that leaf and smell it. But you're not there; you see, you feel, you listen, but you cannot mingle, participate, go all the way down. Propelling yourself from a lamppost, you want to land and immerse yourself into the life of that stone-paved street. You jump. The cars—particularly the taxis—keep you from moving ahead. You wait with the crowd for the light to change to WALK. You cross 50th Street and you seem to be swallowed by the lights of the Paramount Plaza, of the Circus Cinema, the Circus Theater, and the huge neon fish from Arthur Treacher's; you're already under the gigantic billboard advertising today
Oh Calcutta!
in Arabic and in Spanish. You walk with the crowd either crammed or scattered around, and voices hawking hot dogs, instant photos for a dollar, roses that “glow” thanks to a battery concealed on the stem, sweatshirts with heavy logos, reflecting sunglasses, fake jewelry, shish kebabs, frozen food, plastic frogs that croak and stick their tongue out at you. Now the caravan of taxis has turned all Broadway into a dizzying yellow river. Burger King, Chock full o'Nuts, Popeye's Fried Chicken, Castro Convertibles, Howard Johnson's, Mellon Liquors, you keep walking. A man dressed as a cowboy behind a makeshift table shuffles some cards deftly, inviting people to play; an Indian woman, in full Hindu dress, is selling aphrodisiac scents and incense, spreading flares and smoke to prove the good quality of her products; a magician, wearing a top hat and surrounded by a big crowd, tries to introduce an egg into a bottle; another magician, in close competition, promises to hypnotize a rabbit, which he displays to his audience.
Girls! Girls! Girls!
a mulatto in tight short pants shouts by a lighted doorway, while a cheerful, aging drag queen proclaims from a high perch her mastery in the art of palm reading. A flamboyant blonde in a bikini tries to take you by the arm, whispering something in English into your ear. In the midst of the crowd, a door guard with two loudspeakers announces that the next performance of
E.T.
will be starting at nine forty-five, and a black man, dressed all in black, with a high, black collar and a Bible in his hand, shouts his gospel, while a mixed chorus, led by Friedrich Dürrenmatt himself, chants “Take Me and Lead Me by the Hand.” Someone hawks half-price tickets for the Broadway show
Evita.
Another woman, severely dressed in a long skirt and long sleeves, offers you a little book with
21 Amazing Predictions.
Erotically charged young men of various skin colors, wearing spandex pants and patting their promising sex organ, dart by roller-skating in the opposite direction we're headed. A bunch of multicolored balloons goes up from the center of the crowd and vanishes into the night, while a band of musicians, brightly attired and carrying marimbas only, breaks into a glorious polyphonic concert. Someone dressed as a wasp comes up to you and hands you a piece of paper that will allow you to eat two hamburgers for the price of one.
Free love! Free love!
recites a uniformed man in a loud, monotone voice, distributing cards to passersby. The sidewalk is suddenly populated with purple umbrellas that a tiny woman is selling for only a dollar, while predicting an imminent storm. A blind man with his dog jingles some coins at the bottom of a jar. A Greek is selling china dolls with one tear on their cheeks. TONIGHT FESTA ITALIANA, the big-screen neon sign announces now from the tower at One Times Square. Opposite Bond's and Disc-O-MAT, you cross the street and look at the shop windows, full of all kinds of merchandise, from a dwarf orange tree to inflatable dildos, from an Afghan comforter to a Peruvian llama.
Yerba!
someone tells you in blatant Spanglish. They all parade by in front of you, openly offering their merchandise or freely expressing their wants and wishes. On O'Reilly Street, on Obrapía, all along Teniente Rey, Muralla, or Empedrado Street, on all the streets leading to the sea, there are people out for a stroll, in search of some cool sea breeze after another monotonous, asphyxiating day full of unavoidable responsibilities and insignificant, unfinished endeavors, small pleasures (a cold soda, a pair of well-fitting shoes, a fresh tube of toothpaste) that they couldn't satisfy, or big dreams (a trip abroad, a large home) too dangerous even to suggest. And there they go, seeking at least the open skies on the horizon; ill-fed, wrapped in look-alike, shabby clothes, and wondering
Will there be a
long waiting line at the soft-ice-cream parlor? or Will the Pío-Pío
chicken place be open today?
Faces that could be your own face, whispered complaints, curses never expressed in words; all signs and gestures that you understand so well because they are also your own. A loneliness, a misery, a futility, a humiliation and resentment, all of which you also feel. A great many calamities that, if shared, would make you feel less alone. From the arcades of the Palacio del Segundo Cabo you attempt again to submerge yourself in the crowd, but you don't reach the street. You look at them. You share their misfortune, but you can't be there also to share their company. The siren of an ambulance dashing by on 42nd Street paralyzes all the Broadway traffic. Unperturbed, you cross Times Square slowly in the sea of cars; behind you, I almost catch up with you. The Avenue of the Americas, 5th Avenue toward the Village, you keep going through the multitude, a sullen look on your face, an expression of dejection, helplessness, isolation. But listen, I feel like tapping on your shoulder to ask you, What other city, besides New York, could tolerate us? Or what other city could we tolerate? . . . The main public library, the ostentatious shop windows of Lord and Taylor's, we keep walking. On 34th Street you stop at the Empire State Building. Notice how perfect my English pronunciation is! Did you hear me? Up to now, all the words I have been saying in English were pronounced beautifully, do you hear me? I don't want you to start making fun of my accent or put on that other expression, that condescending, weary look that you sometimes show me. Of course you don't make any faces now; maybe nothing interests you anymore, not even making fun of me, not even telling me, as usual, that I'm wrong. Anyway, I wanted to bring you here before we say good-bye. I wanted to come with you on this trip. I want you to get to know the whole town, I want you to see I was right, that there is still a place where one can breathe freely, where people look at us with desire, or at least with curiosity. Don't you see? There's even a Sloppy Joe's, just as good—what am I saying? This one is much better than the one in Havana. All the famous artists have been here. Day and night there is music and you can enjoy the musicians (if for nothing else, for having a good look at them). Here, Hemingway didn't have to worry about old age. There are lots of young men, all of them in beachwear, barefoot and shirtless, suntanned, and showing or suggesting that what they know is their greatest treasure (and they're so right). No wonder Tennessee Williams set up his winter barracks here; he'll certainly find no lack of soldiers. Did you see the stained-glass windows in that house? “Old Havana” style, they call it. And that gallery with the wooden swings? Chez Emilio is the name of the place. At least there's something Latin. Look! There is a San Carlos Hotel, just like the one we have on Zulueta Street. Here at the aquarium, we're only steps away from the docks and the harbor. There is a Malecón here too, not so long and not so high, but with the same sea breeze, well, more or less. . . . Oh, yeah, I know it's not the same, but everything here is on a smaller scale and rather flat, and those wooden houses with their balconies look like dovecotes, or dollhouses, and these streets are not like the ones over there, and this crappy harbor can't compare with ours. You don't have to remind me, you don't have to start your litany again. I know these beaches are no good and that the air is hotter, that there is no Malecón or anything like it, and that even this Sloppy Joe's is much smaller than the one over there. But look, look and listen to me, pay attention to what I'm saying: that one no longer exists, and this one is here, with music and drinks and young men in spandex. Why do you have to look at people that way, as if they were to blame for something? Try to fit in with them, to talk like them and move like them. Try to forget and be them, and if you can't, listen, enjoy your solitude, because homesickness can also be a kind of consolation, a sweet suffering, a way of looking at things, and even of enjoying them. But I knew there was no use repeating the same old song, that you wouldn't listen to me, and besides, I wasn't even sure about all my babbling. That's why I decided to follow you in silence through the long lobby of the Empire State Building. We took the elevator, and still in silence, we went up to the top floor. On the other hand, at that point you hadn't the slightest need for conversation: a group of Japanese (or were they Chinese?) going up with us were talking so loud you wouldn't have been able to hear me. We reached the observation deck. The crowd scattered to the four corners. I had never gone up the Empire State Building at night. The view is really breath-taking: rivers of light flowing all the way out into space. And look up: you can even see the stars. Did I say “almost touch them”? It doesn't matter, you wouldn't have heard anything I said, even if you were by my side as you are now. Anyway, you leaned out over the railing into the void, looking at the sparkling city. I don't know how long you stood there. Maybe hours. The elevator was coming up empty and going down full of (apparently) happy Japanese (or were they Koreans?). Someone near me was speaking in French. I felt the childish pride of being able to understand his inane words. From behind the glass of the upper lookout, a beautiful blond boy was watching me. To my surprise, he made an ample, charmingly obscene gesture. Yes, he did (don't think it was merely vanity—or senility—on my part); though later, I don't know why, he stuck his tongue out at me. I didn't pay much attention. The temperature had suddenly gone down and the wind had become almost unbearable. By now we were alone in the tower and what I wanted most was for us to go down and have something to eat. I called you. In response, you signaled me to join you by the railing. I don't remember your saying anything. Did you? You simply called me with urgency, as if to see something extraordinary and therefore fleeting. I leaned over. I saw the Hudson River widening, extending out of sight. The Hudson, I said, how huge! What an idiot! you said, and kept staring: the blue ocean was breaking against the Malecón. In spite of the height, you felt the crashing of the waves and the incomparable freshness of the sea breeze. The waves were breaking against the cliffs of the old Spanish fortress, El Morro, refreshing the Avenida del Puerto and the narrow streets of Old Havana. All along the lighted seawall, people are walking, or have stopped to sit for a while. Fishermen, after almost ritually brandishing their fishhooks in the air, cast their lines into the waves, usually catching something. Strong, dark-skinned boys take off their open shirts and leap from the seawall into the water in a show of foam, splashing about while floating close to shore. Groups of people talk as they stroll along the wide promenade by the ocean. The statue of Jupiter at the top of the Business Exchange Building seems to lean to greet La Giraldilla on another old Spanish fortress, El Castillo de la Fuerza. The moon has indeed come out on the other side of the ocean. Or is it just El Morro lighthouse that provides the glow? Whichever it is, the light pours down in torrents, shining also on the crowded ferryboats crossing the bay toward Regla or Casablanca. There seems to be the opening of an American film tonight at the Payret movie theater: the length of the line is overwhelming; from Paseo del Prado to San Rafael Street, people keep joining in, causing a commotion. You were watching it all, and in seventh heaven. I saw you sliding down the railing to the terrace below, where there was a sign saying NO TRESPASSING or something like that. I don't think I did try to stop you; besides, I'm sure you wouldn't have let me. Isn't that true? Answer me! Anyway, I called out to you, but you didn't even hear me. You leaned over into the void again. Instead of the dark, foul-smelling Hudson, the glittering sea rose up to a sky where there was no room for more stars to shine. Floating over the waves, entire palm groves were coming, fanning their fronds. Tall and proud, they came rumbling all along the West Side, which immediately disappeared, and was covered by the Paseo del Prado. Coconut palms, laurels, banana trees, taro plants,