Mona and Other Tales (17 page)

almácigos,
and trumpetwoods came sailing by, almost obliterating the entire island of Manhattan and its majestic towers and lengthy tunnels. A row of
corozo
palms linked Riverside Drive to the beaches of Marianao. The stretch from Calle de Reina to Paseo de Carlos III was all covered with trumpetwoods. The
salvaderas,
Santa Maria trees, laurels,
jiquíes, curujeyes,
and hibiscus were overtaking Lexington Avenue all the way to Calzada de Jesús del Monte. The balconies of buildings on Monserrate Street seemed to disappear behind the coconut palm fronds, and nobody would ever imagine that this avenue, so green and tropical, could have ever been named Madison Avenue. All of Obispo Street was already a garden. The waves cooled the roots of the almond trees, the
guásimas,
the tamarinds, the
jutabanes,
and other trees and shrubs, weary perhaps after their long journey. A ceiba tree appeared suddenly at Lincoln Center (which was still standing) and instantly turned it into Parque de la Fraternidad. A myrobalan tree curved its branches, and Parque del Cristo appeared beneath it. 23rd Street was overcome with
nacagüitas
—who would think that it had once been New York's 5th Avenue? Way downtown a banyan tree popped up, and it shaded La Rampa and the National Hotel. From Old Havana up to the East Side, which was already fading, from Arroyo Apolo to the World Trade Center, now converted into the Loma de Chaple; from Luyanó up to the beaches of Marianao, all of Havana was a huge arboretum, where streetlights swayed like giant fireflies. All along the lighted paths people are strolling, carefree, joining in small groups and then scattering, to partially reappear later under the foliage of some arbor. Others, reaching the coastline, let the ebb and flow of the waves bathe their feet. The rumors of the whole city, loaded with conversation and the rustle of trees, completely filled you, refreshed you. And you jumped. This time—I read it in your face—you felt sure you were going to make it, that you would succeed in merging again with your own people, in being yourself again. At that moment I couldn't possibly think otherwise. It couldn't—it shouldn't—be any other way. But the loud siren of that ambulance has nothing to do with the ocean waves; those people, down below, like a multicolor anthill, crowd around you, but they cannot identify you. I went down. For the first time you had made New York look at you. Traffic stopped all along 5th Avenue. Sirens, whistles, dozens of patrol cars. A real spectacle. There is nothing more compelling than a disaster; a body plummeting into the void is a magnet that no one can resist. It must be looked at, inspected. Don't think that it was easy to get you back. But nothing material is really hard to obtain in this world controlled by castrated, stupefied pigs. You need only to find the slot and drop in a quarter—did you hear me? I said “quarter” in perfect English! Just as Margaret Thatcher herself would have pronounced it, though I don't know if Thatcher ever needed to use that word. . . . Luckily I had some money (I've always been very careful with my money, as you know). And I pronounced “cremation,” “last wishes,” and things like that beautifully. All I had to do was to place you in your damned narrow niche—Did you notice? It almost sounded like a tongue twister—but why should I leave you in that cold, small, dark place, together with so many small-minded, spoiled, terrible people, together with all those decrepit old people? Who would care if some of the ashes were or were not put in a hole? Who would bother to find out about such nonsense? Besides, who really cared about you? I did. I always did. I was the only one. And I wasn't going to let them put you in that wall among surely horrendous people with names one can't pronounce. Once more I had to find the slot and fill the piggy bank's belly.

I don't know how it is looked on in New York for someone to walk out of a cemetery with a suitcase in hand. The fact is that I did and nobody seemed to mind. A taxi, a plane, a bus, and here we are, once again at the southernmost point in the U.S.A. After I took you for a ride all over Key West—notice how well I pronounce it now—I didn't want to part from you without taking you along on this ride; without my taking this ride with you. How many times I told you that this was the place, that there was a place that looks like, that is almost the same as, the one over there. Why didn't you listen to me? Why did you not want to come along with me each time I came? Maybe just to annoy me, or because you didn't want to be convinced, or maybe because you thought it was cowardly to accept a half solution, a kind of merciful but inevitable mutilation that would have allowed you, at least partly, to recover some of your senses, your sense of smell perhaps, or part of your eyesight. But your soul, your soul had surely remained over there, where it always had been (it will never be able to liberate itself), watching your shadow wander through noisy streets here and among people who prefer to have you touch anything but their car.
Don't touch my car! Don't touch my
car!
But I'll touch it! Do you hear me? And besides I'll kick it, and I'll get a stick and smash the windows, and out of these events I'll write a story (I have it almost finished) to prove to you that I can still write; and I will learn to speak Aramaic and Japanese and medieval Yiddish if I need to, so as never to have to go back to a city that has a Malecón, an old Spanish fortress with a lighthouse, or an avenue flanked with marble lions, leading to the sea. Listen carefully: I am the one who has triumphed, because I have survived and I will survive. Because my hatred is greater than my nostalgia. Much greater, much greater. And it keeps on growing. I think that no one on this key is watching over me or actually gives a damn if I go close to the seashore with a suitcase. If I were over there, I would have been arrested already, do you hear me? With a suitcase and by the seashore, what else could I be doing but boarding a rowboat, or an illegal ship, or even floating away on an inner tube or a raft that would drag me away from hell. Away from the exact same hell where you're headed right now. Did you hear me? Where you—I'm convinced—want to go. Are you listening? . . . I am opening the suitcase. I'm taking the lid off the box where you are, a bit of gray ashes with a tinge of blue. I touch you for the last time. For the last time I want you to feel my hands, the way I'm sure you feel them, touching you. For the last time, what we are made of will join together, we'll mingle with each other. . . . Good-bye now. Go soaring, sailing away. Like that. Let yourself be carried away by the currents, let them propel you and take you all the way back. Sea of Sargasso, ominous ocean, divine waters, accept my treasure; don't reject my friend's ashes; in the same way that while over there, desperate and infuriated, both of us begged you so many times to bring us to this place, and you did. Take him now to the other shore and lay him down gently on the place he hated so much, where he was made to suffer so much, from which he managed to escape, and far away from which he could not go on living.

New York, July 1982

1
Arenas does not mention the international literary stir created when he was not yet twenty-five years old by his second novel,
El mundo alucinante
(translated into English twice—first as
Hallucinations,
then as
The Ill-Fated
Peregrinations of Fray Servando
). It had won a prize in a national competition, but was refused publication for political reasons. After being smuggled out of Havana, the novel was first published in France in 1968, receiving a Prix Médicis nomination for best foreign novel. Arenas details these events in his memoir,
Before Night Falls,
also an international success, which became an American film of the same title, in 2000. —DMK

2
Haydée Santamaría was the director of the government publishing house, La
Casa de las Américas, that decided which books would be published in Cuba.

3
Besides being frivolous, Arenas was a real ignoramus. As evidence of this, let me
point out that in his short story “End of a Story,” he mentions a statue of Jupiter
atop the Chamber of Commerce in Havana, when everybody knows that crown
ing the cupola of that building is a statue of the god Mercury. —D. S.

4
Obviously the city Ramoncito refers to is Syracuse, in northern New York state.
It's named for Siracusa, port and province of Italy, the land of Archimedes and
Theocritus, and location of a famous Greek theater. —D. S.

We strongly disagree with Mr. Sakuntala. After traveling throughout New
York state, we have concluded that the city visited by Ramón Fernández
and Elisa must have been Albany. Only that city has houses that look like
“whitewashed stone” and is located in the foothills of a mountain. There is also
an old church with an all-white steeple.
—Ismaele Lorenzo and Vicente Echurre, 1999

We reject both Daniel Sakuntala's and Messrs. Lorenzo and Echurre's
theories. The city must be no other than Ithaca, located on a mountain north
of New York City. Notice that in his testimony, Mr. Fernández states: “More
than a town, it looked like a promontory of whitewashed stones.” That is what
Ithaca is. The stones are the famous Cornell University, and the white tower
that looks like a church is the gigantic pillar that supports the library
clock.
—Editors, 2025

5
It is only natural that Ramoncito, who is not used to museums, mixes themes,
styles, and periods. The temple he refers to must be that of Ramses II, built at
the height of his reign during the nineteenth dynasty, in 1305 B.C., to be exact. It
is an enormous red granite mound, where anyone who is not an expert can get
lost. —D. S.

The only portion of that temple in the Metropolitan Museum was a stone
about six feet tall. It would be impossible for Ramón Fernández to penetrate it.
He must have entered the temple of Debot, which is in fact set in an artificial
lake to re-create the original natural setting on the Nile.
—Vicente Echurre, 1999

I disagree with my colleague, Mr. Echurre. The temple he is referring to exists,
but it is in Madrid. It has surely escaped his memory, and I have tried to refresh it
but in vain. Since obviously I must dissent, we have decided to express our opinions individually, no matter how absurd that of my associate might seem. Mine,
specifically, is this: the area Mr. Fernández reached in the Metropolitan Museum
was the temple, supposedly, of Kantur, which once belonged to Queen Cleopatra
and which in 1965, thanks to the e forts of President John F. Kennedy, UNESCO
sold to the United States for twenty million dollars. It was discovered later
that this transaction had been a fraudulent one (one of many) carried out in collusion with Mr. Kennedy. UNESCO had sent the original temple to their headquarters in the Soviet Union and a plastic replica to the United States. This
highly flammable copy was the cause of the big fire in the Metropolitan
Museum. It seems that someone had carelessly dropped a lighted cigarette butt on
it.
—Ismaele Lorenzo, 1999

The only Egyptian temple then in the Metropolitan Museum was that of Pernaabi, from the fifth dynasty, circa 2400 before the Common Era.
—Editors, 2025

6
It is interesting to note that the value of the painting according to the
New York Times
was about $100 million, while the catalog quoted $80 million. We
believe this was a government trick to raise taxes for the right to exhibit that
famous masterpiece in this country. This suspicion was almost absolutely confirmed in 1992 when it was disclosed, on the opening of former President Ronald
Reagan's will, that he had owned the
New York Times
since 1944. The anti-Republican sentiment of that newspaper (which after this scandal was forced
to cease publication) was nothing but a political tactic to prevent suspicion.
—Lorenzo and Echurre, 1999

7
There must have been a special event that day at the museum, since it usually
closes at ten only on Wednesdays. —D. S.

The Metropolitan Museum in New York closed at ten o'clock on Wednesdays
and Fridays. Mr. Sakuntala's knowledge of these matters is neglible.
—Lorenzo and Echurre, 1999

Before the big fire, the Metropolitan Museum was open Tuesdays and Sundays
until ten o'clock. We hope that as soon as repairs are completed and the museum
reopens, it will have the same schedule.
—Editors, 2025

8
Poor Ramoncito wrote only the phonetic representation of these phrases. With
my extensive knowledge of the Italian language (I studied with Giolio B.
Blanc), I was able to make the necessary corrections. I must clarify that this is the
only correction I have made in the manuscript. The translation into English
would read like this: “The poison of knowledge is one of the many calamities
humans su fer. The poison of knowledge, or, at least, that of curiosity.” —D. S.

Even though his translation is correct, we doubt very much that Mr. Sakuntala ever studied with Baron Giolio B. Blanc. The high social status of this
nobleman would not have permitted him to rub elbows with people like Mr.
Sakuntala, let alone accept him as his tutee, unless there were highly personal
motives.
—Lorenzo and Echurre, 1999

Giolio B. Blanc was for many years the editor of the magazine
Noticias de Arte de Nueva York
and therefore had probably met Daniel Sakuntala, who
had literary pretensions.
—Editors, 2025

9
“Cuban writer Daniel Sakuntala” (!): We question this statement, obviously
the product of friendship. Not even the lengthiest directories register that name. —Lorenzo and Echurre, 1999

10
A serious error of appreciation on the part of my friend Ramoncito. After studying for more than twenty years and with the superior knowledge I acquired of
alchemy, astrology, metempsychosis, and the occult sciences, I would have
believed him and could have helped him to conjure away this evil. Had he trusted
me, Ramoncito would be alive today. By the way, the dagger he gave me (pure
gold, with an ivory handle) has disappeared from my room. I am sure it was
taken by a black man from the Dominican Republic who accompanied Renecito
Cifuentes when he visited me a few days ago. —D. S.

11
The “syrupy potion” I gave him was just Riopan, a stomach relief medication
against diarrhea. —D. S.

12
Out of pure intellectual honesty, I am leaving this passage as it appears in the
manuscript by my friend Ramoncito. I want the text to be published in its
entirety. But the lascivious abuse he refers to can only be a product of his psychological state and of the nightmare he was having. It is true we slept that night on
the same bed; it's the only one I have. I heard him scream, and to bring him out of
his delirium, I shook him several times. Naturally, when he woke up, it was logi
cal for him to find my hands on his body. —D. S.

We are of the opinion that Ramón Fernández was sexually harassed, as he
indicates, by Mr. Sakuntala. The moral history of this character, who disappeared naked into Lake Erie in the midst of a communal orgy, proves our point.

—Lorenzo and Echurre, 1999

We have already indicated that Daniel Sakuntala disappeared close to the
shore of Lake Ontario, where his clothes were found. We have not been able to
confirm reports about a supposed orgy.
—Editors, 2025

13
It seems that Ramoncito Fernández had, without being aware of it, a woman
who really loved him: the Wendy's cashier. From my investigation I learned that
out of her salary she had, little by little, covered the so-called embezzlement that
occurred while she was in charge, without ever disclosing the name of the thief.
Obviously that woman was another person, besides me, whom Ramoncito could
have asked for help, had he been more trusting and less obstinate. —D. S.

14
It is true that Ramoncito knew about carpentry. He built me an excellent bookcase once. The hammer in question was not his but mine. I had lent it to him
when he installed the air-conditioning in his studio with the help of Miguel
Correa. —D. S.

15
This protection system is the most efficient ever devised. At the same time the
alarm goes o f, the metal curtain drops over the wall where the piece of art is being exhibited. It is very expensive to install. There are only three masterpieces in
the world that have this protection. According to the research carried out by my
friend Kokó Salás, the curator, the three works are:
La Joconde,
by Leonardo da
Vinci;
Guernica,
by Pablo Picasso; and
The Burial of Count Orgaz,
by
Doménikos Theotokópoulos, El Greco. —D. S.

Daniel Sakuntala is completely misguided when he calls Kokó Salás a “curator.” In all truth, he is a common criminal,** dedicated to the illegal traffic of
works of art in Madrid, under the protection of the Cuban government in
Havana.
—Lorenzo and Echurre, 1999

**
To label Kokó Salás as a common criminal is to underestimate his character and historic significance. Kokó Salás was a sophisticated, gifted person
(it is now impossible to determine whether he was a man or a woman) who worked for an international spy ring in service to the Kremlin. Under
the secretary for mineral rights, Victorio Garrati, he conspired indefatigably and took part in intrigues until he finally achieved the annexation of
Italy and Greece to the Soviet Union in the year 2011. For more information, see
La Matahari
[sic]
de Holguín,
by Teodoro Tapia.
—Editors, 2025