Mona and Other Tales (7 page)
It was Thursday. I had decided to leave New York before Monday. But with only twenty dollars, where could I go? I saw several acquaintances (Reinaldo GarcÃa Remos, among them) and offered the key to my room, and everything in it, in exchange for some money. I got a lot of excuses but no cash. Late on Sunday I went to Wendy's, where, as a security guard, I had spent the best part of my life. At the cash register I talked to the stout black woman who had been so good to me (in every sense of the word). She let me have a salad, a quart of milk, and a hamburger, all for free. About five o'clock in the morning, the establishment was deserted and I dozed off on my seat. Another employee who was mopping the second floor called the cashier to pass on some piece of gossip. While they chatted, I took advantage of the situation and grabbed all the money from the cash register. Without counting it, I ran to Grand Central. I wanted to take a train and go as far as possible. But the three long-distance trains would not leave until nine in the morning. I sat on a bench and, while waiting, began to count the money. There was twelve hundred dollars. I thought this was salvation. By eight A.M. the station was swarming with peopleâor rather with beasts: thousands of people who pushed and shoved mercilessly to make it to work on time. By nine, I hoped, I would be sitting on a train, fleeing from all those people and, above all, from that thing.
But it didn't turn out that way. I was standing in line to buy my ticket when I saw Elisa. She was below the big terminal clock, oblivious to the crowd but with her eyes fixed on me, with her enigmatic smile and her folded hands. I saw her coming my way and started to run toward the tracks. But since I did not have a ticket, I could not get in. Pushing people, and trying to find a place to hide, I went across the room again. But she was everywhere. I remember dashing through the Oyster Bar, colliding with a waiter, and upsetting a table on which a number of lobsters were arrayed. At the back door of the restaurant, Elisa was waiting for me. I knew, or sensed, that I could not stay alone with that “woman” a second longer, that the larger the crowd around me, the harder it would be for her to kill me or drag me into her swamp. I began screaming in English and in Spanish, begging for help, while I pointed at her. But the people, the masses of people, rushed by without looking at me. One more madman shouting in the most crowded train station in the world could not alarm anyone. Besides, my clothes were dirty and I had not shaved for a week. On the other hand, the woman I was accusing of attempted assault was a grand lady, serene, elegant, expertly made up and attired. I realized that I was not going to attract anybody's attention by shouting, so I rushed to the very center of the main hall, where it was most crowded, and quickly took off my clothes and stood there, naked. Then I began to jump about in the crowd. Evidently that was more than even a madman is allowed to do in the very center of the city of New York. I heard some police whistles. Arrested, I felt relieved and peaceful, for the first time in many days, as they handcuffed me and shoved me roughly into the patrol car.
Unfortunately, I only stayed overnight at the police station. There was no evidence on which to hold me as a criminal of any sort, and if I was insaneâand I quote the officer in chargeâ“luckily, that would not be a matter for the New York police; otherwise, we would have to arrest almost everybody.” As for the money, it had disappeared into the hands of the arresting officers when they searched my clothes. So there was no evidence that I had committed any crime. Of course, among other things, I confessed to being a thief, which was nothing but the truth, and mentioned the money that had been stolen from me. Apparently the police found no computer record of any accusation by the Wendy's management or any report of the loss of that money.
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On Tuesday I was again roaming the streets of Manhattan. The drizzle and strong winds were unbearable, and I had no money at all and no umbrella either, of course. It was eleven A.M. I knew the Metropolitan Museum would be open until seven that evening, so for the moment, at least, I was in no danger. Inside the picture frame, she would now be smiling at all her admirers. It was then (I recall I was crossing 42nd Street) that I had a sort of epiphany. An idea that could really save me. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I berated myself for being such a fool, particularly when I pride myself on not being a complete idiot. The painting! The painting, of course! There she was, and the swamp, the rocks, the yellow esplanade. . . . Everything the painter had conceived, including even himself, was now in the museum, fulfilling its destiny as a work of art and at the mercy of whomever dared to destroy it.
Back in my room, I took a hammer I use for my occasional carpentry,
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and hiding it under my jacket, I rushed to the Metropolitan Museum. There I met with another little inconvenience: I had no money to pay for admission. Of course I could force my way in, but I didn't want to be arrested before doing my work. Finally someone coming out of the building agreed to give me the metal badge that indicates you have paid for admission. I clipped it onto my jacket and entered the building. Running to the second floor, I went into the most visited gallery in the museum. There she was, captive inside the frame, smiling at her audience. Pushing the stupid crowd away, I rushed in, brandishing my hammer. I was finally going to do away with the monstrosity that had destroyed so many men and that very soon would destroy me too. But then, just as I was ready to hit the first blow, one of Elisa's hands moved away from the other, and with incredible speed (while her expression remained impassive), she pressed the alarm button on the wall next to her painting. Suddenly a steel curtain dropped from the ceiling, covering the painting completely.
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And, hammer in hand, I was restrained by the museum security guards, by the police (who materialized instantly), and by the fanatic crowd that had come to worship that painting. The same crowd that in Grand Central had done nothing for me when I screamed for help because my life was in danger was the one that now shoved me angrily into the patrol car.
Today, Friday, after being under arrest for four days, I am coming to the end of my story, which I will try to send to Daniel as soon as possible. I may be able to do it. Quite unexpectedly, I have become a notorious character. There are two police officers here who seem to admire me because I am a strange case they cannot figure out. It was my intention not to steal a painting worth millions of dollars but to destroy it. One of the officers (I am withholding his name) has promised to get this manuscript out and give it to my friend Daniel. If this testimony reaches his hands soon enough, I do not know what he will be able to do, but I am sure he will do something. Maybe some influential person will read it; maybe it will be taken seriously and I will be granted personal protection, efficient full-time vigilance. Understand this: the fact is I don't want to get out of this prison cell; what I need is for Elisa not to get in. The ideal situation would be to install here the same metal curtain that protects her. But all that would have to be done before Monday. The museum closes that day, and she will be totally free and with time to accumulate all the energy and develop all the stratagems she needs in order to get to me here, to destroy me. Please, help me! Or else I will soon become another of her countless victims, those buried under that greenish swamp that you can see in the background of her famous painting, from which she is still watching, with those eyes without lashes, while she keeps smiling.
Miami Beach, October 1986
The Parade Begins
BEHINDâbut pretty close to meâcomes Rigo whistling, boots creaking. The Pupo sisters follow, holding hands with the boys, chatting, cackling, roaring with laughter, and calling Rigo to tell him I have no idea what. And behind them, the Estradas, and Rafael RodrÃguez, Bartolo Angulo's children and Panchita's, and Cross-eyed Wilfredo. Behind them, Cándido Parronda's grandsons. Farther behind, the children of Tano's woman, Caridad. And Arturo, Old Rosa's son. And the people coming from La Loma, Perrera, and Guayacán. Up ahead, the women in the oxcarts, all fat-bellied, and a group of rebels; and the boys from the neighborhood. Even farther back, those on horses. And some bicycles, and then a truck. And Nino Ochoa on crutches. Then there is another truck that catches up with us as we come to El Majagual. And we have to press together on one side of the road to let it by. It's overflowing with people waving hats and raising a flag. Quite a stir. And the dust of the road is rising up, covering us and coming down, like trailing smoke, then up again because the horses' hooves are getting close, are next to us, are rushing ahead, forming a cloud that wraps us all around and I can barely see you. Even farther behind are a lot of people I don't know who seem to be singing. Maybe they have a radio. I can't tell. They are very far away. Maybe they are just talking, and from here it sounds like they are singing. Because everything seems to be singing. And when I hear Rigo's voiceâhe's catching up with me again, is already next to meâsaying “I stink like a bear's nuts,” even that has a ring to it. “And me too,” I say, “me too.” And we are now walking together. And we become part of the great parade that grows bigger and bigger. I lose sight of him in the crowd, but he waits for me. And he's again walking by my side. And talking about smells. “I'm dying for a shower,” he tells me. “What a nice shower I'll have as soon as I get home.” And I look at him again, laughing. I look at you. I see you in your ragged military uniform, walking by my side, mingling with the massive crowd and the horses, a real mob. You, wearing this impressive uniform, now so tattered you have trouble keeping your body covered; and the rifle on your shoulder, held together with wires. And the people coming up to you. And the Pupo sisters trying to start a conversation. They talk to you, only to you. Not to me, not at all, no way. I'm carrying nothing. I didn't want to. I couldn't. . . . I was at the brook, filling cans with water to be stored in my aunt Olga's earthenware jars. I was there when I heard the shots. The shooting is starting again, I thought. But then I heard laughter, and loud shouts of
“Viva Cuba libre”
(it's amazing, they're using that old war cry), and I started to run, leaving the cans where the current would surely drag them away, and without saying good-bye to my aunt. I was still panting when I got to the main road. The Pupo sisters were already at their gate. They, and the other people joining in, told me the news, so unexpected I couldn't believe it. When I was at the brook filling the cans with water (already on my second trip), I was thinking, My God, there is no end to this; these people will never win the war with such dilapidated weapons. I will have to stay here forever, hiding, fleeing; I'll never be able to return to HolguÃn. Sleeping with the rats and vegetables in the storage shed. With no other hope than a remote claim from an uncle in the States, who has been washing dishes forever, and still writes to us.
The oxcarts, and the goad-sticks sinking in the
oxen's backs: “Giddyap, you bastards.” The horses' hooves make the
dust cloud rise, come up to us, fall on us suddenly and enclose us
like in a mosquito net. Until you appear again, your uniform torn,
your rifle swaying. After failing to settle it on your shoulder, you
finally brandish it triumphantly.
“Here, take a shot,” you told me. I took the rifle and pulled it to my chest in order to take aim. “Not that way,” you said. I returned the rifle to you and didn't try again. And then I waited; for more than a month I waited there in the camp. Among the rebels, doing nothing, listening to their dirty jokes, shooing the gnats away. Having a shot of rum once in a while. Eating charred meat from the cows given to us by the people or (according to them) bought by us on credit. Then I was told: Those who come without rifles can no longer join the rebels. And together with that piece of news, forty-eight men and seven women came down from the Sierra after being rejected; there is no room for any more unarmed volunteers. Every day there are more without even a pistol who want to join. “Rifles!” “Rifles!” “Without rifles we can't take you in.” And let's face it, what good is an unarmed army? I have to go back. But it's too late. I left a note on the bed. I said, “Dear Mom, I'm leaving to join the rebels because here I'm doing nothing.” That's what I said, and then added, “Don't say a word to anyone.” And I signed it.
And now
after crossing the Majagual River, the caravan is getting bigger, it's
wider and longer; and the people from Las Carreteras, and also
those from Perronales and Guajabales, are getting closer to us.
They are all coming from behind, catching up with us, and are getting ahead already. They shout as they walk: they are almost running now. The dust cloud swallows them. And you, in your
uniform, sweating, but so proud, lifting your rifle. Talking about
your body odors. “Me too,” I say. Then I keep silent. And I look at
my hands, full of calluses from carrying all those water cans. And
then, almost with shame, I look at my civilian clothes. And we keep
walking. You, totally unaware, keep chatting. “And my mom,
and my chick, everybody's waiting for me,” you say. The ruckus
becomes deafening at times. A bottle of Paticruzado is being passed
around. We take a sip. And now we're red in the face because of the
rum and the heat, wrapped in that dust cloud that settles and rises,
that dances in front of us and then goes up, covering our faces, erasing us for a few moments; we keep moving ahead. I was right: the
people behind us were singing; they are singing, someone has a guitar. When we get to the Lirio River, the laughter, the singing, and
the clip-clop of the horses is tremendous. I can barely hear you. And
you are shouting. “What?” I shout back. “How things went for
you, where did you end up after Velasco?” And we continue the
march, covered with sweat. You, with your uniform so wet that it
sticks to your butt. Still enveloped by the dust cloud that keeps coming up. In half an hour or less we'll be in HolguÃn. I don't answer
you; but the knife you gave me is here, under my shirt. I touch
it, embarrassed, but don't show it to you. Side by side, we are
both practically running. Trying to avoid the horses, we jump to
the other side of the road. You keep talking. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah.”
Though with all the commotion I practically can't hear you now.
Suddenly I hear nothing. Nothing. I hear nothing, though I know
the uproar is incredible. Someone is looking at me, someone else
stumbles into me and goes on. Maybe the women are shouting,
maybe they're crying with joy. I don't know, because I don't hear
anything anymore. There is nothing but silence. But I do see; I see
you going into the river. You're not crossing it over the rocks. Your
creaking boots plunge into the muddy water. I am still behind,
almost next to you, my shoes also sink in. We find the water refreshing. Maybe we don't feel the heat so much now. But as usual, my
hands are perspiring.
Because everything is unbearable; because for the past few months we haven't had electricity; the school was closed and the roads into town were blockaded by the rebels, there was nothing to eat, not even a drop of milk. “Ave Maria,” Grandma says, “we're going to starve to death.” And me, in the living room, now unable to listen to Miguel Aceves MejÃa. And me in the living room, in the rocking chair, not knowing what to do. And Grandpa spraying the mosquitoes night after night; with nothing to eat and the house full of mosquitoes, cockroaches, and mice. Mice! Any day now they will come sniffing up to my bed, and pull me by the feet, and carry me I don't know where, into their dark caves, there where the world ends. For all that, and because I was sick of this damned town that has never seen and will never ever see the ocean. And because one almost can't go out, either by day or night. And I only have the living room left (this furnace) since the kitchen and the dining room are Grandma, Grandpa, and Mother's space. And to top it all, I don't have a penny to my name because the factory closed some time ago. So here I am, not knowing what to do, just listening to the shooting. Every evening, every single evening, I listen to the shooting. “The rebels are already in Bayamo.” “They are already in Cacocún.” “They took La Chomba.” “Last night they entered Loma de la Cruz.” Very soon they will take this town, and me here in this rocking chair, confined, just hearing the wheezing of the insect sprayer that the old man brandishes with amazing dexterity. And the old woman moaning: “Oh, dear, we're going to starve to death.” And the old man: “Idiots, they think they can win a war with just flags.” And my mother: “What a cruel fate, what a cruel fate.” And Lourdes: “Do you love me or don't you? Tell me, once and for all.” And all the cockroaches, and the immortal mosquitoes. Because of all that, and this stifling heat (the house has a fiber-cement roof), and because of this hot town, stuck in the midland, without sidewalks or shaded arcades, with so very few trees. For all that, and heaven knows for how many other things. And without a quarter to buy rum. Not even a nickel, which could buy the cheapest shot. And not being able to have homemade tamarind wine (because in this town we aren't getting tamarind either). I know the rebels are closing in. I know that at the front over the hill they put up a sign that reads: “Only real men have gotten this far.” I know that people say the rebels sent a box full of panties to the base in HolguÃn. But that is not for me. I can't stand this horrendous place anymore. I . . .
We are starting the
third crossing of the river. The horses are rearing in the water. One
of them goes into the current. Many of the women scream. We keep
on marching. You are ahead, and turn around to look at me. You
are getting all the praise, all the glances from the Pupo sisters. You
adjust the rifle on your shoulder and go right on talking. We are
both soaked.
And so that evening after dinner I went to see Tico. “Hey,” I told him, “we're not doing anything here. Why don't we join?” He was half-asleep on the sofa. His parents were in the living room. “I'll come for you very early in the morning,” I told him. “We can walk to Velasco. The rebels are there. We tell them that we want to join, and that's it.” “Okay,” he says, still lying on the sofa. “See you tomorrow,” I say.
There
is more shooting now, loud noise, laughter and singing. Very soon
we'll be in town.
In the evening, the old man sprays more insecticide. I don't know which is more horrendous: the fury of the mosquitoes or the smell of petroleum. I can't decide. But early tomorrow morning I'll be very far away. I'm leaving. At the crack of dawn, I get up and dress without making any noise. (Luckily, my grandparents didn't do anything last night; other times they don't let me sleep a wink with their loud noises.) “Dear Mother,” I write on a piece of paper. I'm leaving, cautiously opening the door. I'm already in the street.
The trotting
of the horses, the bustle of the crowds; the laughter. And over there
the oxcarts. Now the bicycles are going by, brushing against me,
stirring the dust that comes up in our faces. “Let's climb on a cart,”
you say. But we don't even try. All sweaty, we keep walking with
the noisy throng. A truck blows its horn. “Coming through,” the
driver shouts. The truck makes its way through the crowd; people
jump to the side of the road. “Coming through, coming through,”
the driver keeps shouting.
“Tico,” I said not very loudly. “Tico,” I said again. But he did not answer. He was asleep, or maybe he was just pretending. I took the road to Gibara; I walked along the edge of the road without trying to hitch a ride. I go alone up to Aguasclaras. There I join a group of women with newborn babies who are on their way to Velasco. “My father lives there,” I tell them. I give them a name. I help them with their children. We are passing by the dam when some young government soldiers call out to us. Now I'm in trouble; but no. “It's the same people from last week,” the
casquitos
say, and they let us go on. After a hike of twenty miles, we're in Velasco.
Voices, incredibly loud voices. Another bottle of Paticruzado. “You drink first,” you tell me. “No, you,” I say; but I do
drink. We are red again. It's too hot, too dusty. We feel sticky. We
continue forging ahead, close to each other. He keeps talking to me.
But there are no rebels in this town. And I've already eaten, as soon as I arrived, the forty-five cents' worth of pound cake I had brought with me. I sit down in the park, under a tree. I'm waiting, but there is no rebel in sight. There is only a man sitting on the opposite bench, watching me. He's been watching me for a while. Maybe he's been assigned to watch me. He stands up; he's coming over. Perhaps he's going to take me to the police headquarters, where they'll torture me, gouge my eyes out. . . . “Hey, boy, where are you from?” he asks. “From HolguÃn.” And we fall silent, both of us still looking at each other. “You have relatives here?” “No.” Again we are silent. He's still watching me. But then, after we've stared at each other for an eternity, it's maybe past midday, he talks to me in a low, deep voice. “Boy,” he says, “you are here to join the rebels, aren't you?” “Yes,” I say, thinking that now there is no escape, that it's already . . . “Of seven brothers,” he says, “I'm the only one who hasn't joined. Though I'm also a little bristled.” And he takes me first to his mother's, and later to the camp. “Look at what those rebels did to me when they passed through town,” the mother says while she takes me around the house. “The bastards, they even smashed my lard jars.” After dark, the man leads me to the rebel headquarters in Sierra de Gibara. And that is where I meet you, at the gate. On guard duty with your dilapidated rifle. “Halt!” you say. The man greets you and gives you the password. “I'm bringing this boy who wants to join,” he says, pointing at me. You glance at me; then you light a cigarette and offer me one.