Mona and Other Tales Page 6

  I must confess that it was impossible for me then to assimilate Elisa’s words. I asked her to explain in simpler language, still hoping it was all a joke or the effect of the two bottles of wine.

  After she repeated the same explanation several times, I finally got an idea of what she meant. The woman in the painting and Elisa were one and the same. As long as the painting existed, she, Elisa, would exist too. But for the picture to exist, she had, of course, to be there. That is, whenever the museum was open, she had to remain there inside the picture—“smiling, impassive, and radiant,” as she put it, with a tinge of irony. Once the museum was closed, she could get out and have her amorous escapades like the ones I had participated in. “Encounters with men, the handsomest men I can find,” she explained, looking at me, and in spite of my dangerous situation, I could not help but experience some feelings of vanity. . . . “But all those men,” continued Elisa, “cannot simply enjoy; they want to know, and they end up like you, with a vague idea of my peculiar condition. Then the persecution begins. They want to know who I am, no matter what the cost; they want to know everything. And in the end, I have to eliminate them. . . .” Elisa paused for a moment and, glaring at me, continued: “Yes, I like men, and very much, because I am also a man, as well as a genius!” She said this looking at me, and I could see that her anger was mounting; realizing I was facing a dangerous madwoman, I decided it was best to “go with her flow” (as we used to say in Havana), and, begging her to control herself, I asked her to tell me about her sex change. “After all,” I tried to console her, “New York is full of transvestites, and they don’t look so unhappy. . . .” Completely ignoring my words, she explained to me: Not only was Elisa the woman in the painting, but the woman in the painting was also the painter, who had done his self-portrait as he wished to be (the way he was in his mind): a lusty, fascinating woman. But his real triumph was not that he portrayed himself as an alluring woman. “That,” she said with scorn, “had already been done by most painters.” His true achievement was that through a mustering of energy, genius, and mental concentration—which, she claimed, were unknown in our century—the woman he painted had the ability to become the painter himself and to outlive him. This person (she? he?) would then exist as long as the painting existed, and had the power, when nobody was present, to step out of the painting and escape into the crowds. And in this way she was able to find sexual gratification with the kind of men that the painter, as a man not graced by beauty, had never been able to get. “But the power of concentration I must muster to achieve all that does not come easily. And now, after almost five hundred years, I sometimes lose the perfection of my physical attributes or even one of my parts, as you on several occasions were astonished to see but could not believe.”

  In brief, I was facing a man over five hundred years old who had transformed himself into a woman and also existed as a painting. The situation would have been truly hilarious were it not for the fact that, at that point, Elisa drew from her bodice an ancient dagger, sharp and glimmering nonetheless.

  I tried to disarm her, but in vain. With only one hand she overpowered me, and in an instant I was on the ground, the dagger before my eyes. Crouching, and imprisoned under Elisa’s legs, I still was able to identify the landscape around us. It was exactly the same as in the famous (and now, for me, accursed) painting at the museum. Something sinister was indeed going on, though I could not determine its extent. Elisa—I will keep calling her Elisa until the end of this report—made me move along in my crouched position until we reached the lakeshore. Once there, I saw it was not a lake but a swamp. This was obviously the place, I thought, where she sacrificed her surely numerous indiscreet lovers.

  The alternatives Elisa seemed to be offering me were equally frightful: to die either drowned in that swamp or pierced by the dagger. Or perhaps she had both in mind. Again she fixed her gaze on me, and I understood that my end was near. I started to cry. Elisa took off her clothes. I continued crying. It was not my family in Cuba that I remembered at that moment but the enormous salad bar at Wendy’s. To me it was like a vision of my life these last few years (fresh, pleasant, surrounded by people, and problem-free), before Elisa came into it. Meanwhile she lay naked in the mud.

  “Let it not be said,” she muttered, barely moving her lips, “that we are not parting on the best of terms.”

  And beckoning me to join her, she kept smiling in her peculiar way, lips almost closed.

  I couldn’t stop crying, but I came closer. Still holding the dagger, she placed her hand behind my head, quickly aligning her naked body with mine. She did this with such speed, professionalism, and violence that I realized it would be very difficult for me to come out of that embrace alive. I am sure that in all my long erotic experience, never has my performance been so lustful and tender, so skillful and passionate, because in all truth, even knowing she intended to kill me, I still lusted for her. By her third orgasm, while she was still panting and uttering the most obscene words, Elisa had not only forgotten the dagger but become oblivious of herself. I noticed she apparently was losing the concentration and energy that, as she said, enabled her to become a real woman. Her eyes were becoming opaque, her face was losing its color, her cheekbones were melting away. Suddenly her luscious hair dropped from her head, and I found myself in the arms of a very old, bald man, toothless and foul-smelling, who kept whimpering while slobbering on my penis. Quickly he sat on it, riding it as if he were a true demon. I quickly put him on all fours and, in spite of my revulsion, tried to give him as much pleasure as I could, hoping he would be so exhausted he would let me go. Since I had never practiced sodomy, I wanted to keep the illusion, even remotely, that this horrible thing, this sack of bones with the ugliest of beards, was still Elisa. So while I possessed him, I kept calling him by that name. But he, in the middle of his paroxysm, turned and looked at me; his eyes were two empty reddish sockets.

  “Call me Leonardo, damn it! Call me Leonardo!” he shouted, while writhing and groaning with such pleasure as I have never seen in a human being.

  “Leonardo!” I began repeating, then, while I possessed him. “Leonardo!” I repeated as I kept penetrating that pestiferous mound. “Leonardo,” I kept whispering tenderly, while with a quick jump I got hold of the dagger; then, flailing my arms, I escaped as fast as I could through the yellow esplanade. “Leonardo! Leonardo!” I was still shouting when I jumped onto my motorcycle and dashed away at full speed. “Leonardo! Leonardo! Leonardo!” I think I kept saying, still in a panic, all the way back to New York, as if repeating the name might serve as an incantation to appease that lecherous old man still writhing at the edge of the swamp he himself had painted.

  I was sure that Leonardo, Elisa, or “that thing” was not dead.

  Even more, I think I’d managed to do no harm at all to it. And if I did, would a single stab be enough to destroy all the horror that had managed to prevail for over five hundred years and included not only Elisa but the swamp, the sandy road, the rocks, the town, and even the ghostly mist that covered it all?

  That night I slept in the home of my friend the Cuban writer Daniel Sakuntala.9 I told him I had problems with a woman and did not want to sleep with her in my apartment. Without giving him any more details, I presented him with the dagger, which he was able to appreciate as the precious jewel it was. Would it solve any problem, I wondered, if I told him of my predicament? Would he believe me?10 Right now, only two days away from my imminent demise, when there is no way out for me, I am telling my story mainly as an act of pure desperation and as my last hope, because nothing else is left for me to do. At least for now, I realize how very difficult it is for anyone to believe all this. Anyway, before the little time I have left runs out, let me continue.

  Of course I did not, even remotely, consider going back to my room, terrified as I was by the possibility of finding Elisa there. I was sure of only one thing: she was looking for me, and still is, in order to kill me. This is what my own instinct, m
y experience of fear and persecution, are telling me (and don’t forget I lived twenty years in Cuba).

  For three days I roamed the streets without knowing what to do and, naturally, without being able to sleep. On Wednesday night I showed up again at Daniel’s. I was shaking, not only out of fear but because I was running a fever. Maybe I had caught the flu, or something worse, during the time I was out on the streets.

  Daniel behaved like a real friend, perhaps the only one I had and, I believe, still have. He prepared something for me to eat and hot tea, made me take two aspirins, and even gave me some syrupy potion.11 Finally, after so many nights of insomnia, I fell asleep. I dreamed, of course, of Elisa. Her cold eyes were looking at me from a corner of the room. Suddenly that corner became the strange landscape with the promontories of greenish rocks around a swamp. By the swamp, Elisa was waiting for me. Her eyes were fixed on mine, her hands elegantly entwined below her chest. She kept looking at me with detached perversity, and her look was a command to get closer and embrace her right at the edge of the swamp. . . . I dragged myself there. She placed her hands on my head and pulled me down close to her. As I possessed her, I sensed that I was penetrating not even an old man but a mound of mud. The enormous and pestiferous mass slowly engulfed me while it kept expanding, splattering heavily and becoming more foul-smelling. I screamed as this viscous thing swallowed me, but my screams only produced a dull gurgling sound. I felt my skin and my bones being sucked away by the mass of mud, and once inside it, I became mud, finally sinking into the swamp.

  My own screams woke me up so suddenly that I still had time to see Daniel sucking my member. He pretended it wasn’t so and withdrew to the opposite side of the bed, making believe he was asleep, but I understood I could not stay there either. I got up, made some coffee, thanked Daniel for his hospitality and allowing me to sleep in his apartment, borrowed twenty dollars from him, and left.12

  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 García 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 people—or 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 insane—and I quote the officer in charge—“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.13

  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,14 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.15 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

  BEHIND—but pretty close to me—comes 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 Rodríguez, 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 voice—he’s catching up with me again, is already next to me—saying “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 Holguín. 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 Holguín. 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 Mejía. 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 Holguín. 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 Holguín.” 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. Behind the carts crammed with big-bellied women, the thunder of horses’ hooves; behind the horses, the honking trucks, then the bicycles, and after, thousands of people on foot. And above everything, the great dust cloud that rises and comes down, settles and comes up again as if exploding, enveloping us. Ahead and behind us, up above and below, everywhere, is this huge cloud of dust raised by the cavalcade. And I kept you company when you were at your post, though you never lent me your rifle again. We did the same guard duty, and we talked. Like this. Day after day. After day. “Look at this photo,” you said. “It’s my mother, poor thing.” “Look at this photo,” you said. “It’s my girlfriend; I’m really going to get her good as soon as I get out. I’ve been here eleven months, just think what a dry spell!” Ahead and above, below and behind, the great dust cloud. And now this singing. An anthem. You’re singing too. And I pretend to be singing, though I’m not. We keep sweating a lot. I’d been there just over a month when forty-eight men and seven women came down from the Sierra. All covered with mud, exhausted after the long walk. You and I bring them water in canteens. Then we all wait for the arrival of the captain. And for his speech. “My dear people,” he says, “we cannot admit any more rebel soldiers who come with nothing except goodwill. We need rifles. Without rifles we cannot accept anybody.” Rifl
es! Rifles! You leave your post for a moment and we walk down to the coconut grove, where there is some shade. We crouch. We pick some mallows and begin to eat them. We stay there for a while. But not long, because I can’t stay in the camp and you have to return to your post. “I’m leaving,” I say. When we are both standing you reach under your shirt. “Take this,” you tell me, and hand me a knife, sheath and all. “Go to Holguín and knock off a novice soldier. Get his rifle, and come back here.” I don’t say anything to you. I don’t thank you. It’s late. I come down from the Sierra and get back to Velasco. At dusk I leave for Holguín. “You dig it in,” you said. From out of the dust comes the sound of a transistor radio above the ruckus. The voice from the radio, the anthems. The big news. The dictator fled: it has been confirmed. There is a list of those who escaped. A list of those arrested. Shouts of “Viva.” Great uproar. The Pupo sisters burst out laughing. A horse rears, threatening to kick some women, who move aside, screaming. And we are already in Atejón. In five minutes we’ll be in Holguín. I wait until midnight before going into town. I knock on the door. “Who is it?” Grandpa whispers behind the closed jalousies. “It’s me,” I say. “It’s me.” He opens the door very cautiously. “Boy,” he says. Behind him, my mother, wrapped in a bedsheet; and Grandma. Both are screaming; both cry as they embrace me. The sheet slips, Mother is almost naked. “Hush,” Grandpa whispers. “Hush, we’re going to wake up the neighbors.” “Oh, my boy,” Mother says, and keeps hugging me. I manage finally to get untangled and push her away. And on my feet, in the middle of the living room, I start talking. “I just came back to kill a casquito, get his rifle, and go back to the Sierra.” And I take out the knife. Then, for the first time, I draw it from its sheath and look at it, dazzled. Its brand-new blade glimmers. It has a horn handle and a daunting edge like a switchblade. My mother screams, and shrinks back in the rocking chair. “You’re crazy,” Grandma says. “You think you’re already a man at fourteen. Enough nonsense. Get to bed.” Grandpa comes up mumbling, trying to take the knife away. But I jump quickly and evade him. I reach the front door and run out. “Don’t shout,” I hear Grandpa saying. “They are going to burn the house on account of that fool.” The caravan of bicycles goes by, pushing us aside again, lifting the dry, dusty soil; some have flat tires and are being carried on shoulders or dumped on the oxcarts loaded with women and young men. One of the Pupo women is calling out for her son, who got lost. We hear the strumming of a guitar; the singing continues. The parade is spectacular. The third bottle of Paticruzado reaches us. Sweaty, we keep marching close together. Your moist arm touches mine, already soaked. A casquito is on guard duty, standing in front of the electric plant. He moves once in a while. He walks from one side of the metal entry gate to the other, shouldering his rifle. He whistles. He goes to and fro. He stands still. Then the casquito looks around, and, slowly, I keep moving closer. At times I furtively reach back to feel the knife still there, under my shirt. The casquito is wearing very shiny boots; he’s strong and slender under his tight khaki pants. He seems to be a very light mulatto, though I cannot see him very well in the darkness. I keep getting closer. The casquito is very young. I cross in front of him, stop at the other corner, and look back. I think he’s also looking at me. I continue walking. I stop. I go back. Now, a bit closer, I stop again and look at him. He also looks at me. We have been eyeing each other for a while. Now he walks by the large gate from one side to the other and faces me. He teases me. Perhaps he thinks I’m gay, and that I am just leading him on. He takes a few steps toward me. He whistles. Goes back. He faces me and again scratches himself. He keeps whistling. I remain on the corner, looking at him for a while. Finally, I start walking home. I knock on the door. Now it’s way past midnight. Nobody asks who it is. The door opens, and there again is my mother, wrapped in the bedsheet. She hangs around my neck. “Oh, my son,” she says, “you’re crazy. Give me that knife. Don’t you see you are the only thing I have.” Still crying, she puts her arms around me. In the hallway I see my grandparents, motionless. They look alike. My mother keeps talking to me, and I think how ridiculous her words sound. And seeing her like that, embracing me, all teary-eyed and saying so many silly things, I feel like punching her. But I don’t. And even though I don’t know why, I begin crying too. Throngs of people, and then the frightened dogs, barking, rolling in the dust, and yelping when people thoughtlessly kick them. And the creaking of the oxcarts, the clip-clop of the horses, the drone of the trucks. The bicycles disappear on the dusty road. And you by my side, still shouldering your rifle, your uniform soaked and covered with dust. You talk. And talk. And talk. A woman comes up to you and gives you a salacious smile. You keep talking and I try to listen to you. Once in a while I catch myself feeling for the knife under my shirt. We are entering the town already. “You damn son of a bitch,” shouts one of the Pupo girls when someone pinches her bottom. I spend a day under the bed, hiding. “Don’t make him any fried eggs,” Grandpa says. “The noise might give us away.” In the evening Uncle Benedicto parks his car in front of the house. My mother quickly throws a towel over my shoulders. Grandma traps me under an old hat. Mother and I climb in the car, which starts moving without the lights turned on. The car takes us to Atejón. “It’s dangerous to continue in the car,” Benedicto says. “Either the casquitos or the rebels could stop us, even take the car away.” And now the boring peregrination with my mother. We go to Arcadio’s, to Guilo’s. Anywhere we know someone. One day here and another day somewhere else. Anyplace where we can get some food. Until finally, after a lot of my mother’s pleading (I never once opened my mouth to ask for anything), I manage to get to my aunt Olga’s. And I stay (while Mother goes back to town), and carry water and firewood for Aunt Olga, working all day long to pay for my bed and board while hiding from the police. At times, when I’m taking the empty water cans to the brook, I begin to sing. And one day I spent some time fishing for pitises. And once, night was catching up with me while I was still at the brook. I then took out the knife you gave me, which I always carry beneath my shirt, and started looking at it. I slid my finger along the edge—was it ever sharp. And I stayed for quite a long time there, handling it, and whistling, not very loudly, under the cupeyes by the brook. I got back very late. My aunt was impatient. That day only half of the water cans were filled. But the following day I filled them up. And the next. And the next. And the one following. Always like that: filling those water cans. Here on this good-for-nothing hill, where you can’t see any rebels and you can only hear the distant shooting. And I wonder how’s your life in the Sierra. And I keep carrying water. Going to and coming from the brook; sometimes I bathe in the water hole; and sometimes I try catching pitises just for fun; sometimes I whistle a lot. And sometimes I think it would be best to . . . And here in the water, with my pants rolled up, I am just doing some thinking when I hear shots. Nearby shots. And then the rumble of crowds of people approaching and the shouts of “Viva!” And I drop the water cans, and start running down the savanna toward the main road. “Batista fled!” I hear at the gate of the Pupo sisters’ farm, and the crowds start to come. And there, my clothes in tatters, I run with the crowd on the way to town. Right behind me are the people from Guayacán. The bicycles appear. An oxcart crammed with women is coming down the hill very slowly, following us. We’re going past Cuatro Caminos, and that’s where we meet our first group of rebels. They are coming from Velasco on foot, shooting in the air, shouting, “Viva Cuba, cojones,” and lots of other things. You are with them. I call out to you at the top of my lungs. As soon as you see me, you abandon your group and come running. You throw your arm around my shoulders, and begin talking. Flags and more flags. Front and rear. High and low; in the arcades that suddenly spring up in the streets; on the telegraph poles at the first wide avenue; hanging from the laurel trees; on the doors and windows of every home. Scattered on the ground. Tied to a long series of ropes, and flapping in the wind. Flags. Thousands and thousands of flags, hastily set on remote cor
ners. Red rags and black rags. Colored papers. Papers, papers. Rags. Because we are already entering Holguín. And all of us below the flags. And everybody is hollering. Shouting vivas. Singing. And ahead of us, tied to mops and broom-sticks or any kind of pole, flags fluttering. And cars blowing their horns nonstop. And all the boys from the hill on one side of the road, watching us pass by. “There go the rebels,” someone shouts. “There go the rebels.” And now everybody flocks to you. And the whores from La Chomba and Pueblo Nuevo approach you. And one of them touches your face. “But look how young he is,” she says. “He doesn’t even have a beard.” And you look at her and burst out laughing. Flags. Flags. And suddenly there is loud noise, louder than before, and shouts of “To the execution wall! To the execution wall!” The people are shouting, “They caught a Mansferrer Tiger!” and they all run toward the center of the commotion. The rebels try to prevent the lynching of the henchman, and run to protect him with their rifles. An old woman goes up and manages to hit him. The crowd roars. They ask for his death. The henchman says nothing. He simply stares ahead. He seems to be in a distant world. And we continue advancing along the avenue full of flags. Until, ahead of us in the middle of the street, a tall, thin woman appears, all dressed in black. She’s the mother of one of the henchman’s victims. The woman stops the group. “Please, I beg of you,” she says, “don’t kill him, don’t kill him. Punish him, but don’t kill him!” Shedding profuse tears, she keeps pleading. But all of you, and all of us, start walking. The woman is being left behind, in the middle of the street full of flags. We get to a children’s playground. Someone has fixed the town’s power lines, and the lampposts light up. All the radios are blaring now with the latest anthems, which I had not yet heard. A group of rebels take the henchman to their headquarters. You stay in the park, surrounded by people. The women from La Chomba offer you cigarettes. They take you to a bench and begin asking you questions. You talk, always smiling, always showing off your rifle, but you don’t allow anyone to touch it. I keep watching you. The crowd around you is growing by the minute, asking you questions, offering you praise. I raise my hand. I try to say good-bye, to tell you, “I’ll see you around.” But I can’t get close enough. You are surrounded. It seems they are about to carry you on their shoulders. Now the military marches are louder. Near me, someone is mocking them at the top of his voice. “Viva, viva,” some raggedy boys shout from the top of the fountain with the turtles. I am making my way on one side of the park, where the crowd is thinner. It is night already. I hear the first rockets. Suddenly the sky explodes in fireworks. I turn on Diez de Octubre Street and reach my neighborhood. Everybody is very excited; some of my neighbors greet me enthusiastically. I rush to get home. My mother and my grandparents are on the porch, waiting for me. The three of them embrace me at the same time. “Son,” they all say. I go in. “You must be starving,” Grandma says. “Can I fix you something?” “No,” I say. And I sit in the dining room. Right then, Tico and Lourdes come in. “Hey, big man,” Tico tells me. I shake his hand and hug Lourdes. Over the radio, which Mother has just turned on, a woman recites a patriotic poem. The anthems keep resounding in the streets. And now Grandpa comes in from his produce stand, carrying a red-and-black flag with a big number 26 in the middle. “Say, young man!” he says, and hands me the flag. “Go out in the street with it,” Mother tells me. “All the neighbors are waiting for you.” I stand there for a moment, holding the flag. “I’m tired,” I finally say, and throw the flag into the bathroom. And I turn on the light. I take out the knife under my shirt and put it on the edge of the john. Before undressing, I take a look at my miserable civilian clothes, sweaty and muddy. Over the radio, the woman keeps reciting in a thundering voice. The marches reverberate in the street along with the rejoicing from all over town. “Hurry,” my mother says outside the door. “We are waiting for you.” I don’t answer. Naked, I go under the shower and open the faucet. The water falls over my head, slides down my body, and is completely reddened with dust when it reaches the floor.