Mona and Other Tales Read online

  1965

  In the Shade of the Almond Tree

  “WE’VE GOT TO CHOP IT DOWN,” one of them says. And I rush out to the street. The other two burst out laughing, let out a snort of relief, and applaud. “We’ve got to chop it down,” they echo in a circle around the first one. Finally they leave the dining room and head toward the patio. But I’m already on the street. It’s cool. The brutal September sun is gone, and autumn settles in the trees. It feels almost pleasant to stroll on these streets. From here I don’t see their prancing about, their intolerable shouting, their constant running back and forth through the house, unsettling everything, questioning everything, wearing down the patio tiles. They never stop even for a second, and when they got it into their heads to chop down the trees (complaining that too many fallen leaves kept them sweeping forever), they took to it with such eagerness that in a week all of them had been cut down. Only the almond tree, the one at the back of the patio, was still standing. Without realizing it, I’m walking into the heart of the old section in Havana. I cut across to Obispo Street, and, even though I’m not interested, I glance at the store windows, and stop for a moment by a few, looking without seeing, or reading absentmindedly even the titles of scientific books. I stand there looking at these unappetizing volumes for a while, until I realize that someone else is also looking at them, apparently with great interest. A gorgeous girl. I look at her from head to toe, and feel the urge to touch her. She takes a large comb out of her purse, fixes her hair, looks at me, and starts to walk, swaying her hips a bit. Her dress, short and tight, moves in rhythm with her body. Yes, I’m sure that she looked at me and that she even gave me a brief signal. Or I imagined it. . . . Anyway, I’m going to follow her. Next I find myself by the only almond tree still standing. I lie down on my back, and stay there in its shade all day, half-asleep. I feel the moist leaves falling on my face. But now this tree is also in danger. Its leaves sometimes land in the hallway, or worse, they end up in the living room. A few days ago a leaf circled down like a dying bird right onto the lap of one of my aunts, who apparently was mending a pair of pants in a rush. “This is the last straw!” she cried, throwing the pants on the floor and grabbing the leaf with such fury that it crumbled in her hands. Now she’s walking ahead very slowly, maybe giving me time to catch up. I follow her closely down Obispo Street until we come to La Moderna Poesía. She stops briefly and then goes in. And now I’m really sure that she looked at me. She glances at the shelves, leafs through a few books, skims some of the pages. This is the moment to speak to her, before she gets bored and leaves, and since the almond tree is now the only one standing, all the birds in the neighborhood seek shelter in it. At dusk the din of the cackling birds reaches up to the house. My mother covers her ears with her hands and looks out angrily at the patio. All the birds have now settled in the tree. Cautiously I get closer, careful not to frighten them. I finally reach the tree trunk. Lying on my back, I listen to them screeching until it gets dark. Now she comes out of the bookstore, walking fast. Maybe she’s offended because I didn’t speak to her. Next she goes in the Manzana de Gómez shopping arcade and stops in front of a store window; then she crosses Central Park, and gets lost in the crowd. I speed up because I don’t want to lose sight of her. I remain very still, listening to the uproar of the birds. The leaves are falling constantly and I try to collect them, to catch them up in the air before they clutter the ground. But there are too many. We are in October and the leaves fall. And fall. And fall. And no matter how much I leap about and hurry to catch them in flight, one always escapes, slips in through the window, and, skipping over the chairs, rolls softly and lands at the feet of one of my aunts. It’s impossible to catch all the autumn leaves, and following her through this crowd of people is getting more and more difficult. It seems as if all of Havana has gathered on San Rafael Street. The endless lines, the bustle of people darting here and there, the cars and buses that spare no effort to run me down. But I manage to cut through the crowd. I race after the blue patch of her skirt. Suddenly I lose sight of her. I look all around for her. She’s gone. And undoubtedly there is no spot in the world more pleasant than here: in the shade and close to the trunk, which remains moist as if it were constantly shedding its skin. Many new shoots are beginning to sprout. The new leaves are a tender green. Sometimes I’m tempted to eat them. And I do. Surprisingly, I discover her again in front of the Duplex. I almost bump into her. She looks at me. I’m bathed in perspiration. She starts walking and I follow her closely. And this is how we get to the Five and Ten. For half an hour we stand in line waiting for a seat. We finally sit and, as she crosses her legs, her skirt rides up above her knees. She asks for a malted soda. I ask for the same, and pay for both. Now she’s truly looking at me. I’m all excited. It’s so difficult for me to get up again. When I am there, dozing in the shade, I always dream about the same thing more or less, the same dream, the same dog. Because it’s a dog I’m dreaming about. I’m in an enormous house, full of people talking and talking (I don’t know who these people are because I can hardly see their faces, and I can’t make out what they’re saying either), and when I’m about to leave, the dog appears at the door. It looks at me with its shiny eyes. Without barking, it comes up to me and sinks its teeth into my ankle. I go inside the house again. The people are still talking and talking. With my hands in my pockets, I try to leave as casually as possible, without looking down. She walks ahead of me and seems aware of my situation and rather amused by it. And this is how we reach the sidewalk. And sensing that there was little time left, I spoke to my mother on one of those days when she was almost calm and not even smoking. “At least we still have the almond tree,” I said, “or else we’d be suffocating.” She looked at me absently and then said, “If we let it be, one day we’ll all indeed be smothered, buried under a pile of leaves.” I say nothing and walk out to the patio. There, my three aunts, brooms in hand, are sweeping fanatically. For a moment I stop to look at them: they are all of the same height, tall and skinny, and have a frightened air as if anxiously expecting someone to come from behind and hit them. The three are sweeping together, making the same motions. The tree seems ablaze in its resplendent gold. A bird hidden in the branches is singing its heart out. And now it’s raining. People crowd the arcades. She is on a corner, apparently looking at the street. It’s not a violent downpour, just one of those endless showers. The trees in Fe del Valle Park glisten through the drizzle. Finally she starts walking toward the bus stop. A bus goes by, so crowded its door won’t open. Another one comes; she takes it. I get on just as the door closes. But the conspiracy continues and there is nothing I can do. I thought about it over and over again but couldn’t find a way to come to the rescue. Sometimes I felt like screaming or setting the house on fire. Finally I decided to speak to my father. “Papa,” I said to him, “they want to chop down the only almond tree we have left. Don’t let them do it.” My father stopped reading (I have always thought that this little man who sits on the porch every evening reading the paper is not my father, though I have never dared to tell him). “So you too are carping about the almond tree,” he tells me, “Let them chop it down and be done with it.” “But I don’t want that. I don’t want them to chop it down!” I say. “Chop it down, chop it down,” he insists. “I don’t want to hear one more word.” And the bus is really crowded. The heat and the noise are unbearable. A woman carrying a monstrous handbag is incessantly torturing me. I keep watching the exit so she won’t be able to get away from me, but I can scarcely see her. I can’t even find room for my hands. And to complicate everything, an enormous man is now behind her. What a nerve! If he keeps it up, I’ll have to call him to task. But why doesn’t she move away? She’s being raped in the middle of the bus, and she doesn’t even protest. And her home must be at the end of the world. We’ve already reached the beaches. Here, inside the bus, the heat is intolerable, and that woman keeps harassing me with her handbag and the big man keeps pressing against her, while the co
uncil got together at last and one of my aunts said, “We’ve got to chop it down.” And the others, dancing around her, took up the chorus. My mother, unmoved, was smiling from the kitchen. Then suddenly, they all began to shout: “Yes, we’ve got to chop it down.” And I felt the surge of a new hatred. I felt like killing them. And that’s why I rushed out to the street. All the streets to the beach look the same, bordered by trees that look alike but seem to be something else, not worth identifying. We walk three more blocks to the seashore. She finally stops by a house identical to all the others. She opens the door and stands there, looking at me. I walk past her with my hands in my pockets, whistling and looking at the tips of my shoes. “Come in,” she says, and at that moment I look up; the council is over. One of my aunts goes to the kitchen and brings the ax; the others cheer. And now they all parade into the patio. We begin in the living room rocking chair (there is no time to waste, she says; her family is coming back any minute). She takes my shirt off and leads me to the bedroom. Already in bed, she undresses eagerly and then strips off my trousers and my underwear. The cortege parades across the patio, military style, toward the tree. One of my aunts wields the ax while the others, holding hands, dance in a circle around the trunk. They are silent. Then my aunt grabs the ax with both hands and starts to swing it. With utmost care she first slides her hands over my body, then her lips, and then her teeth; but it’s pointless. The first blow of the ax thunders, shattering the afternoon. Birds take flight or seek refuge in the upper branches. My mother wipes the perspiration off her brow, snatches the ax away from my aunt, and, in a rage, begins to strike. The tree is shaken up. My aunts, still whirling around the trunk, now squeal in triumph and jump about, while tearing off the lower branches. Mother swings again; panting, she raises her hands to her hair; in defeat, she sits on the side of the bed and feels her face with her hands. I see her naked and for a moment I have the urge to talk to her. But I don’t know what to say. Immediately I stand up, get dressed, and at the doorway I await the brutal comment, the insulting words I deserve. But she says nothing. And that is the worst. I rush out, cross the identical streets, and on Fifth Avenue, I take the first bus. Perhaps I can still come to the rescue. I run into the house, cross the hallway, and bolt out to the patio. There she is, swaying in the late-afternoon breeze. I come up and stare at the trunk in ecstasy. “For today you are safe,” I say. And I lie on the ground, on my back. The noise from the birds is quieting down. “I wish there were something I could do. I wish there were something I could do,” I repeat. But she says nothing. Her enormous silhouette is projected against the twilight. Then she gives me a few moist leaves that fall on my face, slide through my hands, and end up being caught between my legs. “I wish there were something I could do,” I say. And she keeps covering me with her leaves. And this is how we spend the night.