Mona and Other Tales

by Reinaldo Arenas

  But it was also true that Alfredo Fuentes, rather than being at the center of those obliging crowds, would have much preferred to be alone in his small apartment—that is, alone with Olga, Delfín, Berta, Nicolás, and Daniel.

  So pressing were his characters’ appeals and so eager was he to respond that just a few hours earlier he had vowed to suspend all social activities and devote himself entirely to his novel—or story, since he didn’t yet know exactly where all this might lead him.

  Yes, tomorrow he was definitely going to resume his solitary and mysterious occupation. Tomorrow, because tonight it would be practically impossible for him not to attend the large party being given in his honor by the grande dame of the Cuban literary circles in Miami, Señora Gladys Pérez Campo, whom H. Puntilla had nicknamed “the Haydée Santamaría of the exile community.”2

  This event, however, was not merely cultural, but also had a practical purpose. Gladys had promised the writer that she would lay the foundation, that very evening, for a publishing house that would print the manuscripts that he had, at great risk, smuggled out of Cuba. Alfredo, incidentally, didn’t have a penny to his name and this, of course, could give him a tremendous financial boost, as well as help to promote the works of other important but still unknown writers less fortunate than Alfredo, who already had five books to his credit.

  “The publishing project will be a success,” Gladys had assured him on the phone. “The most prominent people in Miami will support you. They will all be here tonight. I am expecting you at nine, without fail.”

  At five to nine, Alfredo crossed the vast, manicured garden toward the main door of the Pérez Campo mansion. The scent of flowers swept over him in waves, and he could hear pleasant melodies emanating from the top floor of the residence. As he listened to the music, Alfredo placed his hand against the outside wall of the house, and the stillness of the night conspired with the garden and the thickness of the wall to give him a sense of security, of peace almost, that he had not experienced for many years, too many years. . . . Alfredo would have preferred to remain there, outside the house, alone with his characters, listening to the music from far away. But, always keeping in mind the solid publishing project that would perhaps one day allow him to own a mansion like this one and that could also mean the future salvation of Olga, Daniel, Delfín, Berta, and Nicolás, he rang the doorbell.

  Before one of the maids (hired specially for the reception) could open the door, an enormous Saint Bernard belonging to the Pérez Campos lunged toward him and began licking his face. This display of familiarity from the huge dog (which answered to the name of Narcisa) encouraged similar shows of affection from the other dogs, six Chihuahuas who welcomed Alfredo with a chorus of piercing barks. Fortunately, Gladys herself came to the rescue of her guest of honor.

  Fashionably attired—although rather inappropriately for the climate—in an ankle-length skirt, boa, gloves, and a large hat, the hostess took Alfredo’s arm and led him to the most select circle of guests, those who would also be most interested in the publishing venture. Gladys, at once solemn and festive, introduced him to the president of one of the city’s most important banks (in his imagination Alfredo saw Berta making a face in disgust); to the executive vice president of the Florida Herald, the most influential newspaper in Miami (“A horrible, anti-Cuban paper,” he heard Nicolás’s voice saying from a distance); to the governor’s personal assistant; and to an award-winning lady poet (“A couple of serious bitches,” Delfín’s sarcastic voice piped in loud and clear). The introductions continued: a distinguished minister who was a famous theology professor as well as the leader of the so-called Reunification of Cuban Families. (“What are you doing with these awful people?” Daniel shouted desperately from far away, causing Alfredo to trip just as he reached out for a famous opera singer’s hand, and fall instead directly into the diva’s ample bosom.) Gladys continued with her introductions as if nothing had happened: a famous woman pianist, two guitarists, several professors, and finally (here Gladys assumed a regal bearing), the Countess of Villalta. Born in the province of Pinar del Río, she was an elderly woman, no longer in possession of lands and villas, but still holding fast to her splendid title of nobility.

  As he was on the point of bowing discreetly before the countess, Alfredo sensed that the characters of his budding opus were again urgently demanding his attention. And so, as he kissed the lady’s hand, he decided to search for the pen and paper that he always carried in his pocket, in the hope of being able to jot down a few notes. But the countess misconstrued his intentions.

  “I sincerely appreciate your giving me your address,” said the lady, “but, as I am sure you will understand, this is just not the right moment. I do promise to send you my card.”

  And with that, the countess turned to the award-winning poetess, who had witnessed the scene and, apparently trying to help Alfredo, offered a suggestion: “Now that you’ve almost finished writing your address, why don’t you give it to me? I do want to send you my latest book.”

  And instead of taking notes as his characters demanded (by now Olga was moaning and Berta screaming), Alfredo had no choice but to write his address on the piece of paper.

  Trays brimming with assorted cheeses, hors d’oeuvres, pastries, and drinks were being passed around. Trays that, amid new greetings and inquiries, Alfredo saw approach and then disappear without his ever having a chance to sample from them.

  At midnight Gladys announced that, in order to make the gathering more intimate, they would all move to the glass tower. This elicited a very pleased “Aaah!” from the guests (even the countess joined in), and, led by their fashionable hostess, they set off immediately.

  The glass tower, circular and transparent, rose at one side of the house like a gigantic chimney. While the guests climbed laboriously up the spiral staircase (except the countess, who was transported in a chair designed especially for this purpose), Alfredo again heard his characters’ urgent cries. Imprisoned in Holguín, deep in the Cuban countryside, Delfín begged not to be forsaken; from New York, Daniel’s groans sounded aggravated and menacing; from a small French village, Olga, sweet Olga with her pages still blank, looked at him with a combination of reproach and melancholy in her eyes; meanwhile Nicolás and Berta, right there in Miami, angrily demanded immediate participation in the narrative that he had still not begun. To appease them momentarily, Alfredo tried to raise his hand in a gesture of understanding, but, as he did this, he accidentally tousled the pianist’s elaborate coiffure, and she in turn gave him an even more hateful look than Berta’s.

  By now they had all reached the glass tower. Alfredo was expecting the real conversation to begin at any moment; that is, they would finally start talking about the publishing plans and the first authors to be published. But just then, Gladys (who had changed into an even more sumptuous gown without anyone noticing) gestured with an elegant wave of her hand for the musicians to start playing. Soon the bank president was dancing with the wife of the executive vice president of the Florida Herald, who in turn began dancing with the governor’s assistant. A college professor deftly whirled around the room in the strong arms of the opera singer, outclassed only by the celebrated poetess, who was now performing a prizewinning solo. Between the clicking of her heels and the frenetic undulations of her hips and shoulders, she careened over to Alfredo, who had no choice other than to join the dance.

  When the music ended, Alfredo thought that the time had finally come to discuss the central issue of the gathering. But at another signal from Gladys, the orchestra struck up a dance number from Spain. And even the most reverend minister, in the arms of the old countess, dared to venture a few parsimonious steps. As the dancing continued and the operatic singer began to show off her high notes, Alfredo was sure he could hear quite distinctly the voices of his characters, now at very close range. Without interrupting his dance, he passed close by the glass wall and looked out into the garden, where he saw Olga, quivering desperately among th
e geraniums, begging to be rescued with silent gestures; farther away, by the perfectly trimmed ficus trees, Daniel was sobbing. At that moment, as the diva’s notes reached a crescendo, Alfredo felt he could no longer excuse his own indolence and, still dancing, he grabbed a napkin in flight and began desperately to scribble some notes.

  “What kind of a dance is this?” interrupted the executive vice president of the Florida Herald. “Do you also keep a record of your dance steps?”

  Alfredo didn’t know what to say. On top of it all, the pianist’s stare, suspicious and alert, made him feel even more vulnerable. Wiping his brow with the napkin, he lowered his eyes in embarrassment and tried to pull himself together, but when he looked up again, there they were, Nicolás, Berta, and Delfín, already pressing against the glass walls of the tower. Yes, they had gathered here from different places to pound on the windowpanes and demand that Alfredo admit them (infuse them with life) into the pages of the novel—or story— that he had not even begun to write.

  The six Chihuahuas began barking excitedly, and Alfredo thought that they too had seen his characters. Fortunately, however, their barking was just one of Gladys’s bright ideas (or “exquisite touches,” as the countess called them) to entertain her guests. And entertain them she did when, following her steps and the beat of the orchestra drums, the Chihuahuas surrounded Narcisa the Saint Bernard, and, standing on their hind legs, imitated complicated dance steps with Narcisa herself as the central figure. For a moment Alfredo was sure he saw a sadness in the eyes of the huge Saint Bernard, as the dog looked over at him. Finally, the audience burst into applause, and the orchestra shifted to the soft rhythms of a Cuban danzón.

  Berta, Nicolás, and Delfín were now pounding even harder on the windows, while Alfredo, becoming more and more exasperated, whirled around in the arms of the award-winning poetess, Señora Clara del Prado (haven’t we mentioned her by name yet?), who at that moment was confessing to the writer how difficult it was to get a book of poetry published.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Alfredo agreed mechanically, distracted by his characters, who were now struggling on the other side of the glass like huge insects drawn to a hermetically sealed street lamp.

  “You couldn’t possibly understand,” he heard the poet’s voice counter.

  “Why not?”

  By then, out in the garden, Daniel and Olga had begun sobbing in unison.

  “Because you are a novelist and novels always sell more than poems, especially when the author is famous like you. . . .”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  By now Daniel’s and Olga’s sobs were no longer sobs at all but agonized screams that ended in a single, unanimous plea for help.

  “Rescue us! Rescue us!”

  “Come on,” urged the celebrated poetess, “stop acting so modest and tell me, just between you and me, how much do you get a year in royalties?”

  And as if the screams coming from the garden were not enough to drive anyone out of his mind, Nicolás and Berta were now trying to break through the glass walls of the tower, with Delfín’s enthusiastic encouragement.

  “Royalties? Don’t make me laugh. Don’t you know that there’s no copyright law in Cuba? All my books were published in other countries, while I was still in Cuba.”

  “Rescue us, or we’ll break down the door!” This was, without a doubt, Berta’s infuriated voice.

  “They’re all thieves, I know that. But other countries don’t have to abide by Cuban law.”

  With their bare hands, and then their feet, Berta and Nicolás were beating on the glass wall, while the screams coming from the garden grew louder and louder.

  “Other countries will adopt any law that allows them to plunder with impunity,” Alfredo asserted clearly, ready to abandon the poetess in order to save his characters, who seemed, strangely enough, to be gasping for air, although out in the open.

  “So how are you planning to get funding for the great publishing house?” inquired the award-winning poetess, with an ingratiating twinkle, before adding in a conspiratorial tone: “Oh, come on, I’m not going to ask you for a loan. I only want to publish a little volume of mine. . . .”

  Somehow—Alfredo could not figure out exactly how— Berta had managed to slip one hand through the glass, and right in front of her astonished creator, turned the lock and opened one of the tower windows.

  “Look, lady,” Alfredo said curtly, “the fact is I don’t have any money. As far as the publishing house is concerned, I am here to find out how everyone here plans on establishing it and whether I can get my books published, too.”

  “We’ve all been told that you are going to be the backer.”

  At that moment, Delfín slid down the tower and was now hanging dangerously by his fingers from the edge of the open window.

  “Watch out!” Alfredo screamed, looking toward the window and trying to avert his character’s fall.

  “I thought we poets were the only crazy ones,” said the lady poet, staring intently at Alfredo, “but now I see that novelists are too—perhaps twice as crazy.”

  “Three times as crazy!” proclaimed Alfredo, running to Delfín’s aid at the window, just as Berta González and Nicolás Landrove entered the room.

  Alfredo felt embarrassed to have Nicolás, Berta, and Delfín Prats (whose life he had just saved) see him surrounded by all these people instead of being at work with them; therefore, feeling more and more under pressure to remove himself and his characters from the scene, he decided to say good-bye to his hostess and to the rest of the guests instead of waiting for the famous discussion to begin. Followed by Narcisa, who was now intent on sniffing his leg, he walked over to them.

  But a strange tension permeated the tower. Suddenly nobody was paying any attention to Alfredo. Worse, he seemed to have become invisible. In her tinkling tones, the celebrated poetess had just communicated something to Gladys and her friends, and they all made faces as if surprised or offended. Alfredo did not need a writer’s observational skills to realize that they were talking about him, and not favorably.

  “He’d better leave!” he heard Gladys Pérez Campo mutter in a low, indignant voice.

  But even if he understood (albeit with some measure of surprise) that those words referred to him, Alfredo felt so confused that he was not able to absorb them. Besides, the words had not been spoken directly to him, although they were certainly intended for his ears. Gladys’s good manners and social standing would not allow her to make a public scene, much less force one of her guests to leave. Therefore, still with the intention of rescuing his characters (who were now, for their part, completely ignoring him), Alfredo pretended not to have noticed and tried to blend in with the conversation. But the countess gave him a look of such withering scorn that the confused writer took refuge in a corner and lit a cigarette. But wouldn’t it be a sign of very poor breeding to leave without saying good-bye to the host and the other guests?

  On top of everything else, right at that moment Delfín Prats opened the door to the spiral staircase, and Daniel Fernández and Olga Neshein came in. Holding hands and without even looking at Alfredo, they joined Nicolás Landrove and Berta González del Valle, both of whom had already had a few drinks and were well on their way to getting drunk. Once again Alfredo felt Narcisa’s tail brushing against his legs.

  The five characters of his story (by now, at least, he knew that these people were worth only a story) took great pleasure in walking around the room, eyeing everything with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. Alfredo concentrated all his energy on trying to make them leave. But they just would not obey. On the contrary, they mingled with the most prominent of the guests, the true elite, introducing themselves to one another, bowing and curtseying, and exchanging pleasantries.

  From the corner where he was hidden behind a huge tropical palm and obscured by the smoke from his cigarette, Alfredo carefully observed his five characters and discovered that none was dressed as he had decided. Olga,
supposedly shy and sweet, had arrived wearing too much makeup and a tight miniskirt; she was gesticulating wildly, making faces and laughing too hard at a joke that the director of Reunification of Cuban Families had just told her. Meanwhile, Berta and Nicolás, the paragons of “unshakable integrity,” according to Alfredo’s vision of them, were kowtowing outrageously to the governor’s assistant. At one point, Alfredo even thought he overheard them asking for a small business loan to open a pizzeria in the center of the city. For his part, Daniel (“the introverted, solitary one”) had already introduced himself as Daniel Fernández Trujillo and was telling the award-winning poetess such off-color stories that the old countess had discreetly moved to another seat. But the insolence seemed to have met its master in the talented Delfín Prats Pupo. While downing a beer (his fifth? his seventh?) straight from the bottle, he mocked his creator—that is, Alfredo Fuentes—in a manner that was not only grotesque, but also almost obscene and ruthless. With diabolical skill, Delfín Prats Pupo imitated Alfredo, exaggerating all of the writer’s tics, gestures, and idiosyncrasies, including his manner of speaking, walking, and even breathing. Only then did Alfredo realize that he sometimes stammered, that he walked with his stomach thrust forward, and that he was bug-eyed. And as he watched his favorite character mock him, he also had to endure more face-licking from the passionate Saint Bernard.

  “The worst thing of all is that for all his pretensions and ridiculous posturing as a brilliant author, he has no talent whatsoever and can’t even write without making spelling mistakes. He often misspells my first family name and writes it without the t,” concluded Delfín Prats Pupo, so as not to leave any doubt on the matter.

  And everyone laughed, again producing a strange sound like the tinkling of wineglasses.

  Increasingly nervous, Alfredo lit another cigarette, which he quickly dropped on the floor when Delfín Prats Pupo, mimicking his every gesture, began to light one too.