Thine is the Kingdom

by Abilio Estevez

  Silence. Silence reigned.

  Anybody would know what the blue Cadillac parked on Linea Street meant. Helena, who knew from experience what would happen, made an exception and didn’t padlock the great iron gate. Then something that rarely happens, happened: the Island filled up with visitors. First Lila appeared, the fifteen-year-old with blue eyes and blond hair, with no arms and no legs, in the baby carriage her sisters used to take her everywhere. Beny picked her up from the carriage, carried her, and started whispering with her, not letting the others hear what they were talking about. Lila started to laugh and cry at the same time. The Singer hugged her tight, carefully returned her to the carriage, and gave her some chrysanthemums from the Island. Acacia, who they say is the bastard daughter of Amadeo Roldan, presented him with a musical score called La Rebambaramba with annotations in the illustrious composer’s own hand. (Acacia apparently didn’t know that Beny had never studied musical theory or notation.) Solidón Mambí, secretary to Luis Estévez (first vice president of the Republic), appeared with a golden medal engraved with the profile of José Martí, which he, Solidón, fixed to the singer’s overalls. Roberto the Beautiful and Jenoveba de Brabante showed up with enormous casks of ice-cold coconut juice, which was immediately distributed to all those present. Belarmino the Poet came in singing a ballad. Also singing (Mexican country songs),Blanca la Negra entered, with her tight lame dress and her voice that sounded just like Lola Beltrán’s. Single-file, well-behaved, in uniforms, led by the teacher María Amada and the caretaker Laura, the fifth-grade students from the Flower of Martí School arrived; one of the children, trembling and wearing turtle-shell glasses, read an essay dedicated to the man in whose voice the soul of our Country will always reside. Councilman Genaro declared him Favorite Son of the District of Marianao. A little old man with filthy clothes and a wretched face, whom they called Abelardo Pennypincher, led by a bland and equally filthy guide whose name, as might be expected, no one remembered, asked the Singer to grant him forgiveness for his uncountable sins. Then there arrived Fina la Libertina, Reinaldo the Scribbler, Soleida Triste, Maruchy Manwoman, Paco López (who wouldn’t stop talking),Raulito Nuviola (in his sequin outfit),Xiomara the Puppeteer, Tabares the Apostate, Unruly Raquel (Doña Bárbara), Chantal Dumán (a Frenchwoman, a marquise, and down on her luck), Gloriosa Blanco, Plácido the Shopkeeper, Elodia, Nancy, the wicked Amor and her wicked twin sons, Omar the Informer, Rirri Arenal, Alicia Mondevil… And they kept on arriving and arriving until, despite the din arising from the multitudes, they heard the rap of a cane and the voice of the Barefoot Countess who shouted as never before, This is not an Island but a tree-filled monstrosity, and an intense silence followed. You could hear the startled breathing of the Greatest Singer in the World.

  Shoeless, wearing her blue dress and looking like an exiled empress, leaning unnecessarily on her ácana wood cane, with that elegance whose origin you can never ascertain, passing by the Laocoön, the Barefoot Countess emerged. She stood still for a moment when she entered the gallery with her mocking smile and her gaze that seemed to contain every mystery (a gaze heavy with wisdom and kindness, contradicting her smile, a sad gaze of one who knows), until her eyes came to rest on those of the Singer. He had gone pale. She lifted her cane. Trying to escape this solemnity, he exclaimed with feigned cheer, I was hoping to see you, Countess. She did not reply. She slowly walked forward. The crowd began to part for her as if she really were an empress. When she arrived before him, she kneeled down. He extended his hands and could not quite touch her. Why are you kneeling? The Countess was serious. Because you no longer belong to this world, Singer.

  It occurred to Roberto the Beautiful, thank God, to hand out more ice-cold coconut juice. Even children know that in this Island, where the devil has installed the frying pans of hell, coconut juice helps man forget all his discomforts. Even children know that coconut juice is to the Island what nepenthe was to the Greeks.

  When evening fell, Beny began to sing. He strolled through the gallery and sang, Reality is birth and death, so why should we even worry … His voice was melodious, pleasing. Even the trees of the Island held their branches still. Everyone else sat on the floor and looked at the floor. Some of them closed their eyes. Some embraced each other (whether or not they had met before). The world is nothing but eternal suffering … He sang down the path that leads to the Fountain with the Boy and the Goose. The Barefoot Countess went off to Consuelo’s house. Evening depended on his voice alone. Life is a dream and everything fades … Anyone would come to think that the sky was darkening over, that clouds were thronging to the Island, as if night were suddenly about to come. Apart from his voice, someone was heard sobbing. No matter how much they searched, no one could tell who the sobs were coming from. Reality is birth and death … You couldn’t see anything now; they continued to hear him nonetheless, as if he were singing into each one’s ear. That voice is all that matters now, thought Casta Diva. That was the moment when she saw Chacho next to the Venus de Milo. Though he was crying, the man had a blessed expression on his face.

  (The same Sunday that Iraida and Beny Moré paid their visit, almost at night, Sebastián found the Barefoot Countess in The Beyond, at the riverbank, apparently playing with her cane and a bunch of yagruma leaves. Seeing him, the Countess called him over, Sebastián, boy, listen well, remember this, what I’m about to tell you is important, did you see him? did you hear what a voice he has, how well he sang? you’ll never see him again. The Countess went back to playing with the yagruma leaves, remained silent for a few seconds, then insisted, Remember that, Sebastián, it might be useful to you in the future: the most serious problem with this Island is that its gods are mortal.)

  There lies the Wounded Boy Merengue sees him with his mixed-race hair and mixed-race eyes, a mixture of Chinese and black and white, his mixed-race skin and thick, mixed-race mouth, and he feels the same unction as Irene and as Helena and as Lucio and as everyone else. Merengue brings a bouquet of everlastings, which he places in a vase on the nightstand, and then he sits down to chew his unlit cigar. He had gotten to Regla very late, when it was already dark and Havana had stopped being The City and turned into The Phantasmagoria. You could no longer hear the shots being fired nor the police car sirens wailing. Merengue wandered through unknown streets, past places that meant nothing to him, and almost without knowing how, he found himself facing La Rusas huge house. He knocked on the door and no one opened. He knocked again and again felt that time was exaggerating its pauses, its dimensions. He knocked desperately. At last it was opened by a black boy a dozen years old who went barefoot and bare-chested and wore a blue skirt, earrings, a blue ribbon in his hair, and bright red lipstick. It was Mandorla, La Rusa's little brother. It was rumored in Regla that he was a girl whom Olla, out of a dispute with Yemayá, had transformed into a boy so that the poor child would live with nostalgia for his former girlhood. Whom do I have the pleasure of… ? he or she (as the reader prefers) asked respectfully. Merengue replied that he was Chavito s father. Mandorla bowed, adopted a face befitting the circumstances, and said, Come in, please, our house is yours. In the enormous living room, all the furniture had been moved into one spot. Only a grand piano could be seen in one corner, where an old man, also black and red-haired, played a version of “The Swan” from The Animals’ Carnival. Another black boy who looked like Mandorla, perhaps suffering from the same curse of Olla, in a snow-white tutu, waved his arms urgently. When Merengue entered, the old red-haired black man stopped the music, and the little black dancer (twelve or thirteen years old) let his arms fall easily, languidly Chavito ‘s father, Mandorla announced in a doorkeeper’s tones. Merengue was about to bow, but Mandorla stopped him by taking his hand and leading him into a room full of altars with images, with flowers, with old photographs, with candles, with glasses of water and wine, with plates of food and candy. Greet her, Mandorla ordered. Merengue greeted the Virgin of Regla and fell to his knees. Fm looking for my son. I know. I thought maybe your si
ster … Fm looking for my sister, my sister disappeared the same day Chavito did, wherever they are, they’re together. What can we do? Mandorla sighed, shrugged, and straightened the Virgin s blue cape. Fm tired of asking. Merengue pointed to the saints. What do they say? Nothing, they don’t say anything, the little faggots are silent. Be respectful! Respectful? Have you forgotten how they disappeared, your son and my sister? It wasn’t them! It was, it could only have been them, only they have the power. Mandorla took hold of a cup of water and held it out for Merengue. He took it, trembling, looked into it and for a moment I thought the water was churning, and that my son’s image was going to emerge in the bottom of the cup, I thought a miniature of Chavito was forming there. Then the water calmed and no such image appeared and the cup of water was nothing but a cup of water. We’ll have to check with the hospitals, with the police. Mandorla took the cup of water back from Merengue and threw it at the Virgin, who tottered and lost her head. Her crown rolled to Merengue’s feet. Don’t even think of going to the police, old man, because I’ll kill you, screamed he or she (as the reader prefers).

  Believe it or not, Sebastián, there really is a place called Florence, and it’s the most beautiful city in Tuscany, and Tuscany is the most beautiful region in Italy, and you wouldn’t be capable of imagining what kind of a city it is, accustomed as you are to the hick towns and little villages of this country that isn’t even a country, Sebastián, just a horrid little thing we call an Island for lack of a better word (and islands aren’t countries, just ships run aground forever — and time, ay! doesn’t move in ships that have run aground forever), and the city of Florence has the most beautiful cathedral you could ever imagine, it’s called Santa Maria del Fiore and it’s made of so many shades of marble that it looks like a piece of candy, a famous (incredibly famous) painter named Giotto built the Bell Tower, which is more than two hundred fifty feet tall, and the dome is a monument to perfection, built by someone named Brunelleschi, the teacher of another important man, Michelangelo, and don’t ever think that there’s no more to Florence than its cathedral, no, not a bit of it, because there’s the Piazza della Signoria and the Pitti Palace, and the Ufiizi Gallery where you can see Botticelli’s paintings, and in that gallery (or maybe another one, I’m not sure) people go to cry before the most beautiful man in the world who is Michelangelo’s David, and after crying till their eyes nearly fall out they go to the Arno, which is a river (a real river, Sebastián, not like this ditch you people like to call a river) to see the night fall, and seeing the night fall over the Arno is an opportunity to keep crying from happiness, until the next day comes and you keep crying because it’s a new day in the magical city of Florence, where in the end the most important thing isn’t the monuments but a rare something no one has ever been able to explain, and I swear, Sebastian, dear boy, I’m crazy about going there to cry, though I know it’s pointless, why should I go if my eyes are dried up and I can’t even dream.

  They have passed the schoolroom, empty at this hour, and the disjointed little door that separates This Side from The Beyond. Sebastián goes in front, like a good guide; Marta behind, resting her hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. Despite the fact that The Beyond is practically impassable, Sebastián knows it very well and is following the path worn by Professor Kingston with his daily walk. Martha insists on saying hello to the Jamaican. They halt for a moment before his house. They shouldn’t even knock, the professor has sensed them and has come out, smiling, affable, despite the fact he seems to have taken a turn for the worse and is wearing a coat and scarf and you’d say he’s trembling with cold (in all this heat!). How do you do, Professor? Holding on, dear, holding on. The afternoon must be so lovely … I told Sebastián to accompany me on a stroll. Every afternoon is lovely, Marta, each one in its own way. That’s true, pardon me, I meant, lovely for a stroll. I only wish I could join you. And why don’t you? My legs hurt, I can barely move them, you realize you’re getting old when your legs hurt and you cut back on your strolls. (Laughter)

  I can’t remember how the rain fell in Jamaica, Professor Kingston says, though there is no one else in his room, nor could there be. He has entered his house, feeling cold, and he is giving his legs alcohol rubs, because they hurt on account of the humidity. Whenever I try to remember the rain in Jamaica, my memory turns up blank. It must rain there just like it does here, they’re both Caribbean islands, exposed to the same horrors. The day I met Cira the sky split in two, it rained as if there had been centuries of drought. No, it had actually not been that day, Cira and he had met on a May 20, the day they hoisted the flag, a lovely day, to tell the truth, and the people were as contented and lovely as the day, and he saw Cira crying as if instead of raising the flag it were Jesus himself they were watching ascend into heaven. Cira, it didn’t rain that day, right? The hard rain took place later, yes, the afternoon when he went to meet her at the entrance to the house where she worked. The day I first saw you it didn’t rain and it couldn’t have rained, it was a national holiday. Who can forget that day? No, I remember, as if in a dream, the bands playing, the little flags decorating the streets, the Prado all decked out, people elegantly dressed, dancing, from one side to the other, to the music of the bands that filled the avenue. And when they played taps, that was when I saw you, Cira, leaning against the columns of that building, dressed in red, blue, and white, with your beautiful black face covered with tears because they were hoisting the flag. Professor Kingston never saw the flag hoisted for the first time: he was looking at Cira and, while they were playing taps, all Havana came to a standstill as if under orders to do so, he took out his clean, perfumed handkerchief and offered it to Cira, who couldn’t stop watching the flag rise slowly up the pole. You took the handkerchief, woman, without drying your tears, without looking at me, and then when the flag began to wave and a unanimous shout of jubilation went up, you realized you had accepted a stranger’s handkerchief and you returned it, perplexed, frightened, begging my pardon. He continued to give his legs an alcohol rub. Humidity is terrible for the bones. And despite the heat, I’m dying of cold.

  For a long time now Marta has been asking God to let her go to Florence. Of course, it isn’t that Marta really wants to go to Florence, it’s that she wants to dream of Florence. It wouldn’t occur to anyone to doubt that there is a substantial difference between actually going and imaginatively dreaming. Marta is much, much more interested, in the imagination than in actuality She knows that, as she has gone blind, going to Florence, being there, doesn’t signify much; she knows that it is better to fancy Florence, and every afternoon I sit in the rocking chair, the center of my world, and close my eyes, which is a mechanical act since it doesn’t matter whether I keep them open or closed, and invoke God, I get ready to walk through those mysterious streets, past Santa Maria Novella, down la Via della Scala to the Piazza del Duomo, I insist on seeing the door of the Baptistery, the Paradise Gate, I insist that it be twelve midnight on the dot on Easter Saturday, I want to be there for the Explosion of the Carriage. Nothing. God (or whoever it may be) never takes pity on her, on her desires to dream. She never manages to break through that dark, nearly black, red curtain that hangs between her and Brussels, between her and Florence, between her and Alexandria, between her and her dreams.