Some time later, the notes of Carl Maria von Weber’s Invitation to the Waltz rang out, and the false matador, the false but truly beautiful José K., Pepito, received the notes with an amusing dance step. It seemed as if the guests had been waiting to hear those fiery strains of music.
Dwarflike and scraggy, dressed as a gentleman in the court of Philip II (and named The Viking), a tiny black man served as doorkeeper. Standing ramrod straight by the door and hitting the floor with his staff, he announced the names of the guests as they arrived: Carmen Miranda, Marie Antoinette de Habsbourg-Lorena, Stalin, Madame Butterfly, Gilles de Rais, Henry Miller,The Girl with the Hair Combs, Solomon and the Queen of Sheba (actually, poor imitations of Yul Brynner and Elizabeth Taylor), Douglas Fairbanks (Junior), Eleonora Duse, Cardinal Mazarino, Cecilia Valdés, Conchita Piquer, Theda Bara, The Gentleman of Paris, Jean Antoinette Poison Le Normand d’Etiole, and almost every celebrity in the world. The Leech’s roomy apartment filled up until it seemed impossible to take two steps without bumping into somebody famous. The waiters serving the appetizers and drinks sported splendid scarlet velvet robes worthy of the Satyricon. Nevertheless, the trays offered slices of roast suckling pig, fried plantain chips, yuca con mojo, malanga fritters, tamales, chicharrones, and every other sort of typical Cuban food in surprising abundance. The drinks did turn out to be more diverse and international, so that you could see Anacaona the Indian Princess drinking a cup of Napoleon brandy next to Lorenzo the Magnificent with a bottle of Hatuey. Rolo felt uncomfortable among these guests, as illustrious as they were unexpected. It hadn’t occurred to the Leech up until now to celebrate his birthday with a costume party, though it was true that his parties were always extraordinary Only Rolo wore no costume, which made him feel ridiculous, like he was sticking out. But around nine in the evening, fortunately, a proper gentleman appeared, dressed in suit and tie, a briefcase that denoted he worked as a solicitor, maybe a notary, perhaps an attorney Rolo felt the relief of seeing someone dressed normally and he found a way to approach, greet, introduce himself, invite him to have a drink. The man rejected him without speaking a word, with inexplicable brusqueness. Joseíto K., who had observed the whole to-do, approached, spectacular in his bullfighter’s outfit and with a mocking glint in his aquamarine eyes. Don’t mind her, he said, that’s Martina Tabares, the most famous dyke in Luyanó. Rolo tried to become invisible in a corner. He didn’t want to drink and lose his clarity, though he felt dizzy as if he had already drunk a barrel of beer. From time to time he allowed himself a piece of chicharrón, not to slight the lads serving the intricate silver platters. There, in the corner, beneath a languid country folk painting by Antonio Gattorno, he stood back to observe thickly bearded empresses, feminine knights, cross-bred gentlemen, bishops, and ambassadors of equivocal sexes and conversations. The music went from the romantic to the baroque, and from there to the danzón, until at last it got to Pérez Prado, Beny Moré, the Sonora Matancera with Celia Cruz’s loud, proud voice, Daniel Santos, Panchito Risset’s weepy voice, and finally to Toña la Negra, divine Toña, the divine black woman singing, Pity, pity for one who suffers, pity, pity for one who weeps, and just a little warmth in our lives … Cleopatra danced with Fanny Elssler, Alexander the Great with Gerardo Machado, Joan of Arc with Mariana Alcoforado. The temperature of the party slowly rose. The time came when they weren’t just dancing, Queen Victoria began to kiss Dunia the Taina Indian desperately, in what turned out to be an apparent order to awaken the phantoms of lust. It would have been around ten o’clock. Rolo began to feel better. No one was paying him any attention, so his lack of a costume stopped bothering him. Besides, Pepito K., such a generous fellow, handed him a mask, behind which he could hide his timidity So many days of sexual abstinence, he thought, must come to an end on such a propitious night. He laughed at poor Sandokán, who must be imagining, in his little hut in the neighborhood of Zamora, a weepy Rolo, desperate at his absence. You idiot, you don’t even know the worlds I rub shoulders with, he said out loud.
And I started staring brazenly at one of those little Trimalchios serving the yuca con mojo, a little mulatto-looking he was, and perhaps that was the very reason he looked heavenly, and I smiled at him, he smiled back, and when he came closer I exclaimed in my best voice, And you, beauty, don’t you have anything to offer but yuca? (I surprised myself with my boldness.) The little mulatto smiled a smile Franz Hals would have fallen in love with, and was even more brazen because he stated, Sir, I offer whatever they ask of me, but I can see that there’s not much you need, and pointing to my right, he disappeared, I looked at the place he had indicated, a man (he must have been a man: he was close to six feet tall), decked out in a domino that covered him so well you couldn’t even see the eyes behind the holes in the mask, was standing almost by my side in an obviously provocative pose, I mean, he was caressing the sacred region where a promising bulge was growing visible, I thought I’d stay there, get into the game, except I started thinking, I have no idea who’s behind this domino, what if it’s some sort of monstrosity, one of those unpleasant men who would have some reason to resort to such a mask … and as for the servant, his fresh, smiling little face was out in the open, you could see his handsome, nicely shaped arms, not puffed up with showy muscles from pumping weights, so I forgot about the giant in the domino, I decided to follow the little mulatto who was serving the yuca con mojo, I picked up a glass of who-knows-what from a tray, not to drink it but because I’d feel less different if I had a drink in my hand, he tried to make way as best he could through all those famous characters, and possessed by lust, trying by every means possible not to lose sight of the little mulatto, he tripped and spilled the entire contents of the glass on the costume of someone dressed as a sailor. Rolo lifted his head. The word pardon fell silent on his lips. No, this was no costume.
Do you remember, Rolo, the Sailor you met that strange night in the Island, that October night when the Wounded Boy appeared, and much earlier than that you had gone to the train station and seen a duffel bag there, and then you saw the Sailor leaving the bathroom and buttoning his fly, practically an adolescent, tall, thin, dark skin, a mouth (the mouth really impressed you) that was almost thick, but not quite, elegant motions, the motions of a dancer, not a sailor? remember? Again you have those great shining eyes, close up, staring at you, eyes the color of honey, in which you couldn’t discover a drop of pity. The Sailor, who wore no mask, smiled. No, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter at all. What a voice, Rolo, what a voice! Strong, well-timbraled, it seemed not a voice but a hand caressing your cheek. You believed you were begging his pardon. Actually you were dumbstruck and pale, and the Sailor must have realized it because he stared intensely at you, a little mockingly, very wisely, knowing (and he, so young) everything that was going on inside you (so old). And all you managed to do was to take out your handkerchief, wipe it over the young man’s thigh; he, more quickly, squeezed your wrist tight, No, sir, don’t bother yourself, it’s been a pleasure for me to run into you, to see you again. Which left no argument that it was the same man and that, besides, he remembered you. You smiled (or believed you did) and stood there, paralyzed, feeling that something definitive was happening within you. And just at that moment the lights went out. Well, the electric lights went out, because a scant few lanterns offered brief glints of light around the salon. The music stopped. The couples separated as if under orders. The notes rang out to the great march from Aida, a door opened, and the unexpected occurred: Jorge Tamayo, the Leech, appeared. And it wasn’t the Leech, but a constellation. His bald head was covered by a grandiose wig with gilded ringlets. His Benito Mussolini face was made-up and smiling. His hands were gloved. His dress was long and wide, with endless layers of tulle in which hundreds of living, pulsating green lights flashed, surely neither real nor costume jewelry There was a first second of shock, an Ahhhh! followed by an ovation that compelled the Leech to raise his arms and take a ceremonious bow. The guests made way. He stepped forward slowly, m
ajestically, his outfit shining, his smile shining, dabbing his eyes with a little embroidered handkerchief at every moment to dry the tears that were not flowing down his cheeks. Only when the lights went on again and the great march gave way to Olga Guillot, Now I’m living off your lies, I know your love is not sincere … could Rolo tell that the Leech’s dress was covered with fireflies trapped in little bags of tulle. Rolo turned toward the Sailor: he wasn’t there. He searched among the crowd that was returning to the dance and the smooching. The little mulatto of the yuca con mojo approached with a tray full of tamales: Just so you can see I have other things to offer. Rolo didn’t even listen. Among the mortarboards, sun hats, crowns, cocked hats, tricorns, buns and bows, he tried to find the blue-ribboned Navy cap. He couldn’t. Smiling, trying to hide his agitation, he continued his march through the dancers, back and forth, from one corner to the other, on an ever more fruitless, desperate quest. At one moment Pepito K. came up to him and asked, not so much with his lips as with the mocking glint in his aquamarine eyes, Have you lost someone? I can help you in whatever you desire. Rolo wanted to keep on smiling. I think I’m looking for myself, he replied, satisfied at having ducked the banderilla this fake matador had tried to pin him with. He then stood in a corner, this time under a Victor Manuel landscape (where could the Leech have gotten this painting? Victor Manuel hardly paints landscapes, could it be a forgery?), and repeated, Calm down, yes, calm down, and thought the time had come to leave, even if he did so with that desire inside him, with that distress that would have been the delight of Freud or Sandokán, in Vienna as in Coco Solo. Again, beside him, the giant in the domino caressed his promising sacred mound. No, I’m not going to pay any attention to you, don’t even think of it, I’m not so desperate as to let myself get seduced by a mask, besides, I’m not lost yet, I can still get out of this hellhouse and take a stroll down Prado, something always turns up, don’t worry, there are more fags than royal palms in Havana. Nonetheless, when the giant in the domino came so close their bodies touched, Rolo didn’t even move. He let the other one caress his back, his bottom, his thighs. He searched for the promising lump and found that it was no mere promise, but a bloodcurdling and powerful reality. Let’s go, the giant ordered. Rolo liked the peremptory tone, the sureness with which he squeezed his arm. Noli me tätigere, Rolo exclaimed with a smile he knew was full of acquiescence and humility. Let’s go, repeated the other one, who by all appearances neither had understood the phrase nor cared. Rolo felt himself transported through the crowd, with an agreeable sensation in which fright mingled with desire. They entered the bathroom. Next to the door, Comrade Stalin was kneeling down, caressing the magnificent cock of Eugenia de Montijo. Neither the comrade nor the empress blushed at the arrival of Rolo and the giant. Rolo too fell to his knees, filled with unction, as he had in the days when, receiving the host from the hands of the priest of the church of San Rafael, he had felt that a crowd of angels were guiding him toward the kingdom of happiness.
After attempting a frustrated trip down the river, Sebastian returns to the Island, which is now a gigantic and empty forest, peopled only by Dianas, Hermes, Thinkers, and Laocoöns made luminous and spectral by the lack of light. Not brave enough to enter in, at a standstill next to the Apollo Belvedere behind the wooden screen in the courtyard, Sebastian observes the trees, twitching as if they ache to run away, and the ever-lower, intensely purple sky that has been foreboding rain for hours now. Though he wants to go back home and shut himself inside to read, he desists because he suspects that at this hour Helena must be jotting down numbers in her interminable account book, and its likely, besides, that it will occur to her to sit him down in front of her with the morality and civics textbook, or the religion one. That’s why he walks slowly down the gallery, away from his house, hoping the time will fly swiftly. And he skirts the Island without making up his mind to set foot on the grass, though without ceasing to stare, enchanted, at the thicket that attracts and terrifies him. He plays with Buva and Pecu, Chavito’s cats, which have jumped up on the belly of Christ in the Pietá; he continues toward the imposing Moses that rises where the left wing of the building comes to an end, where Consuelo ‘s room begins. Now, around Merengue’s house, he thinks he sees a figure amid the foliage. And what he has seen is imprecise, almost nothing, a shadow behind the oleander, someone who stops for a second and then disappears in that last region of This Side, practically on the border of The Beyond, which is darker than any other because the schoolroom and Consuelo ‘s house have no lights. After all, Sebastian can’t affirm categorically that there’s anyone out there prowling around. An owl flies heavily by and disappears among the poplar trees. The Island is full of mirages, of illusions. The statues and the wind and the night and the branches of the trees are conspiring to bewilder you, to make you think things are what they aren’t and cannot be. And there are long stories about the confusions that have taken place here. Many stories, endless stories. And I don’t want to fall for those mistakes, I don’t feel like letting the Island make fun of me, and that’s why I make up my mind, the fear can go to hell, and I head into the trees by one of the many stone paths that lead to the fountain with the Boy and the Goose, and I hear footsteps around me, heavy footsteps as if someone were dragging himself along, and the dry leaves crunch and you can hear branches cracking, I don’t let myself get fooled, it’s the wind, nothing but the wind tonight, the wind wishing to pull the trees out by their roots, and I reach the fountain and see for myself that there’s no white figure standing there. Instead, Lucio is here in his Prussian blue cashmere jacket, very elegant, dressed up like he’s going to a party. He’s got one foot resting on the edge of the pool and his arms crossed on top of his raised knee. A cigarette burns down between his fingers. Pensive, he watches the water of the pool and, typically, doesn’t notice Sebastian’s arrival. Silently, out of respect or out of fear, Sebastian approaches him and stands by his side. Lucio takes a red handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wipes it across his dry forehead. The smell of the cologne in the handkerchief is more penetrating than that of all the trees, than the smell of damp earth that the wind carries tonight. Sebastian comes closer, made confident by Lucio’s silence. Without taking his eyes off the stagnant water, the man puts his arm around Sebastian’s shoulders, embraces him, embraces the boy, brings him closer, so close Sebastian feels the fire of the other’s breath. Lucio speaks slowly now, as if it were hard for him to find the meaning of each word, I don’t understand, Sebastian, I don’t understand, and he looks at the boy with a scowl and he asks him, Do you know what it means not to understand something? And of course Sebastian nods because he doesn’t understand this very question. And Lucio flings his unsmoked cigarette off, into the water, and lowers his foot from the edge of the pool and stands up straight, and his face lights up again with his usual smile (in which a gold tooth shines), the smile that has made him so famous among the students at the Institute, and Sebastián still feels the weight of the other’s arm around his shoulders when he hears, Don’t pay any attention to me, boy, don’t pay any attention, I’m an ignoramus who doesn’t know a thing, and he walks off smiling, though the smell of the cologne lingers in the fountain as if Lucio had split in two.
Someone is crying. There’s no doubt about it. Sebastian believes the sobbing comes from around where the Elegguá is, and he heads that way without thinking twice about it, and skirts the fountain, and passes the sacred jagüey, and reaches the place where the bamboo surrounds the empty watering hole (a green shade still indicates where there once was water), and at last sees the great stone with seashell eyes, striped cheeks, and a smiling mouth that reveals teeth that are white river stones. Lying on the ground, back propped up against the Elegguá, here is Tingo. And he’s the one who’s crying, crying uncontrollably, a cry that seems to have had no beginning and to have no end, since when Tingo cries it seems he’s crying forever and ever. Sebastián sits down by his side and tells him, Tell me, why are you crying, what happene
d to you, come on, talk. Tingo goes on like he hasn’t heard, like crying is his only possibility, his only salvation. Listen, look, here I am, look at me, I’m Sebastián, your friend, look at me, and Tingo cries and cries. Cries unstoppably And sobs. Sebastián strokes his head, Come on, boy, it’s not that bad, tell me, what happened to you? And when Tingo feels Sebastian’s hand stroking his head, he shudders, he visibly shudders, and lifts up his eyes, made more beautiful by crying, to look at his friend, and little by little he calms down, stops crying, and though he sighs, and sobs a few times, he tries to control himself until at last he does so and dries his cheeks with the back of his hand. Silence reigns between the two. A silence that isn’t silence because in the Island, which is ablaze with wind, it sounds like there’s a whole crowd shouting insults; naturally, as soon as you listen closely you realize it’s not a crowd and they aren’t insults, just the branches of all these trees. And Tingo, in a faltering voice, speaks without looking at Sebastián, with his eyes lowered as if he were talking to himself, as if only he should care what he said.
When Miss Berta told us we could go home, that the afternoon classes were over because it was going to start raining at any moment, I still hadn’t finished copying down the theme about the Alps from the blackboard, it’s so hard for me, you know, I don’t get it and I couldn’t tell you why, I write slowly and there’s no way I can get myself to write faster, even when I rush and try to catch up with them, well, you know, you see me writing fast and still finishing after, way after everybody else, and that’s what happened to me today, and the more I tried to rush the longer it took, and so you guys left, and Miss Berta looked at me with those strange eyes, like when she’s tired of waiting, you know, and she comes and tells me, Tingo, I’m going because I don’t want to get caught in the downpour, and I tell her, Miss Berta, I’m almost done, I’m almost finished, and she says, No, that’s what you always say and you never do get to the end, so you just stay here, finish up, turn off the lights and shut the door, and I stayed there all alone with those words up on the blackboard that I never did get, that I never understood, do you know what the Alps are, Sebastián? of course that doesn’t matter, the thing is that I finished at last, and if you want me to tell you the truth I didn’t finish, I skipped a few words and put a period when it wasn’t, you know, the end, and I turned off the lights and closed the door and went out into the Island happy to go home early and throw down my books and go out to look for you, I went out into the Island and saw that it did look like there was going to be a downpour any second, it already felt like rain was falling, there was a little sound of water and water and you couldn’t tell where it was coming from, even though the Island was still dry, and what do you know, Sebastián, but that’s where what happened started happening and you’ll never believe me and I hope you’ll believe me, even if you don’t get it and I don’t get it either, what I’m going to tell you is the absolute truth, and I’ll start by telling you that the statue of Martí wasn’t there, not where it was supposed to be or anywhere else, it just wasn’t, and I couldn’t believe it, how is it possible that the monument with the bust of Martí could disappear if that morning, you know, I put roses there and everything, and I walked a little bit, and thought maybe Chavito moved it around, ‘cause that’s how Chavito is, and I took a few steps, took ten steps and that I can swear because I counted them, and that was the worst thing I could have done, I bet you couldn’t guess what happened to me then, well, I got to a place with these real weird plants I’d never seen before, with big leaves bunched up at the end of the branch, all a dark, ugly green, and a smell I couldn’t describe, and since I’d never seen any plants like that in the Island I turned back, ten steps back to get to the schoolroom again, and I realized there wasn’t any schoolroom there, that it wasn’t just the bust of Martí that had disappeared but the schoolroom was lost too and I found myself in a place that was just like the one I had left, with statues, are good for when your path gets off track? I looked at the sky, there were stars out, so many and so bright that I didn’t know which one could help me, the moon looked round and big and yellow, only it didn’t do me any good either because when I stood up and walked to the right or the left, the moon moved with me, to the right, to the left, and the stars also moved from one side to the other, your uncle Rolo fooled us, you know, he fooled us, and I went back to circling the ruin, listening to the crying, the sobbing, the sighs, sometimes words, I even remember a phrase, I remember it because it called my attention, a man’s voice said pretty loud, Dreaming in a sweet stupor was I, and I remember it real well because the word stupor sounded so nice to me, don’t you think so? and I’m also sure I heard another man’s voice, sadder, softer, that said, Were I to shout, who in the angelic hosts would hear me? it was so sad, Sebastian, so sad, and what do you know but on one of my trips around the building I find the door, and I don’t know how I hadn’t seen it before because I’ve never seen such a big door, it was enormous, with huge nails, wide open, and I walked on into the living room, I say living room because I don’t know what else to call that place where I walked into, roomy, ceiling out of sight up there somewhere, and furniture, so much furniture you couldn’t imagine, old furniture tumbled all over, lamps, books, clothes, old clothes, paintings of landscapes, of serious people who looked at me sternly and made me feel so sad, even sadder than I felt about being lost, and there were boxes, broken mirrors, especially one that was broken in a bunch of places and I looked at myself in it and, now you’re going to be surprised: I didn’t see myself, I met a man there who was smiling and bowed in the weirdest way, I’ve never seen anybody in my life bow like that, and he was wearing a costume, he had the strangest clothes on, and smiling, winking one eye, the guy was pretty ugly, you know? and his voice didn’t come out of him, it came out of the whole house, or from up in the ceiling, and he said, Welcome, and I don’t know what I answered back, I think I didn’t, didn’t answer, I just looked at him with startled eyes, and I imagine my eyes must have looked startled: he told me, Don’t be scared, and he raised a hand in the air, a hand in which he was holding a black hat, like a magician’s hat or like we’ve seen in old movies, and he asked me what my name was and I said, Tingo, at first I was planning to lie, planning to tell him your name or Vido’s, but at the last minute my mouth betrayed me and I said Tingo, and I saw that the guy got serious and pensive, and he was looking at me like I was the ghost and not him, and he asked me, I bet you can’t guess what he asked me, he got right up next to me and I could see his ugly face this close to mine, and I even smelled his vinegar breath, and he asked me, Aren’t you Sebastián? and me, how was I going to start lying? I shook my headj No, sir, I’m not Sebastián, Well then, the guy answered with that voice that didn’t come from him but from the whole house, then go tell that boy we’re waiting for him, and he showed me the hat, just like magicians do at the circus, he showed me the hat like he was showing off something that was way too expensive, he put it on, and by God, Sebastián, you’ve got to believe me, at the same moment that guy who was so strangely dressed and so ugly put on his hat, he disappeared, yes, he wasn’t standing in front of me anymore and I looked for him but there was nothing, he put on the hat and disappeared, and I was there just listening to his voice, or to the echo, repeating less and less clearly, Tell Sebastián we’re waiting for him, and I threw myself on the ground and cried and cried till my eyes hurt, and when I opened them, I find myself with you, and I see I’m in the Island, and I realize I’m full of shit, it was just a dream.
Thine is the Kingdom Page 26