— Please have a seat, instead of water would you prefer some cold linden tea?
— No, thank you, I’d like a little water, my throat is dry. Berta notices that he drinks uncertainly, his hand trembling, getting his black suit wet. By the light of the lamp, she notes that not one more wrinkle could fit on his face, that his forehead almost disappears behind his eyebrows, that his eyebrows almost cover his eyes, that he has a large nose above a lipless mouth, that he has no neck.
— What is your name, old fellow?
He, however, does not reply He is sitting with his eyes closed after finishing the water, as if he wished to retain forever the memory of the moment when the water refreshed his throat.
— Would you like some more? I can also make you a spot of coffee.
Without opening his eyes, the old man raises one of his trembling hands as if with that gesture he meant to demonstrate assent.
— Yes, Fd like some coffee, and at the same time Fd like to thank you, Berta, for all you are doing for me.
— Where do you know me from?
Berta prepares the coffee and brings it to him in the cup for visitors. He doesn’t drink it right away
— I know everyone, He says.
— Who are You?
The old man brings a hand to His chest and bows. When He moves His feet, you can hear, too loudly, the metal of the spurs. He opens His eyes and raises them to Berta, who feels a mixture of jubilation and terror.
— You! — she shouts.
— Well, He pleads, don’t make such a fuss about it.
— Why have You been watching me all this time, what do You want from me?
— From you? nothing, I don’t want anything from anybody, Fm tired, almost dead tired, Fm hungry and thirsty, and Fm sorry to disappoint you but Fm not the one who’s been watching you, I don’t watch, I don’t have time to watch, Fm too disillusioned, too sad about the way things are going.
— So aren’t You the creator of all that has existed, exists, and will exist?
— If you’re going to start getting ingenuous about it…
— What did You come for?
— Ah, see, now that’s a good question. His eyes light up vaguely
— What did I come for?
He pauses to smell the coffee, then adds:
— I came to warn you.
Berta stands up and can barely contain her anger.
— Warn me, about what?
— Flee!
— Why, why should I have to flee? why are You choosing me, out of all the people You could possibly choose, to give this recommendation?
— I haven’t chosen you, Berta, in one way or another I’ve recommended the same thing to everyone, I can’t appear to all the rest because not everyone is ready to receive me, but to you I can, I can tell you, so you’ll feel relieved, that in dreams, through human presences or absences, through letters, books, disappearances, stars going out, deaths, or any other signal (I have an infinite number of ways to send messages, as you’ll understand), I have shouted to each and every one, Flee!
— So why do we have to flee?
— Because I lost.
— What did You lose?
— The Island, Berta, the Island, you don’t have your thinking cap on today.
— Maybe I’m denser than ever, but what are You telling me You mean by saying I lost the Island?
The old man sticks a finger in the coffee, looking even sadder than before.
— It means just that, that I lost it, on a bet.
— With whom?
The old man sighs again.
— No foolish questions, please, even a small child knows whom I always make bets with.
Berta walks from one side to the other, not knowing what to do or where to go, then turns toward Him with a threatening look.
— It’s very easy to start playing with whomever, lose something that means so much to other people, and then give advice like that, like a bad father, Flee! Like fleeing’s the only solution.
He looks at her like a child caught with His hand in the cookie jar, like someone asking, What do you want me to do? and instead explains:
— Fleeing isn’t the best solution, I know, but it’s the best one for getting your hopes up, a man flees a catastrophe and doesn’t realize that the catastrophe follows him, instead he keeps the foolish belief that he’s safe.
— This means that when You advise us to flee, You’re actually offering us false hopes?
— Berta, I believe I have made a mistake by showing myself to you.
— You’re a swine!
With an impatient knock on the arm of the chair, He laments:
— Woman, you love to moralize, it’s time for me to go.
— What do I do with my mother? — Berta asks desperately.
— Doña Juana? She’s happy sleeping, she’ll be the one who comes out of all this the best, leave her, let her sleep.
And saying this, He finally drinks the coffee, picks up His hat, and stands up.
The ceiling of Berta ‘s living room silently opens, without angels, without trumpets, without a great to-do, while He ascends with a swiftness and smoothness she wasn’t ready for.
The only proof Berta has of the visit is the umbrella left by the side of the rocking chair.
And the truth is that on this morning of December 31, Uncle Rolo is telling everyone who wants to hear it that he saw how at dawn the Apollo Belvedere started losing its cape, its cape turning to dust, and how it lost the fig leaf that until today had covered its private parts, and how it lost its hair and its classic profile, and its base, and it all dissolved, and he says he saw how the Apollo Belvedere all ended up as a pile of dust. And everything Uncle is saying must be true: the Apollo isn’t there. And Lucio affirms that the same thing happened to the Laocoön, that he saw it at the moment it turned to dust, the first thing that was consumed was the serpent, and there was a moment when that man and his two sons looked very odd, suffering over nothing, since nothing was attacking them, until later they too fell apart into a noisy pile of rocks. And everything Lucio affirms must also be true: the Laocoön isn’t there, either. Nor are the Hermes of Praxiteles, nor the bust of Greta Garbo, nor the Venus de Milo, nor the Diana, nor the Discus Thrower, nor the Elegguá, nor the Victory of Samothrace that you used to see at the entrance. And as for the bust of Martí, it’s as if it never existed. Nor can the crotons or the roses that were planted around it be found anywhere. The fountain is still there, but you can’t see the Boy with the Goose in it, nor can you find the stagnant greenish water that had accumulated there through years of downpours. Also vanished are the stone paths, thanks to which it had been possible to venture in among all those trees without fear of the disaster of disappearing, without fear of the ghosts of the Island. The statues and the paths were like the Virgin, a means of feeling we were protected by a superior and eternal order, something sure in the midst of contingency, something that would outlive us; what’s beyond argument is that, for all that man seems to regret that things outlive him, it turns out (being an inexplicable, paradoxical creature) he’s happy at the same time that this is how things are, so that he can sing to these things (whether it’s Niagara Falls or his own city) and leave some evidence of his time on earth, and also so that he can look with his ephemeral eyes at what has eternal value and feel that he has touched some bit of eternity, that he has caught some bit of it.
And it turns out that today is December 31, and according to human habits, we should suppose that the characters in this tale will celebrate the arrival of the New Year.
It is highly probable that a bit before nightfall, one could see the Wounded Boy leave Irene’s house with his notebook, cross the Island, reach the courtyard, go out through the great door that opens onto Linea Street. Perhaps one could see him stop for a second in front of Eleusis, the bookstore, cross paths with a sailor, and continue toward the train station. Although it is also highly probably that he could be seen heading toward T
he Beyond, toward the carpenter’s shop where they found him one night in late October. What is certain (or at least as certain as these things can ever be) is that when tonight, December 31, finally arrives, the Wounded Boy won’t be in the Island.
The lights are on in the galleries. For all the good that does. If today weren’t today, Merengue would have taken a rocking chair out to the gallery as night began to fall so he could smoke his H-Upmann and talk. Right away Chavito would have come out with his collapsible canvas stool and his smile, and he would have sat down facing his father, because there’s no denying Chavito used to enjoy pumping Merengue for information, asking him about other times, which always, in memory, seem more fortunate. Mercedes would arrive with Marta, the two of them bathed and dressed to the nines, their necks and breasts immaculate with Myrurgia talcum; sighing, Mercedes saying that she comes there to forget for a few hours about that damned City Hall. Casta Diva would arrive, with her hibiscus-print apron and her air of a diva, exclaiming, Don’t tempt me, don’t tempt me because I have so much to do. And San Martin would have followed her, pretending to be upset, exclaiming with false anger, This woman! You just can’t keep her in the house. Irene would come too with her palm leaf fan, talking about her family in Bauta. If it were a night like those of not long ago, Miss Berta would appear, looking like a doctor of pedagogy. And Uncle Rolo would also be sighted, reciting poems of Julián del Casal. And Helena would arrive, holding the flashlight and the keys to the iron gate, always watching over the Island. And the conversation would begin. And for the least excuse, guffaws would break out.
But today isn’t any old day. Many things have happened and many more are still to come. Today is December 31, a special year’s end, and it makes no difference at all that the lights are on in the gallery.
December 31? so what are you trying to tell me? I’m telling you we ought to celebrate it. And what do I have to celebrate, when you can see: I don’t even remember my own name, when my memory’s been erased and I don’t even know who I am, when I’m here and it’s like I’m nowhere. Irene paces the house without knowing where she’s going, and then stops in the middle of the living room. Miss Berta consoles her, Come on, you’ll see, it’s a bout of amnesia, you’ll recover your memory, you’ll soon be the same Irene as ever. And she leads her toward the gallery, towards the Island at nightfall. Casta Diva is there, waiting for them, sitting on the ground, carrying Tatina, saying, Today I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t see me, God knows where my image has wandered off to, but it sure isn’t with me, not in front of me like I’d like it to be. And at that instant, as if Casta Diva’s words had given the order, a magnificent soprano voice emerges from among the trees,
E strano! E strano! In core
Scolpiti ho quegli accenti!
Sana per me sventura un serio amore?
Che risolvi, o túrbala anima mia …
And Casta Diva is left stupefied, as if she were lost in some place only she knew about. It is highly probable that Cirilo s flute is also heard now, although the truth is that we can’t be sure about this. At times shots are fired, police car sirens are heard, and who dares to say that they really are shots and police sirens? Mercedes comes with Marta by the arm. They look serious and sit down without even saying good evening. Merengue brings a tray of pastries, which he deposits, also in silence, on a little table Helena sets out. Helena and Uncle Rolo alike have just brought out more rocking chairs so that everyone can sit comfortably. Please, make yourselves comfortable because when the bell rings twelve, however the new year catches us, that’s how we’ll spend it. Nobody laughs at Uncle’s joke. Where are the boys? The boys are over by the courtyard, Miss Berta says, serving lemonade in their glasses.
And there is no party, just an expectant waiting. Waiting for it to be twelve midnight and for Miss Berta’s clock to ring twelve at last. And waiting for something else: they don’t know what it could be.
And although they cannot know it, they are waiting for a young sailor to appear and for someone to shout Fire! (It should be noted: between the Fire and the word that designates it there exists an abyss of bewilderment; fire is one of the few things in this world that are more impressive than their names.) For a few endless seconds, the characters, who in one way or another are awaiting the arrival of a new year, will stand fascinated by the flames that will appear over by Miss Berta’s and that will spread with unheard-of swiftness to the rest of the Island, consuming trees and houses, destroying all they encounter in their path without the slightest hesitation. Bright, vigorous, golden, the flames will grow higher and higher, swifter and swifter, more and more beautiful, and will cast colors into the night that will range from red to purple and will turn white up high. And they will not only grow higher, they will also advance in every direction, will take over the Island, take over the night, with the sureness and indifference that beauty always possesses. The characters’ efforts will be to no avail. Their shouts and desperation will be to no avail. In short order the Island will become a devastated world, a world that can only be found in this book.
Because it turns out that she is face up, as always, hands crossed over her breast, holding the rosary (with soil from the Holy Land, blessed by Pius XII), in the position that is the best means of avoiding death’s surprise. Doña Juana sleeps peacefully, with the serenity of those who were born to be eternal. And has a lovely dream. You have to recognize it: sooner or later the bonanza will come. After ninety years of a luckless life, Doña Juana has lain down to sleep happy dreams. What Miss Berta wouldn’t give to read this page! What she wouldn’t give to know why it is that her mother prefers sleep to waking! But Miss Berta is a character in this book; that is, she is condemned to remain within it and to appear only when she is invoked. And she doesn’t appear now, cannot appear now. Doña Juana s bedroom, closed up against the December chill (it’s a figure of speech), is lit only by the candle in the candlestick, white and Solomonic, before the image of La Caridad del Cobre. No one in the Island will ever know that Doña Juana is dreaming of Vienna. Not the Vienna of woods and waltzes, of course, for she has never in her life been there, but the ranch of her cousin, the poetess Nieves Xenes, in the little village of Quivicán. It is a dream that is set many years ago, when they first raised the flag over the Castle of El Morro, and Don Tomás first sat, looking like an honored and less than brilliant professor, in the seat of the president. Doña Juana was not a doña back then, much less Juana. Doña Juana would have been much too stern a name for that young woman, for that delicate and agile body, for the carefree woman who climbs trees in search of mandarin oranges, bathes in the river, and plays the dances of Saumell on the piano, or sings Pepe Sánchez, or goes straight to the hive because honey is a blessing for the skin and throat. They called her Tita. And her skin is a handsome dark color, her hair is jet black, her eyes intelligent and sparkling, her mouth always glowing. This description is perhaps a bit too obliging, but that’s how Doña Juana looks in her dream and there’s nothing you can do but tell things the way they are. It’s a morning of celebrations in Vienna. A country party. The trees are decorated with silk bows and crepe paper flowers. Seven pits have been dug in the ground and seven cooks are roasting seven handsome pigs. In the kitchen, pots of rice and beans cook slowly The yuca will be cooked later so that it’s ready at lunch time. On a stage, a brass band is performing the first danzón, Las Alturas de Simpson. Sitting in the great wicker easy chair, dressed in black, you can see Luisa Pérez de Zambrana, the poetess. Next to her, dressed in white, the philosopher Varona. Both converse with Nieves, with Aurelia Castillo, with a young and gorgeous mulatto by the name of Poveda, and even with the one and only Esteban Borrero, who somehow overcame his habits to attend the party. Over there goes the dreaded Fray Candil in the company of his wife Piedad Zenea. A few young people are dancing. Others are lying on the grass, contemplating the sky, they say, which is a blue that Tita has just christened “turn of the century.” The young children play around the pond,
swing in hammocks, sled down the hills on palm bark, sing
Dress up, little girl, dress up,
here comes your sailor,
in his pretty Navy suit
he looks like a coachman …
They serve rum with coconut juice. Along with tamarind drinks, soursop shakes, lemonades, and sugarcane juice served nice and cold. They pass around pastry trays with panecitos de gloria and buñuelos. From his bedroom balcony, Uncle Chodo, who’s been drunk for days, delivers a speech that no one can understand and that gives rise to laughter. Valentin the black jumps and shouts with boundless cheer, and everyone watches him and laughs and you’d even say they felt like jumping too, and Benjamina, who was going back and forth with a basket of plums, begins jumping, and even La Nene jumps up, tossing colored confetti into the air. Father Gaztelu passes by, sprinkling holy water, humming along with the danzón and reciting poems. From Havana has come a very serious, very old photographer with a camera on a tripod, to immortalize the moment. This more or less is Doña Juana’s dream, and in it she is not yet Doña Juana but Tita, and she is sitting before the mirror, with her best friends helping her to dress, because she has a surprise for all the guests, and it is that Tita has thought of dressing up as the Republic, and has ordered a long dress made for her with great blue and white fringes, and a flame-red Phrygian cap, with the lone star. And the truth is that Doña Juana looks gorgeous as Tita dressed up as the Republic in her happy dream. And when they consider the moment right, and hear the band strike up another danzón by Failde, and Uncle Chodo tires of his harangue, Tita goes out onto the terrace, descends the stairs leading to the garden, and appears there, radiant, among the guests, and there is a tremendous silence, even the brass band falls silent to watch Tita walk by dressed as the Republic. And in her dream Doña Juana is enchanted to see how Tita manages to enchant all those present with this simple costume. Even Luisa Pérez, the poetess, and Varona, the philosopher, stand up, surprised, reverent. Father Gaztelu sprinkles her with holy water and comes close to whisper to her, May God bless you, child. And it is the priest s gesture that gives the order for someone to yell, Hooray for free Cuba! and the brass band picks up the danzón again, and the party is a party once more. Tita, however, does not stop. In her dream, Doña Juana sees her keep walking contentedly down the palm tree avenue, skirting the pond, the boundary fences, the corrals, the sugarcane field, satisfied with her dress, singing out loud
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