by Wendy Guerra
Red Diary
Saúl is that cautious ship, suspicious even of what his eyes see, an awkward freighter testing the waters without the aid of any small tugboats, shipwrecked in his own high style, thrown by unprecedented tales that are elevated by his soulless telling. There’s a cautious architecture to his achievements, a fearful structure to his foretelling. No one asks for anything more than a bit of fealty in the moment of intimacy. The rest is out there, gusting against our door. A list of women’s names comes down the chimney, secretly whispering their longings to this talking head.
We made love one and one thousand times on this snow that’s nothing more than sand at Varadero, smelling like new. We made love outside, while my sculptures blazed over white nights in Saché.
My body: I always bleed the first time. Surrender is never free; I leave something behind in exchange for the love I brew inside me. I break one umbilical cord and tie myself tight to another. Three red drops brighten the ice. It’s beautiful to see them expand at my feet. Saúl steps on the purple pool; he hadn’t noticed the composition. You hurt and remember, you hurt and forget.
As he speaks in Catalan about his theories on fatigue, Saúl cooks the cod.
Everything smells of shellfish even though we’re far from the coast. It smells of shellfish because of our sex, mixed with dead fish and topics as spicy as Derrida, Eco, Barthes, ufff; now I understand why he’s interested in the concept of fatigue. I thought by leaving Cuba I would have escaped all that pedantry. “The Richness of the Inner World.” I’m terrified of quoting anything. Saúl is forty-five years old and running away. “Because of his misadventures, his soul is deep and dark.” He likes music only in English. He doesn’t understand my fondness for music in Spanish. He strongly defends his mother tongue but never uses it to write or express himself. I ask him to let me listen to something in Catalan. We make a trade. He takes out Llibre d’amic by Joan Vinyoli, love poems, from the bottom of his suitcase. In exchange he asks that I read the interview with Derrida called “I Can’t Write Without Artificial Light.”
If he’s doing this to bug me, he’s succeeded. I went through university and half my studies in Havana reading without artificial light. Wicks, candles, Chinese lanterns, kerosene lamps . . . or the sun itself—whatever would illuminate and help me with my assignments and finishing my work. I tell him what it’s cost me to come this far, studying, living without artificial light, but he doesn’t understand. I try not to feel at a disadvantage. He would rather ignore everything that’s a narrative of my previous world. Whatever I’ve been before we met isn’t important to him. I couldn’t be more wrecked; I feel the heel of his shoe grinding his ideas into my head. I come from a third world radiant with natural light. I can work in any circumstance.
How many times were we left in the dark in those radio sound booths, with that deathly silence, that silence as if the studio had been isolated, muzzled.
Central Havana. A little past Trillo Park, my classmate Carlos del Puerto (Jr.) sits next to a huge propane light and practices the bass at the front door of his house. The bow tearing away, sounding out the chord in the dark, his hair loose, wet, the whole neighborhood in shadows, and that instrument bellowing, wailing in the dead of night.
Don’t you write by artificial light?
Cubans don’t live without artificial problems. I don’t understand them and they don’t understand me.
Saúl gives me texts to read that complicate the conversation at an ethical, referential level. He talks about art; I talk about real life. “You come from a fertile world,” he says, adding that Europe strikes him as fatigued. He has exhausted his need to teach me, as if I were a disorderly and tribal creature.
Our conversation doesn’t really exist; we’re like a mute talking in signs to a blind man. I swallow the cod in silence; there’s light, but I feel the same anguish as I do during the damned blackouts. Artificial light won’t do Saúl any good.
If we didn’t write without artificial light, half of Cuban literature wouldn’t exist. My respects to Derrida, but for Saúl, indifference. Why doesn’t he want to understand where I’m from? Why does his heavy intelligence, his thick cast-iron culture, ruin our desire, love, the joy of our meeting? He’s lifeless.
In the meantime, let’s enjoy his crispy fish in red wine, as substantial as his voice, as dark as his sex.
“Other tastes, Cuban girl, other textures, a bit of the world in your mouth . . . Stop talking and swallow.”
He spreads tomato sauce on bread as if he were rubbing my thighs. He gets his round fingers messy; his thin elbows flap crazily in the night air; the wine transports us; my mouth becomes water; red upon red, earth and salt. Saúl pà amb tomàquet.
It’s like in Havana, when everything’s turned on and madness strikes: the lights are back!
Eskimo Word
For you, I’ll leave the snow and ski on sand; I won’t write graffiti on the snow; I’ll have a Western accent and summer clothes; my teeth won’t sink into any skin but yours; my smell will dissolve in your lavender water; just like the sturgeon loses its roe, I’ll lose my name; I’ll forget the rituals of the igloo, the woman, and the prisoner; I’ll look at the melting ice as if it were water from my sex; I won’t give to strangers what belongs to you at the end of the night; I’ll stay in your bed dodging the fire; I’ll keep the bait and the fish from my mouth; I’ll free the dogs from the sled; I’ll try to forget the exile from ice; we’ll winter together as long as winter hurts.
On the edge of the iceberg as we travel on this white island, my mother’s tears and my father’s pleading whispers echo, because even if it’s just a dream, we sleep on a Japanese futon on the floor and he’s up in years, his body aches. I ask myself: “Nadia, what are you doing here? Who are you waiting for? Run, Nadia, run!”
I’m asleep and trying to run, but something trips up my feet, and I can’t help but wake Saúl. Saúl hates to be woken and sleeps with earplugs.
“Es quan dormo que hi veig clar.”
I don’t understand a thing. I suppose he means he’s not sleeping like he should, but I don’t know. When he’s asleep, he resorts to Catalan, and speaking his language makes him more beautiful and virile, but a man who sleeps with earplugs is not a very sexy sight.
I get up, walk around the house. I ask myself what it would be like to live in exile. I’m terrified of not being able to go back. Of not being able to mop the floor tiles of that house and walk barefoot, my house in Havana. Where’s my father now? My father and his mysteries, my father and his films.
He’s sick, like an old wolf, and I can only lick his wounds. He doesn’t want to interrupt his daughter. He waits for death with dignity, exactly as he’d hoped, day after day, sitting on his laurels. He doesn’t say so, but he’s dreamed of a theater jam-packed with people who rise to applaud his work through the very last reel.
I’m my father, but with the body and gestures of a woman.
March 10, Paris
I’ve been denied a visa to the United States. For the time being, I won’t be able to use my Guggenheim.
Change of plans. I call my mother’s friends. I want to find her. I review the clues. No one says anything coherent about her. They seem to have forgotten her; they’re all different people now.
Saúl has finished his residency. He lies and lies and says he’s just going on vacation to Formentera, and he does, but with a woman with whom he swims naked, forgets everything. Saúl keeps lying after saying he’s sorry, and he keeps surfing the internet to find a match. Who the devil is Saúl? Where’s my mother?
I call Saúl to complain about the visa denied. I tell him I’m leaving Cuba on a raft and that I’ll take photos as we get closer to Florida. Saúl says we Cubans use our problems to get what we want: success, galleries, press, notoriety.
I’ve spent the morning crying about his insult. In my head, I review the art made in Spain and France during the worst periods of the war.
Saúl didn’t dare say Guerni
ca is an invention to garner success. No one would say such a thing. Because of the distance, hard times give way to hard reactions. Goodbye, Saúl.
I find some of my mother’s friends, but few believe I’ll have any luck; she’s a disaster. She’s changed addresses eleven times in eight years. I gather letters to and from my mother’s friends. For those who don’t want to be signatories, I add a copyright symbol in my diary.
Dear loved ones,
I don’t know how but I finally and urgently need to find my mother. Any detail could be of interest to me. I’m in Paris—communication is much easier here. Please let me know when and where you last saw her. The smallest detail could lead me to her. I’m enclosing my postal and email addresses. Kisses from the cold.
Please think about this and pass this email on to anyone who could give me some news. I’m grateful and love you all very much.
Nadia
P.S. Any information . . .
Skinny girl:
I’ve only seen your mother that time I told you about, in Mexico when she was crossing the street and took off like a rocket when she saw me. I was at the entrance to my hotel with two friends waiting for a ride to take us to the sound check. In fact, I’ve always wondered if it was really her because she looked exactly the same. If I’ve kept quiet about certain things from the past, it’s been for everyone’s benefit; please don’t have any doubts about my intentions. Whatever you can do to find her, you should do now. You can certainly count on me.
DR
Nadia:
When we were kids and our parents were lovers and met in secret, I only had eyes for you. I don’t remember your mother much. A pair of perfect legs would cross the living room to my father’s room, then they’d appear later and drag you out to the sidewalk. I’ll ask him if he has any news about the woman who broke him in two.
I’m still in Mexico, and on TV. Sports. In spite of all your prognostications, I haven’t married and I don’t have children.
I love you.
Diego
To your mother’s daughter:
I acknowledge receipt of your letter.
She and I said goodbye at Funeraria Park in February 1969. Remember that, like La Avellaneda, I was one of the first to leave. That jewel of a woman was already going out with that ugly and skinny man who shall remain unnamed and who is now so famous on our beautiful isle. She was getting a tattoo and not batting an eye. Don’t let anyone deny that your mother was something else. Later I heard you were born and that she lived with your father in my ex’s house.
Anyway, a very sixties entanglement. They’re old resentments, things you wouldn’t understand; you don’t have to inherit this karma. Forget the past, child, and live for the future, since you can.
One more thing: ask Yoko. She has a beauty salon in Miami, and everyone goes there. Not your mother—she didn’t go to stylists. A kiss.
J. Pérez
P.S. Oh, and how did you find me, little girl? I’m in Canada, chopping down trees.
Nadia:
This is the idea I have of your mother, because it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve heard from her: does she exist, or is she a figment of my imagination? I’m still in Havana, like always. The last time I saw her, I wrote this poem. I don’t know if you’ll find her in it, but maybe you’ll recognize her.
A Many Splendored Thing
That you’ve been or are love
Two or three people’s great love
They’ve told you many times
Dark enough times
Those two or three people.
In a moment they excuse themselves and check the hour
Or ask you what time it is
And it’s almost always late, they’re waiting, or not,
It doesn’t matter.
They say goodbye staring at your eyes
Calmly pushing their hair back
As their great love closes the door
When they leave, feeling a bit guilty.
And once down the stairs
She asks what to do with two or three
Great treasures, what to do right now.
Ariel
Nadia:
Your mom came to Miami for a visit and stayed with you-know-who. She never called me, didn’t leave a message. I’m still poor, but she’s not.
It’s a shame she abandoned you in Havana; she was always more of a woman than a mother. Anyway, you should look for her in galleries; I heard she caused quite a stir and sold everything she’d brought. I never understand anything. First, she was on the radio, and now she sells art. Whatever—to each her own. We’re all crazy: look at Ana M., how she killed herself. Nobody’s happy with what they have, not even when they live in a skyscraper.
I send you a kiss. Say hello to whatever’s left of your father, who must be in therapy if they’re giving him so many tributes over there.
Lula
Pretty girl:
I saw the catalogue for your Luxury and Poverty when it was in New York, but I found out about it too late and the show had already come down. It’s a shame. I’m a soldier and don’t want anything to do with those on the island, but you can’t be blamed for any of that. I’d be happy to go see your work.
In 1979, I took photos of your and your mother’s feet. That was around the time we went with her to Cienfuegos because Havana was . . . insufferable. I sold that diptych to some Hungarians so I lost sight of your feet. I hope they’re still beautiful.
Your mother’s around during art fairs. She’s hanging out with a very dangerous person (I won’t mention his name). I don’t have her coordinates, but look for her in the Russian art world.
Kiss.
I hope you’ll realize who this is.
Your admirer
Nadia:
I was a friend of your mother’s.
I can tell you a bit more. I’ll wait for you Friday at La Closerie des Lilas, 171 Boulevard du Montparnasse, Paris.
I have no flexibility on the date because I’m living in Milan and have very little free time. Friday, 9 p.m., dinner. I’m short and always wear a black suit and red tie.
Third table on the crystal terrace, on the left, that’s my spot. Please confirm.
Paolo B.
Cuban Radio Soap: “Meeting Paolo B.”
SOUNDTRACK: Italian music plays: Scarlatti, Sonata K 430. It’s raining hard. A taxi stops at the entrance to the restaurant. A door opens and closes. A few brief words in French are exchanged.
NARRATOR: Carrying her disposable Chinese umbrella, Nadia gets out of the taxi and runs toward La Closerie des Lilas. The impeccable host at the door guides her to Paolo, who, diligent and chivalrous, helps her with her chair, first taking her red felt coat. Paolo looks her up and down and makes a strange face.
SOUNDTRACK: Italian music crossfades into cups, silverware, the ambience of a fine French restaurant.
PAOLO B.: Nadia . . . your mother and I tried to make a life together, but she tends to start things and then destroy them. She could be the most brilliant and sensual spouse in the world. Then, the next month, she’s bored, feels tied down, enclosed, has an existential breakdown, and flees. I was one of that lethal woman’s victims.
No one can tie her down.
NADIA: Did you ever see her again?
PAOLO B.: About five years ago, at the door of the Chanel boutique, loaded down with packages. You go to Chanel for something, but it’s vulgar to go to Chanel for everything. She was a luminous redhead then, talking in a clumsy Russian, with two children at her side and also a Russian gallery owner well-known and kind of a mafioso, who kept pawing and rearranging things nonstop. I wanted to kiss her hello, but she simply extended her hand demurely. I told her she looked beautiful, and she laughed one of her laughs, like yours, wrinkling her nose and raising her eyebrows as she lowered her chin. Your mother is the woman with the shortest memory in the world. Today she might recite your work, but tomorrow she expels you from her mind without asking permission.
/> She could be my wife, some Russian’s wife, a great artist, a muse in Havana in the sixties; the hippie she’s always been must be hidden somewhere. She’s a lot of different women at once. It’s going to be tough for you to find her. Your mom, I mean.
NARRATOR: Paolo pours the wine and organizes the silverware for the second course. They finish their oysters and are now waiting for a steak tartare he ordered without consulting her.
NADIA: Sorry, I know less about how to place the silverware than about my mother.
NARRATOR: They smile and toast, having fun.
PAOLO B.: It’s impossible to know her. Her, I mean. At least I don’t know anyone who’s ever defined her in a way that made sense. She’s blond sometimes, brunette sometimes, other times a redhead . . . I couldn’t tell you who she is.
NADIA: I feel like I should go somewhere to . . . save her? I don’t even know if that’s the right word. I don’t want to sound ridiculous, Paolo.
NARRATOR: She tries to taste what’s left in her cup, and Paolo, quickly and elegantly, takes it from her.
PAOLO B.: Wait until they give you a new cup. I don’t know if you like raw foods, but try the tartare, and we’ll have some wine that used to make your mother more charming.
NADIA: I try to taste new things, to expand my palate. I want to get to know the world through my senses. My mother drinks wine?
