by Karla Suárez
Preserve the past, those words sounded good. Ángel needed to close the cycle of his past in order to preserve it. That day I understood that our relationship wouldn’t be able to really start until Margarita was in her proper place in his memories. That’s what he’d said. And I had to do something to ensure that happened, although I wasn’t sure what. Not then.
5
The following week, a number of things happened that I was only able to understand much later. As we’d arranged, I phoned Leonardo to confirm that the tertulia was going ahead and asked if I could join him a little before the others because I finished work early that day. He said it was no problem, the electricity cut out at eight and people began to turn up soon after that; and with any luck, he might even be able to offer me some rice and split peas. And then I’ll still owe you, I replied. You should worry more about the interest than the debt, he responded with a laugh. Nice one, Leo. That day Ángel was supposed to be visiting his sister, so we planned to meet at the author’s place, which had the advantage that I could arrive alone. Leonardo lived in a garage, a small space containing a bed, a worktable with his Remington typewriter, a cabinet stacked with vinyl records and cassettes, several bookshelves and a kerosene stove. Plus, in one corner there was a tiny bathroom. As soon as I turned up, he heated up the peas, set out a folding table, two plastic chairs – also folding – and we sat down to eat.
Leonardo had grown up in his parents’ house, but when he started university, given that the garage was only used to store junk, he’d decided to clean it out and convert it into his den. You can’t imagine the things these four walls have seen, he said. Then he married and went to live with his wife in Santa Fe, where he’d spent almost two years constructing a small house in his in-laws’ yard. His son was born there but, in contrast to what they say in fairy stories, he and his wife didn’t live happily ever after. They divorced and Leo returned to Cerro. After lying empty for so many years, the garage-room was a mess, but he was too old to be living with his parents. There was nothing for it but to revamp the place. He installed the pipes and electrical cables, added the bathroom, made bookshelves, managed to find a mattress, whitewashed the walls, and he was set. He had a den again. His mother usually did the cooking, so he only had to prepare his breakfast and heat up food. The only problem was the lack of a fridge. But then what was the point of having one when there was hardly ever any electricity. It wasn’t a mansion, he added, but he’d built that lair with his own two hands.
I looked around. I’d have loved to have a place like that but my situation was different. I grew up in Alamar, a district on the northeast edge of Havana, fifteen kilometres from the centre. Identical, rectangular buildings. Our apartment is on the fifth floor and there’s no lift. The view from the balcony is the back of one building, and from the bedrooms you can look out on the balconies of another. The most depressing thing is that, although the sea is nearby, it isn’t visible. You can smell it but not see it. As a child, I didn’t use to mind living there, but when you grow up and the paint begins to peel because it hasn’t been renewed since the place was built, things start to look different. Alamar is like a huge beehive that produces nothing. Life goes on elsewhere.
My parents divorced when I was young, having discovered that they weren’t in love and, moreover, that they each had a lover. Since they were still very fond of one another and had two children, they decided to separate in the least dramatic way possible. Papi went to live with his lover and Mami’s lover moved in with us; he’s been like a second father. To be honest, neither my brother nor I have ever lacked parental care, quite the opposite. Not long after the break-up, a whole new world opened up to us. At weekends Papi usually visited with his new wife and her two daughters from a previous marriage. The women cooked. The men drank rum. And we kids played, thinking how wonderful it was to have such a big family with two fathers. I’m not lying when I say that I’ve only ever seen my papis argue over dominoes. The rest of the time it’s pure harmony. Enough to make you sick.
So my childhood in that two-bedroomed apartment was a happy one. My brother and I used to sleep together when we were small, until Mami said we were too grown up to share a room. My brother didn’t understand, but it was his fate to be relegated to the sofa in the living room. And that’s the way it was for years until he decided to get married. And where were he and his bride going to live? In the family home, naturally. A reallocation of space ensued: one bedroom for the new couple, another for the older couple and me on the sofa. This happened after Euclid’s divorce; I remember it well because first I was consoling him when he had to move back to his mother’s, then he had to console me about the sofa. Euclid at least had a room of his own and even a telephone. I couldn’t make a phone call without having to ask a neighbour on the second floor, and his was often out of order. It’s just as well that I didn’t read ‘The Telephone Was Invented In Cuba’ at that time because I’d have pissed myself laughing, and I knew exactly what use I’d have put the newsprint to. Well, given my living conditions, you won’t have any trouble understanding what went through my mind when I heard that Ángel lived alone.
It was different with Leonardo. His refuge provoked healthy envy. Nothing more. He was a pretty organised man; apart from the wastepaper bin on the table, everything seemed to be in its allocated place. The bed was made, there was a mat outside the bathroom, ceramic ornaments on the bookshelves, a poster for the film Memories of Underdevelopment on the wall and, surrounding it, several children’s drawings. Did your son do those? I asked. He nodded, standing up to clear the plates, and said it was better not to mention him; the boy was a little brat, and was definitely in his bad books. Leonardo’s son, like almost all children his age, had taken up painting and whenever he visited, he’d grab the first piece of paper he saw to draw on. That night, Leonardo had meant to read one of his latest poems, but although he’d searched high and low the blessed verses were nowhere to be found. He was certain that the child had used the sheet of paper for one of his drawings. What’s to become of me if my own son is trying to sabotage my career? he concluded as he put a saucepan of water on to boil for the lemongrass tea.
The space in the garage was incredibly flexible; that night a dozen people met there. The early arrivals bagged the folding chairs. Then Barbara turned up with her big smile and, more importantly, two bottles of Havana Club rum, which were greeted with a general round of applause. I was pleased to find her there, and she soon came to sit next to me, asked how I was, said it was such a surprise to see me, and commented on how nice it was to have a candlelit gathering. It was like being at a funeral or in the Middle Ages, she loved it, so romantic. We’re very romantic people, I responded without much enthusiasm.
By the time Ángel arrived, Leonardo and his friends had already been reading their work for some time. In addition to the candles, there was a lantern, which was passed around to whoever was going to read next. If they go on like this, I thought, those writers will end up like Borges: blind, if not exactly literary geniuses. Someone was in the middle of a reading when Ángel came in, and he merely waved at the company so as not to interrupt, then slowly made his way forward until he found a space on the floor, just in front of Barbara and me.
It was a long session. With so many poems and short stories being read, the truth is that I was slightly bored. So when Ángel appeared, I switched off my listening apparatus and turned my attention to him, whose listening apparatus was obviously broken. He spent the whole time drinking rum, absorbed in his own thoughts. When the readings finally came to an end, two of the guests pulled a table from under the bed and set it up, while someone else announced that the game of dominoes was starting outside. I seized the opportunity to move closer to Ángel. How’s Dayani? I asked. He replied that she was no better. He’d felt like staying home but as he knew I was expecting him had made an effort. Even so, he wanted to leave early. He’d tell me what had happened later, this wasn’t the right momen
t. And it definitely wasn’t, because as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Barbara reappeared to say hello, bottle in hand. Other people gathered round to greet Ángel and hold out their glasses to Barbara. She poured drinks with a smile. Ángel returned that smile as he accepted his rum. I decided to stick to the lemongrass tea.
A little later Leonardo came along to ask me if I played dominoes, because he didn’t have a partner. I gladly accepted his invitation and took his arm, moving away from the others to tell him how much I’d enjoyed his poems. I also added that I was interested in reading his other works. Leonardo was clearly gratified and thanked me warmly. Then he went to the door to ask one of the guests to tell him when his turn came around and, picking up a candle, led me to a set of shelves. Here you are, he said, handing me a book and explaining that it was his first. He would lend me all his publications, but one by one so he didn’t bore me. In exchange, I was formally obliged to give him feedback when I’d finished each book. Debts, debts and more debts were just what I needed. Perfect.
When our turn came at the dominoes table, Leonardo was surprised to discover how good a player I am. My parents and my stepfather spend their whole time playing the game, so I learned it at a very early age and, without bragging, I’m sensational. If there’s one thing men can’t stand when playing dominoes – which, logically, amuses me – it’s a woman winning. That night, I got the double nine and they all called me bota gordos for dumping my high tiles, but when we won the first game, one of the men who was sitting out looked at me askance. I took no notice. He’d already tortured me with a very long short story, so it was the perfect moment to take my revenge. We won and won again. Leonardo was over the moon, the others were much less pleased, and even conspired to destroy us. The Havana Club had run out and they were drinking some filthy homebrew, but the very last of the good rum had been reserved as a prize for whoever managed to beat us.
I’m not sure how long we played, but the game was still in progress a good while after the electricity came back and some of the guests had left. I was getting sleepy. I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly one in the morning. I had to work the next day so I announced that the game was over. The others protested, demanding revenge; Leonardo got proudly to his feet, kissed my cheek and calmly poured himself the last of the Havana Club. I looked around and found that he and I were alone.
Inside, someone was sleeping on the bed. Barbara and Ángel were sitting on the floor, talking. When they spotted me, he smiled and said: You swept the board, right? He added that he’d come outside for a moment but I was too focussed on the game to even notice him. Ángel’s eyes were red and he was holding a glass. I said that it was late and I had to leave. Barbara asked where I lived. At the world’s end, I replied, and Ángel stood up, saying that I was staying over at his place, it was very late and the transport was awful. He helped Barbara to her feet and she informed us that there was no problem since she too lived in El Vedado and could get a taxi for the three of us.
We didn’t speak much on the return journey, Ángel dozed in the front seat and Barbara and I were in the back. The taxi left us at the corner of Ángel’s building. I kissed Barbara, he said bye from the street and, almost before we’d reached the stairs, he flung an arm around my shoulder, saying that he was dead beat, had been longing to leave for ages but I’d just kept on playing, and that he’d drunk all the shit alcohol the shit poets had brought. It was true, his breath didn’t so much smell as reek. Once inside, he flopped onto the bed and I struggled to undress him. He hugged me, asking me to stay with him, not to leave him alone. I held him until he went to sleep, then I got up, took off my clothes, set the alarm and returned to bed with my back to him, so as not to smell his stinking breath. In the morning, I left a note and went to work. He was still out for the count.
Ángel was sleeping off his hangover. Everybody drinks in this country: when they’re sad, they drink because they’re sad; when they’re happy, they drink because they’re happy; and when they’re neither happy nor sad, they drink because they don’t know what’s wrong with them. If they have good rum, they drink good rum; if they don’t, they make moonshine and drink that. The important thing is to drink. All the time. You get it? All the time.
Fortunately, Ángel was conscious of this and the next day he came to the Tech to apologise. We decided to take a walk. His sister’s situation was really bugging him. Dayani wasn’t speaking to her father and was accusing her mother of always taking his side. According to her, Ángel was the only one who came anywhere near to understanding her, but he still wouldn’t let her move in with him. She was alone, she said, and that’s why all she wanted was to leave the country and disappear. Ángel told me that he could make an effort and bring her to the apartment for a few days, but that might lead to more problems, because once she was through the door, it would be very hard to return to the way things were.
How would he ever get her out? No, it wasn’t an option. She wasn’t moving in, full stop. What worried him most of all was Dayani’s obsession with leaving the country. He wanted to put the thought out of her head, and so he’d suggested that they look for a room to rent so she could spend some time away from home. Of course renting meant money, and at that time it also meant dollars, and Ángel had no idea how to get his hands on dollars. But at least Dayani had liked the idea. Their father, however, refused to get involved: his daughter was an adult and she could do whatever she wanted outside the home, but they shouldn’t count on any help from him if she intended to go off and live any old how. In the meantime, Dayani had promised her brother that she’d try to find some money. He’d also do his best and, to help ease the tension at home, he’d decided to go to Cienfuegos with her for a few days. A change of scene and a bit of pampering from her grandmother would do the girl good. It’s all so complex, Julia dearest, he concluded, and the word ‘dearest’ was music to my ears.
That evening, he also told me about an idea he’d had when we were at Leonardo’s: he could rent Barbara a room in the apartment. Not that she was looking for a place, but maybe if he didn’t charge too much, she might agree. Part of the money could go to Dayani and the rest would be for him. What do you think? he asked. I was still hearing the music of the word ‘dearest’ and, as if that weren’t enough, my angel was including me in his decision-making. It was all too beautiful, so beautiful that I replied yes, it sounded like a good idea. A brilliant idea. He kissed my cheek and said that he’d ring Barbara as soon as he returned from Cienfuegos.
We didn’t see each other again until he came back to the city. I missed him, missed his skin. The days without his body seemed longer than before, immensely long. It was as if they started off down a hill until it got to noon, and then the slope turned upward, because at twelve o’clock there was a sort of hole through which the day dripped and escaped. Something like that.
So I decided to take advantage of his absence to concentrate on Objective Leonardo and rang him after I’d carefully read his book. To my surprise, the author told me that he wanted to hear my impressions in person, and invited me to go to the theatre with him. There was very little to do that year. The energy crisis left us living in the shadows, so cinemas and theatres only opened their doors at weekends. It was, I imagine, like being in a country at war, but without the bombs, because the bomb had already exploded somewhere else and we were left with the penury, the lack of choice, the desolation. Going to the theatre with Leonardo seemed like a magnificent idea and I don’t have to say that Euclid agreed. That Saturday, after the study group meeting, I went to my friend’s house for a shower and something to eat. Before I left, he kissed my forehead and wished me luck.
When we came out of the theatre, Leonardo suggested we go to the Malecón. He freed his bicycle from the three chains that bound it, invited me to sit on the back carrier and pedalled me to the sea wall that forms the city’s frontier with the rest of the world. If the Malecón wall could talk, I know there would n
ever be enough time for it to tell all its stories because it has witnessed everything: couples getting together and breaking up, confessions, suicide attempts, readings, scandals, pleas, actual suicides, inseminations, farewells, laughter, tears... The wall has witnessed it all. And that night it witnessed Leonardo and I in conversation. We first spoke about his poetry collection, because that had been my justification for meeting him. Then we discussed his next novel, because that was my real objective. Leo was one of the most fascinating conversationalists I’d ever known. I mean it. Sometimes when he was speaking his glasses would begin to slide down his nose due to the sweat; he’d keep talking, peering over the frame instead of looking at me through the lenses, and it was only when he came to what he considered the end of a paragraph that he’d raise an index finger to push the glasses back up. An endearing habit, I thought.
That night he began to tell me about Meucci; not in terms of the novel that was going to revolutionise the genre but as a historical personage. As Euclid had rightly suspected, Leo was a bookworm who had been consulting documents for some time. It had never before crossed my mind, but literature can, in certain situations, be like science. Leonardo hoped to write a novel, but first he had to do research, collate his findings, analyse hypotheses, verify sources, demonstrate proofs. The novel was based on an intuition; that, however, and particularly in this case, was just the beginning since the story he wanted to tell was directly related to a real person. I thought it was wonderful: intuition is just a starting point. According to Poincaré, mathematical discoveries aren’t spontaneously generated but presuppose a solid, well-nourished base of preliminary knowledge. Something similar was occurring with the novel Leo wanted to write: before he could create it, he had to amass and nourish a knowledge base. That night, as he spoke, I wondered whether he’d find greater pleasure in the actual writing or the research that preceded it, because his eyes – either when viewed directly or through the lenses of his glasses – expressed extraordinary enthusiasm.
