Havana Year Zero

by Karla Suárez

  In the afternoon, I went to Ángel’s apartment and found him exhausted but incredibly affectionate, as he always was after spending time with Dayani. That weekend she’d turned up bathed in tears. The cause wasn’t her father – they scarcely spoke – but a bust-up with her new boyfriend, who, luckily, had then arrived on Sunday to ask forgiveness. Ángel had gone out to give them some time alone and, when he came back, Dayani jubilantly informed him that the boyfriend – the son of diplomats – had promised that, just as soon as his parents had finished their holiday and returned to the country where they were stationed, she could move in with him. As you can imagine, that was wonderful news for Ángel: for as long as Dayani and the boyfriend were together, she’d be living away from her father, and he’d have a breathing space to find the money for a future rental. In addition, the idea of leaving the country was on hold for the moment. I thought it was tremendous that the girl’s problems would be solved, and that, thanks to the boyfriend, Ángel would be rid of her for a while. The only difficulty, he said, was that he’d prefer me not to move in with him until Dayani was installed in the boyfriend’s house because, given that she didn’t want to go back to her father, she’d still be a bind. Which is to say that, in order to live with Ángel, I had to wait for the diplomats to depart and pray that his sister didn’t have another row with their son. I was, to be honest, beginning to feel a level of dislike for Dayani, but I said nothing because Ángel embraced me, saying that he was just dying to wake up every day with me beside him. He’d already told Dayani that we were going to be married. What did she say? I asked. Congratulations, he replied with a grin. Dayani had said congratulations, nothing more.

  When the ‘dear little sister’ argument had fizzled out, it was my turn to tell him about the events of the weekend, and I announced that he was going to find it weird, but I’d had dinner with Barbara on Saturday. Ángel did indeed find it weird. I explained her interest in getting to know young writers, which had led us to Euclid’s place so she could meet his son. So she met Euclid, said Ángel, and I nodded. There was no point in trying to hide that fact from him: I was afraid that if I didn’t tell him, she would. Ángel frowned before responding that, knowing Barbara wanted Meucci’s document, I’d taken her to the home of the person who had it. Was I mad, or what? And then he went on about how that scrap of paper could change our lives, but if Barbara discovered that Euclid had it and Euclid found out that she wanted it, then they could pull off the big deal, and we’d be left high and dry because that woman was something else. I was angry. I didn’t like his tone and so reacted by saying that she was so something else that he’d been forced to sleep with her. Ángel attempted to soothe me, saying he’d already explained what had happened. I knew why he’d done it, but I was still annoyed and warned him that if we were going to get married, I wanted him to stop seeing Barbara because I found it hurtful. We were sitting on the sofa in the living room and Ángel started stroking my hair, as he always did when he was trying to convince me of something. He said that I was his one and only love, that he perfectly understood my irritation, but Barbara could change our lives and that was why it was important to keep her on our side, and if we didn’t succeed in selling her the document before she left the island, he’d have to remain in contact with her so that, just as soon as we got our hands on that paper, our buyer would be there, waiting for it, cash in hand. And we really needed that money, we couldn’t pass up the chance. So what he was saying was that they would still be in touch after she left the country. I can tell you, I was so absolutely furious that, from the depths of my soul, came a cry of ‘enough is enough’, he should tell me the truth. If he wanted to use her as a means of getting out of Cuba, he should say it straight out. Naturally, he denied my allegation, wondered how I’d thought that one up and returned to the document, the sale, our future. The truth is, I’d exploded like a pressure cooker, and I started shouting again, but this time what I said was that I was fed up of lies, that I knew he had the document.

  Ángel was suddenly lost for words, he gave me a really weird look, as if I’d spoken to him in a language he didn’t understand, and asked me what I was talking about, where that idea had come from. Having calmed down a little, I replied that the document belonged to his wife and was in his apartment. He gave me that same weird look. I was right, he said, it had been there but Euclid had stolen it, and that information had come straight from Margarita. Then he smiled, shook his head and added that if he had the manuscript, he’d already have sold it to Barbara and we’d be feasting on lobster instead of arguing. Just where had I got that story? Leonardo told me.

  My reply lit a fuse. Ángel was beginning to get so angry that I could almost see the sparks flying from his eyes. He asked where the hell Leonardo had got that story from and, in a very quiet, calm voice, I told him that Margarita had told Leo. Ángel punched the sofa and stood up, commenting that it was interesting to learn that the writer and I talked about him, Margarita, the legacy and the document.

  And just when did my wife tell her dear friend all that? he asked with a grimace before adding that it must have been when they were in bed together, after a fuck, because that sonofabitch Leonardo had slept with Margarita before she left and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, was now making stuff up; first he’d set Margarita against him and now he wanted to do the same with me. And you believe him, Julia, you believe him... His eyes were sad, his expression confused, but I was bit confused too. I said that I knew nothing about the thing between Leonardo and Margarita, and Ángel heaved what seemed like a long-suffering sigh. He wasn’t surprised that Leonardo hadn’t mentioned that detail; he’d also spared me the knowledge, but in his case it was because of the pain it caused him. Right from the start, he said, he’d tried to warn me about Leo. There had always been a degree of rivalry between them, they used to buzz around the same flowers and had both settled on many of them. Ordinary, everyday male competiveness. But it was different with Margarita, because Leo really did like her, so he’d never been able to accept that she married Ángel, and he was always tempting her to see if she’d relent, and finally the imbecile had fallen into his trap and gone to bed with him. Leonardo now realised what he was missing and was coming out with the tale that he, Ángel, had the legacy. What that guy wanted was to set me against him so he could sleep with me, it was part of the old rivalry; he’d already won with Margarita but that wasn’t going to happen again. Not with you, Julia. Ángel was silent. He rested an arm on the door to the balcony and stood there with his back to me, looking out.

  You’ve no idea just how shitty I felt at that moment. I’d fallen into the trap too, although, logically, there was no way I could let that show. I took a deep breath, moved across to him and put a hand on the shoulder of my fallen angel, asking him to forgive me. He turned around. As he had no way of sounding the exact depth of my apology, he cupped my face in his hands and repeated that if he’d had the document, the whole business would be over by now, because all he wanted was for us and his sister to be happy. Then he embraced me, saying that he loved me, and I kissed him, murmuring that I adored him, and there we were on the sofa again, making love.

  Making love is gorgeous. Particularly when the whole situation is confusing and you really don’t want to think about it. That’s how I felt; I was confused and had no desire to think, much less about how, that very morning, I’d woken up in Leonardo’s bed. No, better not to think, better to allow my body to block out my understanding or even increase it. Who knows? The body is wise. When my body and Ángel’s were done, we continued to lie on the sofa, hugging one another, without saying a word. I don’t know what was going through his mind, I simply didn’t want to think. At least not about what was happening to me. My one wish was to stop Ángel getting the wrong idea, stop him believing that there was something between Leonardo and me that exceeded our own bond, and so repent having opened the door to his innermost feelings to me. And that was why I put my lips to his ear and asked h
im once more to forgive me, not to believe that I made a habit of talking about Margarita with Leo. Ángel gave a shiver at the sensation of my breath on his ear and suggested that we forget that idiot, but I insisted that Margarita’s name had been mentioned in the course of a simple comment about his novel, and that, in fact, all Leonardo ever spoke about was that novel and his travels.

  Travels? What travels? he asked. And I, with a sudden sense of reticence, replied that I was talking about his trips abroad. Ángel sat looking at me with a grin on his face before stating that they couldn’t be Leonardo’s trips because the man had never been outside Cuba. At that moment, the author would have said ‘touché’, but I made no reply because I was the one who’d been touchéd: twice in one day. So, making a great effort not to look ridiculous, I adopted an absentminded expression and got to my feet, saying oh, of course, he’d been talking about a friend’s trips, but I couldn’t remember just what his name was: the author was a great talker. Ángel agreed, he did talk a lot, and someone who talks too much ends by talking bullshit. He kissed my forehead and also rose, announcing that he needed a piss. As he walked away, he began to laugh, saying that the furthest Leonardo had ever got was Pinar del Río, and that was when he was serving his time in the Countryside School. And another of the things Leo was never going to forgive Ángel for was having left Cuba on one single occasion. His voice faded as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. He thought that, during the Angolan war, Leo had been called up for military service or something like that, but he’d got sick and hadn’t even been able to board the plane. I heard him laugh before shouting: That guy’s a real wimp! Then came the distant sound of a stream of urine. Then silence. Then I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Then silence.

  I stayed over that night, although, naturally, I couldn’t sleep. After dinner, Ángel had said that we needed to finish our conversation about Barbara. If it hurt me so deeply, he said, there was no problem, he’d just stop seeing her. It was no hardship for him. All he wanted was to sell her the document, but if that was going to make things difficult between us, to hell with it, we’d think up another way of making money. Our relationship was more important than anything else. Can you imagine? The worse I felt, the more divinely he behaved. Unbelievable. I spent the whole evening holding back my tears until we went to bed and, the moment I heard his breathing slow, I carefully sat up. He was sleeping peacefully. Naked. His hair falling onto his face. Like a lovely child. Ángel asleep is one of the most beautiful images I’ve ever seen. In general, I like contemplating men while they are sleeping, when everything is in repose, they have nothing to prove, are vulnerable, sometimes snoring slightly, at others breathing rhythmically, but always lightly, unworried, as if nothing were happening. I think that there are only two occasions when we humans are completely equal: when we’re asleep and when we’re dead. Age, language, gender, religion, political beliefs, financial status, none of that matters; in sleep and death, we are equals. A sleeping man, whether he’s the president of a country or some poverty-stricken wretch, is simply a sleeping man. Someone who dreams. And does no harm.

  I took Ángel’s Walkman out onto the balcony, inserted a cassette poor Leo had given me and put on the headphones. I was nude and Havana was empty. I gazed down over my beloved street. Everyone was sleeping: Ángel, Leonardo, the entire city. But I was awake with a Polito Ibáñez song sounding in my ears: And with apparent love in our eyes / without signals or witnesses / we offered up our bodies until the morning / when we learned of the mistake. Mistake? What mistake? When did the mistake begin? Who knew about it? In such cases, the best thing to do is to make love, not think, offer up the body, the body, the body, the body, to the point of exhaustion, until you reach your limits, have nothing more to give, and the next day another body, and not thinking, not thinking, not thinking. Finally, rain began to fall. And only Havana and I were aware of that rain, the rest of the world was asleep, and Havana and I started to cry, naked, in the night, where no one could see us.

  20

  The next day, when Ángel asked me to come back to the apartment after work, I told him that I had to return to Alamar to pick up some papers. Naturally, I couldn’t explain that I hadn’t been home for two days. Or that I was feeling alone, mired in an enormous mass of confusion and that he couldn’t help me. Who had Meucci’s document? By that stage, I had no idea, but the worst was that I was beginning to suspect Euclid had been right when he’d said, some time before, that it was Leonardo.

  I went through the day on automatic pilot, putting up with my students. There’s a mathematical rule: your students’ stupidity is directly proportional to your mood; the worse you feel, the denser they become. I called Leonardo a couple of times, but his work number was evidently out of order. Another mathematical rule: your need is inversely proportional to the probability of satisfying it; the more urgently you need to communicate, the fewer telephones are working.

  After my classes, I went to Euclid’s; I had to talk to him. He was the only one I could have a conversation with and, while logically I wasn’t going to go into detail about the reasons for my mood, we could at least discuss other things; things like geometry, fractals, chaos, anything that would in some small way alleviate my despair. But, of course, mathematical rules apply: Euclid wasn’t home. His mum said that someone had called to pick him up. Guess who? That Italian woman I’d introduced him to a few days before. His mum was sure they would be back soon. The only reason I didn’t burst out laughing was that the old lady wouldn’t have understood. Instead, I accepted a cup of coffee and played with Blot while I waited.

  How long did I wait? I don’t know, everything seemed incredibly absurd that day. When Chichí appeared, telling his grandmother that he’d brought some stories for his father’s Italian friend and she told him they’d gone off somewhere together, I really did think I was going to have a giggling fit, but I managed to control myself. Blot was by then drowsing so I switched my attentions to the chatter of the young writer, who was very excited about meeting the future publisher his father had spoken of. He was carrying a folder of stories written by him and all his friends. It was, he said, the opportunity they had all been hoping for, a door opening to the international market. His naivety was heart-warming. He thanked me profusely because he was aware that I was the go-between, and he hoped that I wouldn’t be offended if he offered me a carton of eggs as a token of his gratitude. Good intentions, he said, should be rewarded. At that moment, if I’d been able to choose, I’d have liked to be in Blot’s skin. No kidding. But I wasn’t being asked to choose anything. Blot was sleeping peacefully and I went on feeling like a veritable piece of shit. It was getting late. Chichí had to go to the hospital to see someone or other. He left. Euclid and Barbara were notable by their absence. And then the electricity went off. Euclid’s mother began to fret about her son being away from home during a power cut. It got later. I decided to leave. I gave the old lady a kiss and stroked the dog. Definitely a day multiplied by zero, I thought as I waited for a car to take me to Alamar.

  I think I must have been very hyper around that time because everything happened so quickly. The following day, I tried to get hold of Leonardo again, but with no success. Fortunately, I did mange to see Euclid, who greeted me with one of his mysterious looks and, after I’d done the usual hello-how-are-you, led me to his room and switched on the radio.

  He’d heard from his mother that I’d waited for him the night before. I already knew, also from his mother, that he’d gone somewhere with Barbara. So he told me the rest of the story. He began by commenting on how likeable she was. After her first visit to the house, she’d called him once or twice. They had finally decided to have a beer together and one became two or three. Euclid hadn’t drunk beer for a while. He’d almost forgotten what it tasted like, he added with a smile. They were getting along so well that she suggested they have dinner in a paladar. It was the first time my friend had been in one and he thought
it was great, plus his kindly companion had even ordered a dish to take home to his mum. As Euclid spoke, there was a kind of glint in his eyes. I looked scornfully at him. So you like the likeable little Italian woman, I commented. Grinning, he replied that he was past all that, but what wasn’t there to like about her? It was a shame he was an old rooster and, even more, that she was looking for something else.

  I’m very worried for you, Julia. Worried for us, he added, his grin vanishing. Barbara had spent a long time talking about her literary project, but that wasn’t the only thing that had brought her to Havana. She was also here to find Antonio Meucci’s original document, the one written in the Teatro Tacón, which she needed for some research she was doing on the inventor. When he’d heard that, he almost choked on his beer, although he did manage to disguise his consternation. I wasn’t drinking anything when Euclid told me this, but if I had been, I’d have choked on it too because Leo was right; Barbara was the sort of person who came straight to the point, she wasn’t going to waste her time beating about any bush. Euclid had expressed his interest and willingness to hear more, and I did just the same for him, even though I already knew most of the story. Barbara then told him that she wanted to buy the document, but didn’t know who had it. Euclid opened his eyes wide in desperation. Barbara knows Leonardo, he said, and if she finds out that he’s in possession of the document, our project will go down the drain, because there’s no doubt that he’ll sell it to her. We have to save the document, Julia. He was almost shouting.

  Suddenly the whole situation seemed unclear once more. Euclid was convinced that Leonardo had the paper because that’s what Margarita had told him. Margarita had been angry with both Euclid and Ángel and knew that each of them wanted the document. It was perfectly logical that she would pass it on to her author friend just to give the finger to the others. And then, I was the one who’d told Leonardo that Barbara was sleeping with Ángel. There was a longstanding rivalry between Ángel and Leonardo. So it was perfectly logical that Leo would try to get her away from his rival and me into his bed, just for the sake of it. Thanks to me and my idiotic weakness, Leonardo was succeeding in both objectives: keeping Barbara away from Ángel and sleeping with me. If he really did have the document, he could sell it to the likeable little Italian whenever he pleased; I’d already witnessed him selling an article to that Argentinean woman who wrote for a theatre magazine, which went to show that he was used to doing such things. Moreover, Barbara might be useful in helping him to get out of the country or something like that. What a sonofabitch he was! Everything he’d said about Ángel was perfectly applicable to himself.