Ariel Glaria’s Diary

This happened when I’d just finished my military service and I didn’t want to be alone. I was 21 years old, I was independent at last and I was convinced that I could have anything I wanted.

Out of the toughest problems a writer might face, none of them seemed as hard as the simple act of writing one word after another, in K’s eyes at least. Everything boils down to this, he thought.

The following is the second part of the story in which I spent three days, of my own accord, in a Havana jail cell, thanks to my neighbor the policeman’s help, so I could stop smoking. 

The following events happened when I had exhausted every other resource I had to stop smoking, so I locked myself in jail.

Cecilia and I used to live together. She had different interests, but she supported my dream of becoming a poet. Her support meant my life became very easy; I didn’t do anything, I didn’t even write. I spent most of my time reading and making love.

That was the last day I went to work at the Colonel’s home. After lunch, I spent some time with him on his balcony. There were only buildings as far as the eye could see. It was 1 PM.“ Ever since I retired, nobody comes to visit me, the neighborhood has become a disgrace and I feel like I’m living in a jungle,” the Colonel began by saying.

Julio, one of my oldest friends, is neighbors with a general. And, on the other side of his home, in the general’s backyard, there is a mango tree. It leans completely over onto my friend’s house. As a result, most of the mangoes fall into his garden.

There was once a Cuban writer called K who was once told by a woman that he had talent and she admired him. It was disastrous. He began to write poorly, publish less and nobody read him. He lived in Havana, sunken in the misery that is living in a “solar” (tenement) and playing la bolita (lottery) three times a day.

Back in the ‘50s, a book dedicated to Cuba’s African traditions was born: El Monte, by Cuban author and ethnologist Lydia Cabrera, a book which I thought I knew, even though I hadn’t seen a physical copy, and only had a few vague references that I had from where I grew up to go by.

Some hours after the tornado hit Havana on January 27th, among the rubble of a collapsed house in the “Diez de Octubre” municipality, three plaster heads (unrecognizable under all the debris and dust covering them) had a conversation.