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.
In the ‘70s, when the world was still being amazed by everything, mysteries like the Bermuda Triangle recreated the same atmosphere of uncertainty that the Cold War created, which had reached its third phase by then with man walking on the moon and the end of the Vietnam War.
Florida, Havana, the whole world has been shaken by another massacre. Once again, the murderer and victims were young people. Once again, the world feels old and sick.
The first time I saw her, she was talking to her cousin on the balcony in front of mine on a Monday afternoon. Then, I kept watching her, alone on the balcony, every afternoon that week.
There are some memories which Time makes appear less real. One of these memories was in the early morning one day, on the wall of a bridge that crossed a river. Back then, I was doing my military service, I had escaped the afternoon before and was returning to my unit.