Old Folks’ Chatter in the Shadow of a Blackout

By Eduardo N. Cordovi Hernandez

HAVANA TIMES – Without ever forming a formal association with an administrative structure, and much less any kind of legal entity, nor even a halfway “club of grumpy old grandparents,” it is nonetheless true that this band of retired old warriors who meet almost daily on any corner of our neighborhood—“in this distant city at the end of the earth”—to exchange opinions like a think tank or a “round table” (without any table involved), often end up establishing a few agreements without consensus, almost worthy—some of us think ironically—of more prestigious agendas.

From our most recent sessions, for example, came the attempt to define what, if anything, has truly been a symbol, avatar, sign, mark, or sort of logo of our recent national history.

And so as not to be too demanding or absolute, we considered a couple of significant, constant ideas—let’s say, with a gravitational, circular presence throughout the last sixty years of Cuba’s history.

Without a doubt, one of them must be seen in its plural form: blackouts.

Many think the ration book is more representative, given its tangible, documentary nature and its permanent, almost familial presence—an undeniable truth. But the ration book carries a benevolent connotation. It has a protective, even friendly aura that shields it from any look of resentment.

One must remember that the ration book was born in that moment of threatened glory. It came about in the early days of what was once called “The Revolution,” and that document still managed—at that time!—to distribute wealth.

It’s enough to recall that every citizen then received nine cans of condensed milk and four of evaporated milk per month, and nine ounces of beef at the butcher’s every nine days, what we called “la novena.” Plus Russian cans of pork that few people liked—but which today, still, many of us miss fondly and even remember with pleasure, and so on.

And the people—oh, the people!—complained… But later, once the wealth was definitively gone and the ration book—like now—distributes little more than reminders of extreme poverty, it still retains that angelic preeminence of divine salvation.

Blackouts are another story.

Everything dark, every shadow, is associated with evil, with “darkness itself,” and, though it may not be literally true, it can sure seem that way.

It doesn’t matter if it’s daytime, though it may seem less tragic. The power, as we say, “goes out,” and even if you have food, you can’t have lunch “in your own backyard” because not everyone has gas. Right now, someone gets married, splits off property from their parents’ home, establishes a new dwelling, a new family, a new household, and has the right to a ration book. But—what a marvel!—they have no right to cooking gas. Or perhaps they do have that right, but it isn’t recognized. Worse still, they might also have no water.

And it is a very sad thing to have no electricity, no gas, no water; to have a monthly salary that doesn’t cover even the minimum expenses of the first week; to have city buses in the capital, even when in optimal condition, running more than four hours apart; to have everything dirty, broken, deficient. And it is sad because then one begins to wonder what one is living for—or begins to doubt everything… because there’s nothing like the enforced darkness of night for weaving schemes and strategies, reprisals, revenge, and justice.

We once told each other stories, we few naïve, retired poet-warriors of life, in a faraway city by torchlight, chatting cheerfully one evening during a full-blown blackout.

Read more from the diary of Eduardo N. Cordovi Hernandez here.