Wednesday 11 March 2015

Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana

Ay, mi’jito, por favor, dame la mano, por Dios. What was a request before has now become a command. I stretch my hand out timidly. She takes it and leaves the palm facing up. Her right hand travels down my right hand, following the lines. Her voice turns into a whisper. This one is love. Will she leave life for the end? The rocking chair on which she sits does not move. Perched on the end of it, she looks at me, looks into my eyes and returns her gaze to my hand. This plump, half-Chinese, mulata chiromancer who has eyes that can read into my adolescent confusion.

This one is love. The words conjure up the magic I felt three years ago not too far from here, this refuge on Refugio Street, off Colón Street. A fourteen-year-old virgin, barely scraping through mid-term assessments but with a second girlfriend already: Marta. Marta, who went where my first girlfriend (also called Marta) never went. Marta, who still lives on Trocadero Street, two blocks away from here. Marta, whose father is a merchant seaman and whose mother is a teacher. Marta, who spends long hours home alone. Marta, with whom I used to cut classes in order to be her companion during those hours of solitude. Marta, whose school skirt, yellow like my school trousers, and blouse, white like my shirt, loved getting into an amorous tangle on the floor tiles.  En bref, Marta.

¿Oye, mi’jo, tú me ‘tá’ 'cuchando? No, I answer internally. I’m not listening. Sorry, I should, I know I should. After all, it was my mate, my best mate, who talked me into coming here to see you. It is all to do with the university admission exams, the pressure, the future, the draft, the war in Angola, the confusion – not just of the adolescent type – the “greens”, the exchange rate (five for one), the “ladies of the night”. It is all this and above all, it is the uncertainty. Hence the palm-reading session. But we would need to read the palms of ten million souls on this island.

A shot of rum is offered. The look of puzzlement on my face makes her laugh. No me digas que tú no tomas. I neither nod nor shake my head. I have drunk, a little, in the past. At seventeen I have yet to get really drunk. But this offer comes out of the blue, on a warm winter afternoon in Centro Habana. OK, she says, if you won’t have some, I’ll have yours. She lets go of my hand, retrieves a bottle of rum from the small bookshelf that doubles up as a shrine to Elegguá, a coconut surrounded by sweets. Her eyes eye me eyeing the Orisha. I do not just read hands, you know. Although her voice sounds firm, her words betray uncertainty. Perhaps she thinks I am judging her. Perhaps she thinks I am one of those modern kids, all tight jeans and big, wide shirts who turn their backs on Cuban culture, including the African influence, to embrace the alluring world of rock’n’roll. How to explain to her that every two or three weeks a babalawo visits my house to see my grandmother, my auntie and my mum? How to put into words how confused my cousin and I feel when we see our respective mothers, hardcore believers in the government and Fidel, desperate to find out what the future has in store for us through the divination methods of a system born in Nigeria?

I leave the palm-reader’s house at sunset. The route to the bus stop is enveloped in dust mixed with the smell of petrol. I walk down Colón Street until I get to Paseo.  People are coming home from work, others are starting a game of dominoes. In the semi-darkness a game of cuatro esquinas is still going. The ball can hardly be seen but that does not stop these wannabe baseball players from taking over the four corners of Consulado and Colón.

A long life, difficult times I will overcome and my sweetheart around the corner. Predictions for which no hand is necessary. I see my bus turn right onto Paseo. I get my ten cents out of my pocket and I think of Marta. The second Marta, the one who went where the first one never did.

© 2015

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 14th March at 6pm (GMT)

27 comments:

  1. intriguing...i just wrote today of visiting a fortune teller...she read my palm at 16...a much longer story than what i allude to but...
    marta sounds like fun...ha...def some good memories there it seems...there are def things you dont need a palm
    to read...

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    Replies
    1. I know. I left you a comment. I just read yours. This is eerie, mate. :-)

      Greetings from London.

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  2. I recently read the novel and then saw the film, "The Rum Diary," by Hunter S. Thompson. The setting is Puerto Rico. Your experience with a fortune teller in Cuba took me back to the book and the film, and it was in such a situation as described/shown in the book/film that I envisioned your experience with your fortune teller. I "transitioned" through Puerto Rico in the Marine Corps, and now wish I would have sought out one of the locals to read my palm. I have no such experience in my life, and I feel like I have missed something.

    Anyway, I enjoyed reading of your experience, CiL, with both the fortune teller and with Marta. It was cleverly written and well written.

    I wonder if there are any fortune tellers in my current neighborhood ….

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    1. Hunter S. Thompson is one of those authors who has been on my radar forever. Why have I not read him yet? I've no idea. I know I will like his stuff, but for some reason I have yet to pick up one of his books.

      Greetings from London.

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  3. Beautiful, evocative, powerful.
    And more than a little sad. Or is that just my ignorance speaking?

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    Replies
    1. There is no ignorance, or sapience. Just feelings. And if that's what you feel, then that's what you feel. I felt sad writing this post. The neighbourhood where this lady lived was before Fidel a brothel-ridden area. The Revolution "cleansed" it but by the time I visited the fortune-teller prostitutes were beginning to appear again.

      Greetings from London.

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  4. Fascinating post, thank you so much for sharing.

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  5. Oh the pain and urgency of adolescence! Everything matters so much! Do hope the lovely Marta-the-second didn't break your heart - though you've obviously left a corner of it in Havana.

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  6. Ah, such memories to reflect upon. I enjoyed this, Cuban.

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  7. Exquisitely composed. The dust and petrol fumes evoke memories of Croydon High Street in the late 1940s. Some lovely understated touches involving the senses.

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    1. Ah, isn't it great when we blog about a personal experience and this chimes with other people in a different context? Thanks.

      Greetings from London.

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  8. Wow! Your final memoir will fly off the shelves...Vivid scenes; with just a few strokes and the imagination fills the rest. Most enjoyable.

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    Replies
    1. Future agent, future editor, future publisher, are you paying attention! :-)

      Greetings from London.

      Delete
  9. Hoy me he paseado de nuevo por las calles de la Havana a través de ti, bonito escrito, un abrazo.

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  10. haha some predictions are pretty easy to make, hand or not.

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  11. My hubby's first girlfriend was a Marta (Martha)
    I thoroughly enjoyed this ...thank you!

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  12. A simply magnificent piece of writing,

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  13. I love these glimpses into your life in Havana. A superb piece of writing.

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  14. sounds like marta never really left...smiles
    and def. - for some things you don't need someone to read your hands...

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  15. I love how you describe an event. It makes me feel like I'm there too. (I guess I told you this before, huh? hehe)
    Happy weekend, darling!

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  16. Oh thank you so much for this wonderful insight into life in Havana...makes me feel I've actually been there...the atmosphere, the culture, all come to life through your vivid descriptions.
    I so enjoyed reading...

    Have a fabulous weekend! :)

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  17. I loved reading this post, you made it come alive for me.

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  18. Beautifully written-- evocative and wonderful. Btw-- hunter Thompson is fun but not poetic like this in my experience of him. Thanks. Great breaks here -- the back and forth work really well. K.

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  19. So, Marta was the one? Yes, beautifully written, and very evocative. I know next-to-nothing about Havana except what I've seen in movies, so it was fascinating to read this!

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  20. Such a lovely post. I can vividly see and feel all of the memories. She drank rum from Legba's altar? Don't know if I'd trust that but it sounds like you were a classic Scorpio child....

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