Dawn

The story of two people longing for each other, yet limited by their circumstances. I first posted a draft on this blog many years ago and in 2012 it was published in The Voice.

“Is he asleep?” he asks.

“Of course,” she snaps. But should there be an “of course”? After all, many a night she has been up until the small hours consoling her husband after a fit. It’s not the convulsions she fears, she’s got used to those; it’s the aftermath, his sense of disorientation. Her voice softens. “Yes, he is asleep, sorry.”

“You don’t have to say sorry. It’s not easy. I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Well, I try. I know it’s difficult to put myself in your place.”

“I wonder if anyone could put themselves in my place. I wonder if even I want to be in my place.”

Silence. The unsayable is usually followed by quietness. This is not what she’s come here for, however. She saw the balcony light on, heard the soft, mellow notes of Miles Davis’s A Kind of Blue playing and knew he was out there. She found him with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other one.

Their eyes kiss. It’s a lingering, embracing kiss, the type they know they’ll never be able to replicate with their lips.

(Continue reading here)

Summer Tale for an Autumn Morning

It is my birthday tomorrow, Monday 16th November, and as I do every year I have prepared something special and unusual to share with my fellow bloggers and readers, even if I don't really believe in birthdays that much. The story below was born three years ago during the London Olympics and especially that much talked-about Super Saturday (yes, I know, three years. But I needed to work on the characters and the plot and... Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just lazy). Like most short stories I have written on this blog in the past, this one is a draft that I will go back to and work on some more. At the moment, though, I'm quite enjoying where it's headed and I'm happy with it. Have a great week.

Damaged

This is a train. This is a train leaving Bush Hill Park, Enfield, north London, bound for Liverpool Street, east London. This is a train that contains few passengers. Amongst these passengers there is a couple. An ordinary-looking couple. A run-of-the-mill couple. A couple you wouldn’t stop to look at more than once on the street. Yet this is no ordinary-looking couple. This is a couple with a secret. Her secret. Which the man in the couple has just found out today despite the fact they have been together fifteen years.

This is a train that contains a couple in which the man thinks he knows everything about his wife. But there is a reason why his wife has been holding something back.

Shame.

This is not a story about shame but about its aftermath. The feelings it triggers. The scars it leaves behind. This is a story that takes place on a train bound for a popular station, a station at which many passengers regularly alight, especially on a Saturday evening like this, seeking the myriad pleasures London has to offer.

Why now? He asks. They are on their way to a school reunion. That might explain the “why now? She is bound to run into Father Nicholas at the gathering. As she mentions his name her grip tightens on the kitchen knife she took just before leaving the house. Father Nicholas, whom she calls “that man” in her tale. According to Gloria, who phoned her up a few days ago, “that man” is still in touch with some of the pupils from her old girls’ school. He must be now… what... seventy-three… four? Who knows? Who cares? He is still alive. And that to her, matters more than his age.

Gloria sounded worried on the phone because she is the only person who knows what happened. And now her husband knows, too. When “it” happened, she was too ashamed to tell anyone else. She kept thinking she’d get pregnant. Not that she knew a lot about reproduction at the time. The little she knew she learnt it from Gloria. As soon as the lights went out in the long and narrow girls’ dormitory the two of them started their barely audible, whispered dialogue. They were two thirteen-year-olds tempting fate and defying the nuns’ curfew.

But Father Nicholas knew. He knew about the nocturnal conversations and he knew which girl was the vulnerable one. Not Gloria. Oh, no! Gloria was a fighter. Absent father and a mother who gave up on her because her daughter was “an accident I didn’t ask God for”. Gloria talked back. Gloria asked awkward questions. Gloria wore make-up once to mass for which she was severely punished. The very visible welts on her skin did nothing to placate her rebellious nature.

Sitting now on the overground next to her husband, she has a memory of herself being the opposite of Gloria. She was always clingy, too dependent. The perfect victim for “that man”.

Their train arrives at White Hart Lane. A blood-soaked sky can be seen to the west. Normally at this time of the day, there would still be people hanging out here during the football season, if there was a late kick-off. The platform is almost empty. It’s funny how the Olympics give the impression that the streets of London are swarming with crowds and yet that has not been the case. She read the other day in the paper that theatres and tourist spots in the West End are not getting the windfall they were expecting because visitors prefer to head for East London instead. The carriage they occupy has only three other passengers. She never felt comfortable with the idea of the Olympics. All that money wasted on a fortnight exhibition of brawn and little brain. On top of that there is the heat this year to deal with. She cannot stand the heat. Please, no more of this Indian summer, give me a good ol’ British downpour instead. That has become her refrain during the months of June, July and August so far. A fat pearly drop of sweat travels from her left cheek down her neck and nestles in between her breasts.

So, how many times did he do it? Her husband’s question is asked in a low, neutral voice, betraying no emotion. Twice, her tremulous voice responds. The first time she remembers seeing father Nicholas’s silhouette at the door of her dormitory. The light from the full moon streaming through one of the half-closed windows gave him a spectral apparition. His black cassock highlighted the paleness of his face. His black buckle-less shoes made no sound and yet she was completely sure that she could hear heavy footsteps getting closer to her bed.  After spotting him at the door she drew the bedcover over her head, but she still could feel him approaching. All of a sudden the heavy footsteps stopped. His hand removed her shelter. He bent down and...

For many years after that night I kept thinking that while he was raping me I was being watched by all the girls in the dormitory, her voice, like her husband’s sounds cold and detached. I had a recurring nightmare, she continues, in which the lights came on as he was still... doing that... and I felt... oh God! She turns towards her husband, pushes her face against his shoulder and wraps her right arm around his neck. Her sobs are inaudible. The few, scattered passengers in their carriage fail to notice that she is crying. Her husband knows about the nightmares. She still has them, but instead of her bad dreams being populated by cut-out cardboard figures from her ex-school, they are now inhabited by real people she has been involved with. Her previous two husbands, for instance. And Gloria. Ever-present Gloria. Her husband’s left hand slides down her hair and nape and goes back up, stopping at her crown. He massages her head, pressing his thumb down lightly and making tiny circles with it. He knows she loves that and were they at home now and in different circumstances, this would probably be a signal to begin their slow but always satisfying love-making. It is also the way he comforts her whenever she has one of her recurring nightmares. She thinks back to an earlier, merrier memory in the day, of bedsprings creaking and feels a pang of disappointment which causes her to shudder slightly. She disentangles herself from her other half. His massage is the same, but somehow it doesn’t feel right. Are you OK? She asks him. He doesn’t look in her eyes. Did he...? Did he...? The words want to come out but she knows he is struggling to utter them. Did he… penetrate you? Yes, she says. He raped me, that means that he penetrated me. Better to get it over with, she thinks. That’s probably why his caresses feel so mechanical, because… wait, no, that's not it, he wants validation. That‘s why he asked the question. Maybe he thought that by rape I meant sexual assault. Maybe he is blaming me. He won’t admit it but he is probably thinking that I brought this problem onto myself. She is no longer feeling so confident that her husband of fifteen years is in a position to understand what Father Nicholas did to her and the others. After all, she has only found out about the other girls recently.

Bastard! His voice is still low but his anger is perceptible. Fucking bastard! How could he do it with so many of you around? Although his tone is not accusatory, she feels as if she is the one in the dock.

*

“Your Honour, members of the jury, passengers of this train, world! I plead not guilty. Yes, you heard that right. I plead not guilty to being raped by a Catholic priest whom my family, especially my mother, completely trusted. I was thirteen, Your Honour, with the memory of my first period still fresh in my mind. Unlike Gloria, I was besotted with the Holy Book. Gloria already had doubts then, but to me the Bible was my only anchor at a time when I was unmoored. There was no story in it that didn’t speak to me, that didn’t relate to me somehow. My devotion pleased my mother who led her own life according to the strictest of religious codes. She lived in desperate fear of committing a sin. That’s why it was so easy for Father Nicholas to do what he did to me. His demeanour mixed the disciplinarian and the friendly, with an emphasis on the former rather than the latter. My mother welcomed this unsolicited support in the middle of yet another crisis with my father. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to say that when it came to Father Nicholas in those years the capital ‘F’ became very quickly a lower case ‘f’.”

*

He didn’t make his intentions clear from the start. Instead, he groomed me. She likes using that verb now, “groom”; she knows what it means and it gives her a sense of control over the event even if she cannot get rid of the memory. Gloria realised straight away but I was too focused on my Bible studies to notice. At the convent I always stayed behind with “that man”to go over a particular passage. His big, calloused hands would usually find a way to make contact with my small, delicate fingers, guiding them across the page. If I made a mistake, he would play the old, uncle character, all laughs and bad jokes. But there was also an angry side to him. If he felt that his rule was being contested, that I or any of the other girls was straying too far from the line, he didn’t hesitate to punish us.

It is strange to hear her own narration coming out so freely, untroubled by doubts and awkward pauses, albeit punctuated by irregular sobs. Perhaps that is the reason why her husband is so tense. He might be expecting the same tension in return. Yet she has grown a thicker skin over the years. “That man” loomed large over her life. There were the failed relationships to begin with, followed quickly by two marriages that broke down leaving behind a taste similar to sand in the mouth. The first husband, of Irish stock, an alcoholic; the second one, a Ghanaian with a peculiar sense of humour and a rather idiosyncratic view of women, a gambler. She also severed ties with Catholicism for good. This happened in her early 20s when she had not yet moved to London. At the time she felt like a child who dashes down the stairs on Christmas Day only to find that the white-bearded fellow and his elves have made off with the gifts during the night. It was not just that Christmas did not exist but also that Santa (if real) was a thief. Sexually speaking she had only recently begun to know herself. Certainly her current spouse was partly responsible for this progress but she had, so to speak, taken the reins of her own horse and was guiding it to a place where she felt she belonged.

And then, all of a sudden, the phone call from Gloria and the idea to get together with the girls. Joy was swiftly followed by rancour and hatred. A deep-seated hatred that manifested itself when she found out only yesterday that “that man” would be at the party. Gloria rang her again to say that she had no idea Father Nicholas was going to be there when she first belled her. Gloria wanted her to know that she could cancel and it would be all right.

She tightens her grip on the knife.

She decided not to cancel. She explained to Gloria that she needed to deal with this situation once and for all, the sooner the better. What she left unsaid was the other thought: she did not want to let Gloria down. Gloria’s life had been a wreck since leaving the convent. Although the two friends rarely met in the flesh they did keep in touch by phone and now in the modern era of social media via Facebook. Through third parties she found out about Gloria’s problems with drugs, self-harm, alcohol, eating disorders and men. Whenever she tried to approach the subject as a friend, Gloria fobbed her off. Once she almost jumped on a train to rush to Gloria’s side when she saw a photo her friend had posted on Facebook. In it Gloria looked emaciated, wasted, wafer-thin and lifeless. The smileys and LOLs underneath the picture could not conceal the problem: not just the physical deterioration but also the self-deception that was so characteristic of Gloria’s personality. She knew that in people who thought themselves strong and self-sufficient addictions could take longer to detect and address because of self-denial. Gloria had always hated the pity-coated language people used when referring to addicts. To Gloria, her addictions were quirks: Other people have addictions. I have quirks. I am a quirky person. Fancy another shot? And down the tequila shot went.

I’m not blaming you, her husband is still keeping the same neutral, low voice. I think that you’ve gone through a lot of crap already but, I’m sorry, but… I can’t help thinking that there must have been someone there at the convent you could have spoken to.

… someone there at the convent you could have spoken to. “That man” was about thirty-six or thirty-seven when he raped her. He had built a good, solid reputation at the convent and in the local community. He was well-respected. Would her husband be able to understand that no one would have believed her had she spilled the beans? A thirteen-year old from a soon-to-be broken home?  They would have said: Count your blessings, child. Father Nicholas is a good man who does a lot for people. I have seen him come to your house many times to mediate between your mum and dad. Without him, your folks would have gone their separate ways long ago. What you are saying makes no sense. The Father made a vow to God, the highest authority there is. He wouldn’t break that vow for someone like you.

She remains silent, though. She knows that even if she explains he still won’t believe her. It’s complicated, not as easy as you might think, that is as far as she goes. She moves her head away from his dreadlocked mane. Her right hand lets go of his left hand. As she looks out the train window she catches her reflection on the glass. Her hair is a splodge of red (her natural colour) and grey (the invader).

Because I want to exorcise my demons, she finds herself answering his original question, why now? This is her only chance. Now, today, in this reunion, where she is also bound to run into other victims. They have not spoken as a group about what happened to them whilst at the convent but if she fires the first salvo, if she confronts this vile man, maybe the other girls, women now… What do you think you’ll do when you see him? She tightens her grip on the kitchen knife again. I just want the truth. I just want him to admit what he did. Will she make a scandal? She is not a scandal-prone person. It is just not part of her personality. She likes doing things quietly without standing out or attracting attention. For instance, her decision to remain child-free was made without any fuss, or tears. When her mother asked her, she just replied: I’m not the mother type. In reality what she really wanted to say was: I just don’t want to turn out to be a mother like you. How quickly we transfer guilt to another person! Her husband to her, she to her mother. Shame does that to people. And “that man”? Could anyone transfer any sort of guilt to him? Would “that man” be capable of feeling guilt?

When Gloria rang her the second time she told her that she had forgotten to tell her that Father Nicholas had finally been caught a few years ago. Perhaps Gloria had said it to console her; a way to ease the burden weighing heavily on her friend’s shoulders. In reality she learnt from another ex-student that all Father Nicholas got was a soft slap on the wrist and the suggestion that maybe it was time for him to retire. Now, on this train going from the suburbs of north London to the hustle-bustle of Liverpool Street, she wonders for the first time if she will be capable of carrying out her plan as hastily arranged. For haste had featured prominently when she decided to grab the kitchen knife. She knew she was not a murderer. But would she be considered one when people found out about her motives?

Something strange happens at some of the stations the train pulls into. Figures she recognises from her dreams – nightmares – board the train. At Stamford Hill, her first husband hops on and remains by the doors as they close. His lips move but no sound comes out of them. Finally she is able to make out the words: You are that you are. At Hackney Downs, against the background formed by the match-box-shaped mid-rise buildings on Amhurst Road, barely visible above the platform wall, she catches sight of her second spouse. He, however, does not get on. Instead he holds a big sign for her eyes only. The letters are red against a white background: He will not repent! In Bethnal Green, a woman, as emaciated-looking as Gloria, boards the train ahead of a sari-wearing women-only group. Gloria’s Doppelgänger sits across her, fixing her eyes on her the whole time. All of a sudden she says: O daughter of Eve, so as you call upon me and ask of Me, I shall forgive you for what you are about to do, and I shall not mind. Were your sins to reach the clouds of the sky and were you then to ask forgiveness of Me, I would forgive you.

“Next stop is Liverpool Street Station, where this train will terminate. Please, take your belongings with you”. The voice on the Tannoy jolts her back to life. She turns to her husband and the expression on his face leaves her puzzled. Does he still blame her, or worse, does he feel pity for her? Are you all right? We don’t have to go if you’re not feeling all right. You know what, when I married you, I married you not just for the good times but also for the shitty ones. I need some time to think and the space to do so. Right now I don’t know what I’ll do when I meet this “character”. You know me, I’m not violent but… you’ve been through so much crap, sweetheart. It’s just that this is a bit too much. Thank God I haven’t got one of the kitchen knives on me now. I don’t know what I’d do if I did.

They get off the train. At first they do not hold hands. She remembers that she was the one who took her hand away from his on the train. Her husband is pensive now that he has finished his speech. He has hardly looked at her since her confession. If she were a gambler she would put a wager on him turning around now and walking away, not back home, but somewhere else. Probably walking out of this story, for this tale must be as painful for him as it is for her.

As soon as they go through the ticket barriers the glare of a BBC-broadcasting giant screen catches their eyes. The image of a grinning Mo Farah causes fellow passengers to come closer to the screen. The volume is turned up. Fragments of conversations mix with the live commentary on the screen: Martha? John? Oh, nice to meet you. Nice to meet you, too. Been watching the Games? Yes, and waiting for you. The third gold medal for Great Britain this evening. This will go down as one of the great, great nights of British athletics certainly. They leave the crowd and almost robotically climb on the escalator Old Broad Street-bound. On their way up they exchange glances and call out each other's names, almost in a whisper. It is an acknowledgement that they are here, still together. As they come out of the station a drop falls on her nose. She looks up and notices that the sky has turned a splodge of dark grey right above them and light pink further east where the Olympic Stadium is. She softens her grip on the kitchen knife inside her bag and grabs firmly her husband’s hand. This time, she does not let go.

© 2015

Next Post:” Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 21^st November at 6pm (GMT)

Exercises on Free Writing

140

-          :-D

-          :-(

-          :-)?

-          :-( *&%>^$£”!^&%~@#!!!!

-          :-{?!

-          :-( *^$£”!%^&~@#!!!

-          :-0?

-          :-( *^”!%^&~@#!!

-          :-0???

-          :-( *&%>^$£”!

-          :-)?

-          :-)

-          :-) :-)!!!!

© 2012

 

Next Post: “Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts”, to be published on Wednesday 13^th

February at 11:59pm (GMT)

Dawn (a short story)

Writing a blog for five years has brought many joys, not least, becoming part of a like-minded community which, albeit virtual, shares many of my views and with whom I can discuss pretty much everything.

Now that sense of fulfillment has been enhanced by the publication of my first ever work of fiction in a British newspaper. Dawn started life as a draft on this very blog a couple of years ago and it was your feedback, fellow bloggers and readers, that encouraged me to work on it more and submit it earlier this year to The Voice's "Your Tale" section. You can read the first draft here and the final copy appears below. Credit for the beautiful photo accompanying my story goes to Helena Smith, the author of the "Eat Hackney" blog and a great photographer. Let's hope this is not the last time Helena and I collaborate on a project together. Many thanks. Your feedback will be very welcomed.

*********************************************************************************
“Is he asleep?” he asks.

Of course, she snaps. But should there be an 'of course'? After all, many a night she has been up until the small hours consoling her husband after a fit. It's not the convulsions she fears, she’s got used to those; it's the aftermath, his sense of disorientation. Her voice softens. "Yes, he is asleep, sorry".

"You don't have to say sorry. It's not easy. I understand."

"Do you?"
"Well, I try. I know it's difficult to put myself in your place."
"I wonder if anyone could put themselves in my place. I wonder if even I want to be in my place".

Silence. The unsayable is usually followed by quietness. This is not what she came here for, however. She saw the balcony light on, heard the soft, mellow notes of Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue playing and knew he was out there. She found him with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other one.

Their eyes kiss. It's a lingering, embracing kiss, the type they know they’ll never be able to replicate with their lips.

"How bad is he?" He offers her a puff of his cigarette and pushes the glass of wine towards her. He sounds worried, but maybe he just wants to break the uncomfortable silence. There are good days and bad days, she replies, lately we've had a good run. But you can never be certain. He will die very soon. Of that we're all sure. The tumour is too advanced. Hence the holidays. Radiotherapy, chemotherapy, oncologist, surgeon. A whole new vocabulary I never expected to learn. She pauses and looks outside the balcony. The surrounding Andalusian landscape reminds her of the time when she wanted to learn Arabic.

He looks at her. From where he is sitting, he can just make out her naked body underneath her camisole. The full moon outlines her fine features: her wrinkled face, her strong shoulders; the result of many a lap in her local swimming pool. He looks at her curly black hair, set against the paleness of her skin. White streaks already crowd her mane. He looks at her breasts, pointing slightly downwards, as if trying to tickle her rounded, protruding belly; the carrier of three beautiful children. His eyes keep travelling southwards to her legs. Her negligee is ankle-length, but still he is able to see her well-shaped, veiny legs and her strong thighs. Even the incipient cellulite sits well on her body.

He catches her catching him looking at her. He feels embarrassed but doesn't blush. His dark skin won't let him.

"It's OK. It doesn't hurt to look". She smiles. "Is your wife asleep, too?"

He nods. “She had a terrible headache last night”, he says. As usual, he thinks. His eyes focus on the whitewashed Spanish village near their cortijo, now bathed in a silver light in this early-morning darkness. He remembers the walk the four of them took two days ago around the town's tree-filled square and cobbled streets. Her husband was really looking forward to it. He was in high spirits, there had been a gap in his verbal glitches; maybe the treatment was working after all. He kept talking the whole time, emphasising each points with his hands.

He remembers the walk well. He also remembers his wife. They held hands at first like two adolescents in love, until they began to argue. It was over some petty issue. As it's the norm these days. And then the hands went their own separate ways, like their owners. Sometimes his current situation reminds him of a driver leaving the windshield wipers on when the rain ends. That screeching sound that diverts the driver’s attention from the traffic for a split second before the wipers are switched off. That's how his relationship feels at the moment. But he can't bring himself to halt the wipers.

"Things are not going very well for you either, are they?" her voice is calm.

"No, you could say that a tumour is also killing my relationship".
"I think you're wrong. I fell out of love with him before he was diagnosed. His condition has just made things... more difficult"
"You mean, to leave him?"
"Yes. Who would like to be thought of as the bitch who dumped her husband when the going got tough?"
"Then, there's no hope for me? For us?"

He's never gone this far before. He realises now that their conversation up to this moment has been mere background music for their feelings.

Their eyes are not kissing anymore; their lips are. Like in the movies. Her nightgown comes off, his trousers are removed. His face is stroked and his nipples pinched. Her body is journeyed upon. Like in the movies. Gasping noises and muffled laughter are heard. Thrusts, abandon and elation are felt. Like in the movies.

Except that...

That doesn't happen.



As Davis, Coltrane et al launch into All Blues, she takes a long puff of his cigarette and another swig of his wine. He is still leaning against the door frame on his chair. She is sitting down on the floor now. They’re both immobile, but their mouths do not remain motionless. There are many words pouring forth at great speed, trying to make sense of the lack of a plan B. He married for life, but his relationship is floundering He doesn’t blame his wife; he is just as guilty as she is. But it’s painful to bear witness to your own life heading for a car-crash scenario in slow motion. There are their two kids to consider for starters. And then, there’s you. He comes clear. It’s been building up slowly, but surely. She nods. He continues. It was your humour, our conversations, your maturity, your confidence. Nothing to do with my body, then, she replies. Oh no, I didn’t mean that, he laughs. I know, she responds, staring at him like a mother who’s just caught her teenage son hiding a top-shelf magazine under his bed. It’s her turn now. I loved and then un-loved, she says. He was… is… wonderful. He’s always supported my teaching career, despite, or on top of, rather, his own successful one. Always on hand to take care of the kids whenever I was marking or staying behind, regardless of whether he had a film to review or not. But there was no romance. I can’t remember who killed it first, but I was ready to leave when he was diagnosed. Would you have left him for me? He asks, anxiously. Would you have left your wife for me? She retorts.

His silence is seized by her to press on, unchallenged. I, too, fell for you many years ago. Same reasons you gave, plus your body, she smiles. I always saw you as more than a friend. Whenever you discussed your difficult upbringing, the black child adopted by two successful, white, middle-class academics, I listened. I sympathised with your search for an identity. I have utmost respect for your work as a travel writer, especially because there aren’t many authors in that field who look like you. Through our conversations I felt an intimacy developing between us.

She suddenly changes her tone: I’m at my wits' end. I recently wrote to the Guardian’s Family Supplement’s ‘A letter to…’ I addressed my correspondence “to my husband’s tumour”. Just leave him, alone, I begged, leave us alone, leave ME alone!

He is crying in silence. Strangled sobs that punctuate her narration. As dawn breaks, the bonus track, Flamenco Sketches, kicks in. The nascent sun spreads its orange carpet over the Alpujarras mountains. Their eyes may be bloodshot but they are still locked in a long, lingering kiss.

© 2012

Next Post: "Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music", to be published on Sunday 24th June at 10am (GMT)

Exercises on Free Writing

Dusk

Do you really have to go?

It’s the third time that day she’s asked the same question and he’s fed up with it. You know I haven’t got any options, he replies. Or does he? The repetition of that same phrase has probably cancelled out any choices he might have. But deep inside he knows he’s run out of alternatives. He stretches fully on the noisy bed and gives her a curt reply: yes, I have to. Next he knows she’ll ask him why and he’ll have to go over the reasons again. They’ve been through this situation a few times this week. Maybe it was a mistake to let her in on his little “secret”. After all Pepe was clear about the operation: “Don’t tell a soul, jábico. We all want to make it safe to the other side. Imagine when we get there and get rich and send photos back home standing next to our very own motor. Uh? Then, all those naysayers, all those who chickened out, all those who preferred to stay behind and suck up to El Barba; they’ll regret the day they didn’t seize their chance.”

The other side. Funny euphemism for ninety miles. Ninety miles through choppy seas, ninety miles with sharks for company, ninety miles on a makeshift boat made of inner tubes. For some it’s a path to freedom, for others a quicker way to join their Maker. Albeit unconsciously. And for him? He is about to find out that night.

He turns to face her. Her naked body glows in the sunlight streaming through one of the broken slats of the bedroom window. Her short, curly hair is damp. She is still sweating from drawing shapes of Roman numbers with him on the old bed: an illegible, twisted L here, a spread-eagled X there, a bent, capital I here, another all-embracing X there. They both know that they have been exhausting themselves and each other before oblivion eventually does its dirty job. He looks at her plump body, masses of fat rolling to the sides every time she moves. In college they were known as the “number 10” couple due to her huge size in contrast to his skinniness. Whereas she was immediately noticed when entering a room, he would often blend in. He’s never minded her body shape, though. To him, her beauty is of the private view type, to be enjoyed only by the lucky few.

He runs his calloused hand across her face. Don’t worry, he says, I’ll bring you once I’m settled. How do you know I want out, too? She retorts angrily. How do you know I want to be separated from my family, my friends and my country? Her voice grows louder. Shhh, his finger shoots up to her lips, the neighbours might hear you. Let them hear me, she replies, putting his hand away. Anyway, what’s this secrecy about? Everyone’s leaving. Everybody knows. This whole week I’ve seen people walking down to El Malecón hoping to make their escape, too. People are trading their cars, flats, houses, motorbikes for a boat. The business now is not in pizzas and peanut bars but in tractor tyres, ropes and compasses. To cast their dice, as they keep on repeating. Do you think people are stupid? You won’t be the first one or the last one. Her voice lowers to a normal tone now. But it might be your first and last time. She turns her face to the wall. Confronting her watered eyes are stacks of books vying for space in the improvised bookshelf that would have normally accommodated the air conditioner unit: Emilio Salgari’s The Black Corsair and Sandokan: The Pirates of Malaysia; Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe; Jules Verne’s A Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea and The Mysterious Island. And many more. Their tattered covers and dog-eared, yellow pages betray longevity and constant reading. Two Russian dolls from an original set of seven book-end this mini-library. He often thinks of them as caricatures of Stalin and Mao, fully bloated and about to burst with their socialist ideals. One could have been a travel agent; so fond he was of sending those he perceived as enemies on “holidays” to Siberia. The other one waged a war against sparrows. God only knows what he would have done to Edith Piaf. Both were united in their hatred of intellectuals and artists whose works they couldn’t understand. And yet, the irony of it, they have both wound up re-imagined as two Matryoshkas by a thirty-three year old Cuban keen on reading.

He feels somewhat uncomfortable with her outburst. I don’t think you understand, he tells the ceiling. Can’t you see that it also hurts me to leave my mum, my brothers, their wives and my four nephews? His voice is breaking. Do you think that I just woke up one day and said to myself “let’s grab a boat and get the hell out of here!”? It ain’t easy for me, either. But it’s this fucking government that doesn’t, won’t let me live! Now it’s his voice that’s rising. Tell, me, how long have I been working? He turns back to face her. He’s poking her with his finger now. How long have I been breaking my back to provide for my mother and those two other fucking lazy bastards whose only fucking contribution in this house is to knock their wives up and carry on sponging off me? I love’em to bits, you know that. That’s my family, god damn it! But they really get on my nerves with their attitude. They didn’t want to study, fine, didn’t have to. Uni’s not for everyone. But they don’t want to work, either. And still they want to have money and opportunities. Sponging off me, that’s what they do. Day in, day out. Where are they now? On the beach. Staying in the house my mum was awarded at work for her holidays. I, too, deserve a chance. A better life. I have worked as a mechanic, run errands for that disabled woman who lives next to the fishmonger’s, done plumbing, driven a clandestine taxi, even fished in that bloody Malecón, for Christ’s sake! And what have I got to show for my efforts? A one-bed flat I share with nine other people. I can’t even be intimate with the person I love whenever I want to because I’ve got no space. I know what I’m capable of and no, I’m not afraid of work. Give me work, but I just need to feel that what I’m doing is worth something.

And do you think it will be worth anything in El Norte? She has dried her eyes and is now facing him, propped up on her right elbow. Do you know how many immigrants enter the US every year? What makes you think you’ll make it?

Well, if you don’t try, you don’t succeed, he says as he gets up. The bed complains a bit more as his weight eases off it. When the going gets tough and push comes to shove even the Devil dresses as a monk and gets down on his knees to pray to the Almighty, he intones philosophically. Paquito left last week and he’s already working at a restaurant in Miami. He’s talking now with his back turned to her. He rummages through the pockets of the torn jeans that sit on the back of the only chair in the room, until he finds what he’s looking for: a cigarette. He heads for the kitchen to light it. As he crosses the lounge-cum-dining room he walks past a huge portrait of Fidel towering over the furniture. I wonder what would happen to this country if it was you leaving on a raft and not us, he thinks to himself. On the kitchen wall a calendar from some European country, where the winter is always so cold that summer’s arrival is celebrated with fireworks and a full-on street carnival, boasts a placid countryside landscape which contrasts sharply with the emotions running through him. The burner is still on but the fire is out. Damn, no gas, he mutters. He opens the cutlery drawer and amidst the rusted forks, spoons and knives he finds the old box of matches. Two of them are damp and he discards them quickly but the third one seems fine, though it still takes him three attempts to light it. As he puffs on his cigarette, his mother’s sure rant when she gets home runs through his head: “There’re three matches missing! Did you…? No, you didn’t… Did you? How many times have I told you to light your cigarettes with the burner? That’s why I leave the burner on during the day when you’re here. So that we don’t use up the matches. They’re precious, you know.” Yes, I know, mum, he tells himself in his head, but the little buggers took the gas off. They take everything away from you, mum. He looks at the old clock on the wall. It’s five minutes past six. His mother won’t be home for another three hours. His eyes drift back to the calendar. 26th August, 1994. The day his life is going to change. It’s a stifling, typical Havana early summer evening, the one that never bothers with a cool breeze. Both balcony doors are wide open and through them the sounds from the street ten floors below crawl up to give him a taste of what he will miss:

- ¿Fefa, ya cogiste el pollo?
- Ay mi’ja, no, ¿Qué grupo llegó?
- El segundo, me parece. Hay tremenda cola.
- Pa’lla voy ahora.
- Esta es Radio Ciudad de la Habana, la emisora joven de la capital. Y ahora, Santiago Feliú con “Metamorfosis”.
- ¡Ladrón, ataja, ladrón!
- ¡Cógelo!
- ¡Ay pero que salación el barrio este, coño! No se puede ni tender la ropa. Tan pronto te viras, te la levantan…!
- Cómo puede ser/que cambie tanto un hombre de parecer/que de repente el delirio se le murió/que de prejuicios y esquemas se intoxicó...
- Vamo’ a echa’ un cuatro e’quina’, caballero’. Yo soy capitán del uno, y tú ere’ capitán del do’…
- ¡Asere, bota la go’da, coño, bota la go’da! ¿Tú ve’? Po’ culpa tuya no’ dieron viajera.
- ¡Estrella! ¡Estreeeeeella! ¡ESTREEEEEELLA!
- ¿Qué?
- Soy yo, Juanita! Ábreme la puerta del edificio, por favor, que se me quedó la llave en la casa.
- Llegó lleno de illusión/pero lo atrapó la mierda y se acostumbró/Un carro, una secretaria y un gran buró/pusieron un candado cerrado en su imaginación…

Oh, yes, he will miss those sounds. Perhaps he will find them in Miami. In Calle Ocho. They say that Little Havana is a replica of the Cuban capital. That will be a nice surprise for him. As Rubén Blades used to sing: “La vida te da sorpresas/ sorpresas te da la vida”. But this trip (another euphemism) is the type of surprise he didn’t expect. In his bed (well, not his, but one of his brothers and his wife’s) lies the woman he’s loved the most in his life. The one who complements him. The one who makes him go wobbly at the knees and write silly poems on the way back from work on board El Camello. And yet, here he is, fewer than six hours away from kissing all that goodbye. He catches sight of his naked reflection on the glass of the painting hanging in the lounge-cum-dining room. Although almost skeletal, his body has a certain muscular definition. Unless, he turns sideways, in which case a big, protruding belly makes him look like a worm that has just swallowed a gigantic bean. Luckily his bald head detracts attention from his pouch. Plus, there’s his moustache. Thick and black. More distraction. Hmmm… he muses, once I get to El Yuma, I’ll join a gym to beef up a bit. The thought of exercising makes him hungry for his girlfriend’s touch and this leads him back to the bedroom. The springs moan again...

Whilst he’s been gone to the kitchen to light his cigarette she looks out of one of the broken windows. In the distance she can see the blue sea, placidly draping its turquoise cape over the rocks ashore. Patches of oil appear intermittently along the coast. How many times has she sat there, on that stretch of wall, staring out at that full and immense ocean? How many times did they both come to rest their tired bones on that concrete, communal place? Where they hatched plans and thought up projects together? I’d like our child to have your eyes and hair, he would tell her. You mean you don’t want him to be a fat whale like me, she would jokingly respond. And he would kiss her. What people call fat, sweetheart, I call curves, and that’s that. His voice always sounded so reassuring. I would like our child to take after you, not me. Look at my hard, woolly hair. What hair? She would ask her. Oh, yes, I forgot, he’d answer, patting his bald head. But you know what I mean, you know the type of hair I have. I wouldn’t like him to take after me in that department. And at that moment they would both look out to the sea and hug each other; each embrace nailing a different dream down and creating a scaffolding for the future life they were planning to live together. She’s just applied to become a member of one of the construction brigades that are building blocks of flats in Altahabana. The response was positive and she was expecting it. After all she’s been awarded the Outstanding Nurse of the Year Award four times and has been nominated twice as many. The future is looking bright. Was, rather. It was looking bright. Like the sea beyond the houses’ rooftops, the hundreds of clotheslines and the dozens of white sheets weaving a flag of surrender around them. Should she opt out of the housing scheme? Should she talk to her boss and tell him that there’s no point in her building her own house because she can’t build the future she’d planned? She dries her eyes and blows her nose. Her heavy bosom rests against the wall. To her left a small painting of Jesus Christ (a third of the size of the portrait of Fidel hanging in the lounge-cum-dining room) towers above her. The frame is semi-hidden on purpose. Away from curious eyes. The property of a mother who never totally shook her Catholic upbringing off. A Communist Party membership card in one pocket and an image of the Lord’s son in the other. It’s almost impossible to see the painting because it’s usually covered by the bedroom door. Except at night-time, when the foldaway beds come out and the house turns into a gigantic dormitory. No space is spared. The lounge-cum-dining room, the kitchen and sometimes even the balcony (if it’s too hot) are taken over by the pimpampues, the Jack-in-the-box beds with their metallic frames. Some of the children sleep next to their parents and some on their own. Should the adults feel the urge to go beyond a good-night kiss, there’s always the discreet rubbing, the slow motion under the covers, the muffled sounds, the post-coitus admonishment (you didn’t wear a rubber again! I don’t want to get pregnant! We have no space!). All that and a lot more is witnessed by the Lord’s son. The one who came to substitute so many a Cuban’s faith when trust in the government collapsed in the early 90s. I don’t believe in you, she tells the painting. But, would you look after him? She can hear him coming back into the bedroom. Now he circles his clammy arms around her. She feels his natural, sweaty scent. She turns around and welcomes his open mouth. The bedsprings moan again…

A honey-gold sunset hides the dark grey veins of the previously overcast sky. Half the sun is down and half is still showing above Pancho’s rooftop in the building across from his flat. Pancho is probably feeding his pigeons now. And he’s probably seen him and his girlfriend in action, too. It’s not a secret that Pancho is a reca, that his so-called pigeons hobby is just a cover for his voyeuristic adventures. Jesus, the guy even has a telescope on the roof of his house! Only to watch the stars, he will proclaim innocently to all those who ask him why he needs a state-of-the-art Russian telescope with a finderscope, diagonal mirror and objective lens. A woman from another building has already complained to the police. Even she, with her open-minded attitude imported from Germany where she lived for five years whilst majoring in engineering, refuses to put up with it. But the police officer who came to file her complaint just shrugged his shoulders and told her to put more clothes on instead of walking around her flat with a tiny top and shorts that barely covered her buttocks. So, Pancho keeps on spying on her and she keeps complaining.

At least, if we’d had a child together. He can hear her voice from the bathroom. He’s just chucked the used condom in the toilet and is now flushing it down with a bucket of water. Why is she being so despondent? He wonders. Damn, he is going to bring her to live in the States with him once he settles down, whether she wants it or not. I will bring you to live in the States with me, so that we can as many children as you want, he shouts from the bathroom. He comes back into the bedroom without realising that the condom didn’t go down the toilet bowl and is still lying on the surface. I just don’t want any child of mine to grow up in a place where there’s hardly any hope any more, he says as he sits on the bed.

Her heavy frame makes the bedsprings scream in agony as she sits up. She sizes him up. You know what? I can’t believe what you’re about to do. Really, I can’t. After all the Revolution’s done for you and for people like you, like us. My parents? Poor, piss poor, both of them, before ’59. My grandmother was a maid and didn’t have the money to pay for my mum’s studies, so my mum had to start working when she was very little straight after learning her ABC. My granddad used to cut sugar cane but as soon as the season was over, he was jobless. Had to fend for himself in whatever way was possible.

No, not this now, no, I don’t need the “little speech”, he thinks to himself. He’s heard the same story so many times before. But she is in full flow. It was for people such as my grandparents and my parents that we had a revolution. Mistakes? Yes, who hasn’t made them, uh? We’ve made mistakes. Plenty of them. But can you also acknowledge the achievements? How about reminding yourself that no child in Cuba is without a school? How about reminding yourself that we, all of us, have access to free healthcare? You think that El Yuma is so perfect and you’ll find everything there at your beck and call. Well, I hope you get a reality check as soon as you get there. That is, if you do get there.

Slogans, just bloody slogans. That, we have plenty of. The words come out slowly out of his mouth. But what we haven’t got is food. You can’t eat slogans, sweetheart. Yes, I agree with you. The Revolution was for people like you and me, and your parents, and mine, and your grandparents, and mine, RIP both of them. But that was at the beginning. Now, the Revolution is only for an élite, for those up there. His forefinger points at the ceiling. You and I have nothing. That’s why, in a way, I’ve always been glad we haven’t had any children.

No, she corrects him. You didn’t’ want to have any children. I was ready the first time. You made me have the first abortion. And the second one. And then, came the two miscarriages. And now the doctor says that I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting pregnant. But what’s the point? I’m thirty-three and the man I love is going away and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.

You will, he takes both her hands in his. He’s welling up now. You will. I promise you. As soon as I… look… as soon as I get there… I’m telling you now… I swear on my grandmother’s grave. He kisses both his thumb and forefinger. I swear to you, that I’ll come back to get you. Mi china, we’re going to be just fine. I will work in whatever; I’ll do whatever I have to do. I love you, mami, you know I do.

Then, don’t go. It is her last plea. After this, she knows she won’t be able to bring herself to ask him again.

The sun is down. The last vestiges of its orange glow are the password for Havana to enter the realm of darkness. At this precise moment several dozens of people are quietly making their way down to the coast. Guanabo, Boca Ciega, Cabañas, Mariel. Departing points in search of a dream. Springboards to gain the momentum their lives have been denied until now. Some will make it. Some won’t. The lucky survivors will be returned ashore and tell stories of constant vomiting and dehydration, of dorsal fins and children clinging onto buoys crying for help, of ten-feet waves and makeshift rafts that resemble nutshells. The whiff of the grim reaper is the overpowering smell they’ll remember. The unearthly sound of a voice, as deep as a trombone and as ethereal and spectral as the darkness surrounding them will echo in the vast ocean: Tuba mirum spargens sonum/per sepulcra regionum/ coget omnes ante thronum/Mors stupebit et natura/cum resurget creatura/judicanti responsura/Liber scriptus proferetur/in quo totum continetur/unde mundus judicetur. This is their requiem reverberating on the water, creating little ripples of foam that cannot be seen in the lightless night. The survivors will relate these tales and a few days after their ordeal, as the city is shrouded in darkness, they will set off again.

And who can judge them? Who dares to judge them? You, reader? Me, narrator? Me, silent witness? Me, passive agent? You, collaborator? You and me, collaborators? Didn’t we contribute somehow to their ordeal? Shouldn’t we have said something, at some point, to someone? But we didn’t. We played the game. We followed the rules. Any other alternative was either discussed sotto voce or kept secretly in one’s mind. The only place they couldn’t penetrate. So, reader, technically speaking, that makes you and me a pair of cowards. Me, coward narrator. I’m sitting here, relatively comfortable, in my relative London comfort, living my relatively comfortable life while he lies at the bottom of the sea. Because that’s what probably happened. He left that night and no one ever heard from him again. No letters to his mother written whilst a crucifix rests by his side on the table. No missives that read: “Mum, I’m doing well. I found a job as a mechanic in a local garage. Same thing I used to do there just before I left. It turns out that the guy I work for used to live a few blocks away from us. His dad left in 1980 and brought the whole family after. The food’s great, I can’t complain. I’ve also found a lot of support here. It’s not as bad as they tell you over there. People don’t talk about Fidel the whole time. In fact most Cubans just want to work and succeed. They really don’t get involved in politics. I also have another job cleaning in an office at night for a few hours. Don’t worry about what I’m about to say, vieja, but Miami is a bit dangerous. Sometimes, when I leave the office in the early hours of the morning, I can hear shots. But don’t worry because you know me. I’ve never taken any unnecessary risks. Funny that. I did take a chance. But there was a reason and it was then or never, vieja. I’m also saving. I’m saving as much money as I can to... Mum, have you seen her? How’s she? Is she still mad at me? Are you still mad at me, mum? Sorry for just leaving you a note, but, I knew that if I’d spoken to you about my plans, you would have kicked one off. And I had to get out. How’re my nephews? And my brothers?

Chao, vieja, I’m writing this letter in the little time I have before going to clean the office. There’s a guy going to Cuba in a couple of days. I can’t send you any money because I don’t know him that well and I’ve heard some scary stories about money getting lost and parcels never making it to relatives. Please, mum, look after yourself and if you see her... Tell her I still love her.

And her? I’ll tell you about her, reader. Pregnant. Nine months after, she will give birth to a beautiful mixed-raced, Chinese-looking child, yellowish, curly hair. A boy whom the neighbours will call jábico, narra, chino. And what does the boy say when they ask him about his father? He’ll just shrug his shoulders, reader. No father. Never met him in the flesh. Although, would you believe it? He’ll tell those who ask, my mum keeps a photo of him in her purse. And every time there’s a bald actor with a little bit of a belly on telly, she cries.

Ah, and one more thing before I finish: the boy was named after his dad.

So, where were we, reader? Oh, yes. Judgement… judgement… judge-ment. Oh, please, vade retro satana!

You’ll see. I’ll make it, he says. He rises again and is now facing her. His eyes sting a little, the result of his tears mixing with his sweat. I know that you have all these doubts about the journey but Pepe knows a lot about sailing, his voice rises slightly. And we’ve got a proper boat, not some little dinghy, but a proper boat. He is smiling. Cariño, when I get to El Norte and… You know what I’m thinking of doing? Setting up my own car repair business. After all, that’s what I’ve been doing most of my life and I like it. You know I do.

The only business you’re bound to set up is your own death. It is a stern tone the one she uses now to slam down her verdict. Despite the ominous nature of her message, he can’t help enjoying the way the word “death” comes out of her lips. A barely nasal “m” followed by a longer than usual diphthong “ue”, coupled with a strong rolling “r” (a rarity in Havana) and culminating in an imperceptible “te”. God, even when they're having a row, this woman’s voice sounds beautiful, he thinks.

He reaches out to hug her and upon touching her lights go out. Damn, he mutters, a blackout. He goes to the lounge and checks the clock. It’s seven, they’re really punctual. No socialist inefficiency when it comes to scheduled powercuts, he thinks. He walks to the kitchen and switches the refrigerator off. No Brazilian soap opera tonight for his mum, he ponders. After all, this is the seven-to-twelve blackout. Not that he’s going to be here to see his mother switching the fridge back on when the lights return. At that time he’ll be… Where will he be?

From his tenth-floor flat he catches sight of part of Havana. Irregular chevrons of light spread all over Malecón. This forced twilight emphasises the fine line dividing the haves and the have-nots. Around the National Hotel area it’s still bright. From the corner of 25th and O St. down to El Coppelita and on to Maceo’s park, the roads are draped in darkness. The tall Almejeiras Hospital beams out onto the unlit streets below. Another crepuscular patch stretches from Belascoaín to Galiano before reaching the Deauville Hotel. Dusk reigns on Colón St, too. In the distance he can hear people cursing the name of whom they’ll never, ever dare to talk in public, unless sycophantically. Diminutive flickers of light appear here and there: torches, candles, chismosas and quinqués are produced at the dinner table. Improvised oil lamps that travel from room to room. Carried by hands whose owners lack vision. Brought outside once the plates have been washed up, stacked up, dried and put away. Modern campfires around which the dominoes table is assembled, neighbours summoned and bottles of rum opened. In the absence of electric fans, pieces of cardboard are used to fight the stifling heat.

He goes back to the bedroom. She’s getting dressed now but stops for a moment to check the stickiness she feels in between her legs. Could it be…? No, she says to herself, no, it’s never happened before and why should it tonight? Finally she’s ready to go. Meanwhile he pulls on a pair of denim cut-offs in silence and scribbles something on a piece of paper which he then places on the table in the lounge-cum-dining room. Hopefully his mum will understand his message. It’s hard to write in the darkness and his handwriting’s never been very good. After he finishes his note he pauses for a second and raises his head. His eyes take in the city, his flat and his girlfriend. Everything he loves is right there, ready to be reclaimed… or abandoned. He enters the bedroom, puts some clothes in a bag and takes a photo where he is with his brothers, his mum and his (now errant) father. Happier times, he thinks. A yellowed family photo before divorce, wives, babies and economic crises. Is that all you’re taking? She finally breaks the silence. No, but there won’t be much more. Pepe told me to travel light. He looks into her eyes as he answers her question. Here, have this, too. She pulls out a small necklace from her bag. It’s a crucifix. I’ve never worn it, she says. My grandma gave it to me. She said that if I ever lacked strength or if I ever found myself in trouble, a prayer would push those problems away. I’ve never believed in that kind of thing, you know me. But now, since I can’t talk you out of leaving m… your family… at least… if you wear this… Damn, what am I doing? She starts sobbing again. He hugs her. I’ll wear it, he whispers, I will.

They leave his flat and go down the stairs silently. In one hand he holds a small torch, in the other one, her hand. On their way down they come across other neighbours. Hellos, how-are-yous and isn’t-it-awful-now-I-can’t-watch-the-soap-opera are exchanged. Some carry torches as he is; others depend on candles; the rest appeal to their other senses to keep their bearings.

Finally they’re out on the street. To their right the dominoes game is in full swing. Pieces are slammed down hard on the wooden table, supported by the four players on their thighs. Two men, waiting for their turn to play and standing strategically near their compadres, act as lighting technicians, pointing their torches directly on the table. A couple of women gossip. By their chairs, on the floor, two bottles of rum sit. Every now and then, one of the men takes a swig and carries on heckling – only in jest – his partner. Across the building an old ’59 Chevrolet Impala serves as a bench for a gaggle of teenage boys. Although banter seems to be the motivation for their gathering, in reality they’re leering at the dancer practicing in the semi-darkness of the house in front of them. Clad in a skin-colour leotard, she is searching for a language of her own. Almost seventeen years of age, she will be studying contemporary dance and ballet at Havana’s Higher Institute of Art from September. But art for her is not only something that happens in school but also every day, every hour, everywhere, even during a blackout. To the light of an oil lamp, she aligns, breathes and improvises movements. All performed to the rhythm of the silent soundtrack in her head. In the glow of the quinqué this human aurora borealis radiates a magnetic light powerful enough to attract the attention of the male adolescents stealing glances through the rusted iron bars of the front room window.

They reach the end of the block. Their hands are locked in a strong grip. So, this is where we say goodbye, she says. Not goodbye, but see you later, he quickly replies. No, you know very well that this is goodbye. I’m not leaving. This is my country and it might not be perfect, but it’s where I belong. The Revolution might have its problems, but… what’s the solution, to run away? She looks into his eyes as she speaks. In the almost absolute darkness the occasional flashes from the headlights of passing cars provide a theatrical background. A sudden chill creeps up his spine. His eyes water again. Why are you so stubborn? There’s no future here. His voice sounds almost like a whisper. He turns his head. To his right, El Malecón, the sea and his much sought-after freedom. To his left, his girlfriend’s house with her parents, grandparents and siblings, all squashed together in a two-bed flat. But there’s also love in that direction. Plenty of it. He breathes deeply and finally musters the courage to look back into her eyes. So, that’s it, then, he says at last.

And then, they hug. It’s their coda. But with no song signing them off. Only a soft, subtle rap on the dominoes table, started by a player who’s had a drink too many. The beat is picked up by his partner. They’re winning. Their heartfelt laughter contrasts with the tears streaming down the faces of the couple standing on the corner, less than twenty metres away from them. In less than a minute the two players have improvised a rumba. The onlookers join in with the usual call-and-response, their voices hoarse and low, but still clearly audible. The couple are still locked in their embrace. Schiele would have been proud.

He lets go of her, turns right and walks, walks quickly, almost runs. He doesn’t look back. That’s why he can’t hear her calling out his name. He can’t see her tears anymore, but he can feel his own, coursing down his face. Through barely-lit streets he walks until he reaches the main avenue leading to the sea. Behind him he leaves the love of his life, his life in the country of his birth, the birth he won’t see and a broken condom floating on the surface of a toilet.

© 2012

Photo taken from flickr.

Next Post: "Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music", to be published on Sunday 25th March at 10am (GMT)