Covid

Edward Hopper, Morning Sun (1952)

My father is sitting in a corner of the bed, next to me. He tells me something, he doesn’t care I’m asleep. He keeps speaking and I wake up, barely, with heavy eyes, and I see him there, on the other side of the blur. I can hear his voice, I am listening. I try to move and shake the stiffness of the body just awaken…

Then I wake up. I truly woke up this time. The corner of the bed is empty. I’m alone in the hotel room. I had a dream where I saw my father sitting next to me in that very hotel bed. A hotel room that is miles away from where he really is, in some hospital bed, across an ocean.

In my dream, I was listening, and finding some meaning in his words. Awake, I can’t remember. I just feel that his voice was clear, like it used to be, clearer and stronger than how I heard him the last time we spoke. A phone call, long distance, across an ocean. A voice in a dream that was not tired and panting, like the voice of someone that is having trouble breathing. I could hear him gasping for air. He said goodbye. He knew.  

My father died early in the morning of the following day.

Grief is supposed to be scripted. One must go through stages, was it five? But who said how long does it take to navigate grief, or when does it strike, or if it strikes at all?…

There must be the confirmation of a loss, better if you see it by yourself, so you can’t deny it. And what happens when you are an ocean away. Then you must find a way to overcome the anger, you will find someone or something to blame, either God, a system, or a person in power, that made you the target of a loss at a time that wasn’t right. Because the time is never right.

When loss is certain, and definitive, I guess, it leaves little room for negotiation. Unless… Maybe some people with some internal faith that makes them believe in an encounter that will happen at some point, like death wasn´t truly the end.

Then sadness takes over, overwhelming sadness, the anguish of the never more, the sudden sob that comes out of nowhere, like an earthquake. With time it becomes less frequent, although it is never certain that it won’t come back again. And one day, I hear, memories start to produce smiles. And the loss is replaced by some form of ethereal company. And that is supposed to be acceptance.

My father died. It was a summer morning, in a faraway hospital bed. I was away in another country. I did not attend his funeral or burial. I learned of his death in a text. I cried. I cried more with every phone call. I took the honest ones, from the people that I felt really meant it when saying I’m sorry. I didn’t pick up the rest. Fuck the protocol calls. But my crying wasn’t grieving.

My cry was closure. I was closing a chapter, a whole book. My father’s death brought me the gift of certainty. The end of a conflict. The end of a story. So final that it left no place for open endings. Questions, unanswered or not, don´t matter anymore. I discovered certitude in the finality of death.

Moratorium

A rat. That’s pretty much the first thing she saw when she entered Washington Square. A rat in a run from under a bench to get lost behind a tree. A middle age white lady was seated in the bench, reading; a couple of teenagers were sharing a joint; in the east side of the park, a crowd was gathered attending or pretending to pay attention to Shakespeare in the Park. Nobody seemed to have seen the rat, or nobody cared, but nobody reacted.

Disgusted, she walked still some two meters before seeing him. He saw her too, he waved. He had the same beard that she remembered from more than ten years ago.

…

She remembers him reading from the back of photographs. Flags photographs. His photographs. It could be 2005, after Audioslave’s concert in Havana. Any case it had to be at some point before the 2006 World Cup but after Greece won the 2004 EuroCup. Because back then she couldn’t stand playing defense.

Then the memory jumps, slides, dissolves and fades away. They are walking over rocks, by the coast, he´s telling her about camera angles and how the most unknown thing to a man, is the man himself, because for whatever optical illusions the mirror returns an image that it is not what others see of him. The Person that you think you know the most, the Person that breathes your air and sleeps in your bed and have your thoughts, is cursed to be the ultimate stranger.

And then they are in his room. And he lights a candle and tells her to shock him. And from her fingers air starts to blow and she braids that air and creates a twister that blows that candle off. And they are in the dark. And somewhere inside the wardrobe he keeps a camera and a flag.

And she pictures him in fast motion. Sitting under the shade of trees. Accepting that award. Telling her not to come. Being with someone else… Being back in her room for one last time…

…

That day in Washington Square, he’s old and new. She’s the same but reconstructed. Soo good to see you. So good to see you too.

She heard him saying something about politics, or perhaps academia. She heard him explaining something that she couldn’t quite remember the next day. Something about red flowers maybe, or Kim Il-sung or the Midwest.

They looked pretty much the same. They could be venturing the brave new world. He was definitely venturing that brave new world.

He walked ahead. And somehow, she had the prickly feeling that he was saying something that wouldn’t stay with her the same way as what he used to tell her before. She looked at him looking at her, and she saw in his eyes the reflection of the child version of herself.

It was evening when a chilling wind started to blow. They left Washington Square. Shakespeare in the park was over. She said no to his question of finding a place to dine. She kissed him in the cheek and waved good-bye.

Breath

-How do I know what I want? Really want?

We are walking side by side on the sand, near the waves that break softly in white foam. We are alone between the ocean and the dunes. The woman next to me answers.

-Shut wide your eyes, and even hold your breath until your lungs empty and your stomach contracts. If it’s still there what you think you want when you’ll grasp for air, you probably really want it.

Although her old voice sounds familiar I can’t recognize her face, because her features are blurred. Then I ask.

-How do I go and get what I want?

A dream.

I don’t hear her answer because I wake up under water.

I can’t see the bottom nor the floor nor walls all around. It is just me inside infinite water and I need to breathe.

And the lungs get emptied and the stomach gets tight and I grasp for air when I am waking up.

For real this time. I hope.

…

Once upon a time I thought life would be like an Ingmar Bergman film, maybe Cries and Whispers, with a face that was beautiful, a face that was strong, and a face that was dying.

But life turns out more like the opening of Millennium Mambo. A woman stomping over a long and elevated passageway.

…

At the end of the passage people wait for the train. The train stops and I get in. I walk pass a woman with a baby towards the end of the wagon. Then I lock eyes with the most beautiful man in the world. Just for a second.

Baudelaire has that poem, À une passante.

Un éclair… puis la nuit! — Fugitive beauté
Dont le regard m’a fait soudainement renaître,
Ne te verrai-je plus que dans l’éternité?

Ailleurs, bien loin d’ici! trop tard! jamais peut-être!
Car j’ignore où tu fuis, tu ne sais où je vais,
Ô toi que j’eusse aimée, ô toi qui le savais!

I open my mouth, but I feel the voice trapped in my throat. The most beautiful man in the world looks at me for one more second before stepping out in the stop before mine.

…

I am blocking a number from my phone. We have met four times for language exchange at the library. But the fifth time makes me anxious.

I block a number because a “no” answer is ten times better than a lingering question.

With odds I can play, but possibility is a bitch.

…

I stand on the edge. High up. Under my feet, a steep wall of stone and then water. An old quarry turned deep pond. I can’t see the bottom nor the place where the stone wall meets the water. I know I can jump from the higher spot because I already survived a dive before, holding a hand.

I jump alone.

Under the water, I swim towards the surface. One, two, three. The lungs emptying and the stomach contracting right before reaching the surface.

And I breathe.

Persistencia del no final

No comiences a escribir hasta que no tengas el final.

En retrospectiva, el consejo suena hipócrita. ¿Qué pasa cuando no hay opciones? ¿Qué pasa cuando hay que escribir sí o sí y lo único que sale de la punta de los dedos son trazos a brocha gorda?

Pero es lo que le dijo el Maestro a Jota Pe desde el otro lado del buró, El principio depende del final en una historia, Lo más importante es el final no empieces si no lo tienes.

Diez años después, la mirada sigue estancada en la misma página en blanco. Un fantasma que se rehúsa a marcharse, que se ancla con persistencia en la memoria.

El guion iba a ser la historia de una hija única. Jota Pe pensó que su personaje debía llamarse Nadia, porque era nadie, pero luego recordó que Sofía era el nombre favorito de alguien que en aquel entonces era un gigante, Sofía que significaba Sabiduría, y Sofía la nombró.

Quizás con la esperanza de que Sofía fuera lo suficientemente sabia para poder encontrar por sí misma su final. O un final. Cualquier final. Y le salvara a Jota Pe del problema de también tener que saber cómo comenzar.

Sofía era restauradora. Lo era porque la película tenía que ser la historia de una gran restauración. Pero restaurar qué, Jota Pe aún no sabía. Diez años después todavía no sabe.

Sofía estaba trepada en un andamio en plena faena de restaurar un fresco, cuando le avisaban que su padre había tenido un accidente o había enfermado de gravedad. Daba igual el motivo. Un detalle, pura semántica.

Tenía un amante, por supuesto. Alguno lo suficientemente verosímil para que fuera tolerable. Pero mientras él le hablaba de cualquiera sabe qué cuando ambos estaban en el apartamento después que ella le dijo que iba a ver al padre, ella miraba la línea del horizonte, entre el mar y el cielo. Adrift. Aloof.

Sofía llega entonces a la casa del origen, la de la niñez, al pasado. Una costa remota. Un faro. Una playa cerca y un risco lejano… A visitar un padre farero, pescador y navegante. Lo que había sucedido para que Sofía se hubiera marchado y no regresara en años, Jota Pe aún no estaba segura, pero sospechaba que quizás tendría que ver con la madre.

Y entonces qué.

Diez años atrás, Jota Pe se enmarañaba para seguir adelante y se le ocurrió que Sofía, mejor que hija única, tendría una gemela. Usar una gemela para poder desdoblar la personalidad de Sofía en su alter ego. Y así llegó Nadia. Que era nadie realmente.

Nadia era buzo. Jota Pe concluyó que si la historia transcurría en una costa remota, con el mar tan ubicuo que era un personaje más, que si no en la imagen persistía en el sonido de las olas, tenía sentido que Nadia fuera buzo. Además, si Sofía comenzaba su historia trepada en lo alto de un andamio, tenía sentido visual y dramático que Nadia comenzara la suya en el fondo del mar.

Nadia, sin apuro, mueve las piernas para irse impulsando con las patas de rana hasta que emerge en la superficie. De alguna forma, así estaba naciendo Nadia –la otra personalidad de Sofia emergía en la superficie.

Tendría que haber otro amante. Pero como alter ego de Sofía, Nadia tiene clavada la vista en un hombre que ama pero que no la ve. Un hombre que hablaba de cualquiera sabe qué luego de que ella le dijo que su padre estaba gravemente enfermo, o herido en un accidente –semántica– y ella tenía que correr a su casa natal a cuidarlo.

Así llega Nadia, quien se nota ha vuelto al faro varias veces durante los años.

Y Nadia y Sofía se encuentran.

Nadia cree que Sofía sabe algo que no ha dicho sobre por qué desapareció su madre. Mientras, Sofía está convencida de que Nadia supo todo el tiempo por qué desapareció su madre.

Diez años después, Jota Pe aún no sabe por qué exactamente desapareció la madre de Sofía y Nadia.

Tiene sospechas. La madre era de otras tierras y la trajo una pasión por el padre que echaba chispas. Pero en tierra de huracanes las chispas se apagan y luego… Era una costa remota y a lo lejos hay un risco.

Y acá Jota Pe se enmaraña de nuevo. Una historia es el puente entre el principio y el final. Un puente… O un barco. Un barco que trata cada vez de llegar a la otra orilla, pero cada vez hace aguas por un choque contra las rocas en el fondo, o porque Jota Pe lo sabotea desde cubierta. Y Jota Pe se pregunta si es ella el barco, que se rompe sin llegar a la otra orilla, o el barco es el final condenado a no llegar porque no ha tenido un principio.

El final es, no lo que el personaje quiere, sino lo que necesita. El Maestro dice desde el otro lado del buró. Y la mayoría de las veces no es lo mismo.

Woman 2 Woman, part of #MeToo

This is not about Lesbian love, in case someone gets the wrong idea.

This is still an attempt to articulate feelings, ideas and impressions at the same time –something I’ve never been good at- about all this men-abuse-of-women conversation and where we draw a line.

Gauguin – Two Tahitian Women

There is probably no line. There might be multiple lines spread around depending on where you grew up and what community raised you, no matter you’re male or female.

I met with female friends today and one of us was adamant that No means No, and then I retorted Well not really, in Cuba many times No means Yes, because No is utterly ignoring a guy’s existence, let alone encouraging any advance. Our discussion was endless, even though we agree on the core: nothing justifies abuse. But we saw differently what the role and responsibility of women are in all this flawed way of men and women interacting with each other.

We two did have different perspectives. And the third woman on the table had yet another point of view, with a third layer of nuances and values and “should” and “must”.

And after that lunch another angle to this conversation seemed even clearer to me, that I maybe owe a Mea Culpa to a couple of you girls out there.

I too believe that nothing justifies hurting women. NOTHING. PERIOD.

And there are gals out there pushing it really hard. I remember once passing by a couple, she was repeating “hit me, come on be a man and hit me. If you would be a real man you would hit me, if you were really brave you would hit me.” The guy was breathing deeply looking up to the sky and just taking it, walking heavily, with his hands inside his jacket’s pockets, looking like he was dragging a heavy burden. I don’t know what was going on with those two, what could have caused her to act that way. But I remember having thought that I wanted to make her stop, and I wasn’t him, so poor thing. He was so in the right side of that argument.

And I know sometimes in a conversation I might have criticized a woman because she was too flirty, and Girl If You Act Like That You Are Going To Confuse That Guy, And Then Don’t Be Surprised if He Makes a Move, Maybe a Rough Move.

But again, no justification for hurting women. NONE. PERIOD.

Years ago, still in boarding school, the rumor spread that a male classmate had attempted to rape a female student. We were summoned for a big meeting, to hear two spokespersons tell us about a potential rapist among us. These spokespersons did not identify the victim, nor the perpetrator. What we did hear is that actually, it had happened more than once, and to more than one woman. But we didn’t know who were the victims or culprits among us, and they claimed not wanting to say because they didn’t want to spoil anybody’s career, and because they just wanted to send a message: anything else would not be tolerated any longer.

The entire community came out of that meeting with a bad taste in our mouths. Distrust and suspicion taste really bad, and for weeks the tension in the place was so thick, so palpable, that it could be cut with scissors. I got angry. Angry at those two girls that acted as spokespersons for just putting so much weight on all of us, for spoiling it for all of us.

Days later I was having lunch with another female student. We were working on a project but we weren’t close friends. The topic came up, I said that if it had been really serious they would have acted more forcefully, that this looked like a melodrama to me, that many women around us really liked to get drunk to the point of blacking out and yes, sometimes alcohol makes you do things that in the morning you’ll regret, or be flirty and invite someone upstairs which sober you would not, but that was no reason to cry Rape, that was if anything an indication of bad judgment and that alcohol isn’t really good for you. And I added, You Know How an Undesired Guy Doesn’t Get in Your Bedroom? If you lock the door when you are in.

That girl listened to me, and argued very little, very weakly, that even with an open door no guy had the right to get into anybody’s room without being invited, being allowed. And I said that that was in the ideas world, wishful thinking world, but that down here if you don’t take care of yourself, nobody will. And I was sounding so self assured, so righteous…

That girl had to leave school shortly after. A family problem came up and she had to go back home for good. Time passed. Come a day that I hear from one of her best friends that she had been one of the girls that had suffered the visit of an uninvited guy. And I wanted for the Earth to open up to swallow me.

So to every female I know, friends or acquaintances and those that have yet to meet, I can be wrong even when I make it sound right. Even if you hear me yelling that you have to close your door to be safer, I do too believe you should sleep in peace with your door open. I am not going to hesitate to help you.

Nothing justifies hurting women. NOTHING. PERIOD.