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.