Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana
Back when cities were nothing but mere villages, there were four standard pillars whose synergy was central to the efficient functioning of the community: the church, the town hall, the school and the court. If the law didn’t deal with you properly, the Lord would.
I grew up in a similar set-up but, with the exception of the religious institution, the symbols differed greatly: a bar, a radio station, a church and a park. Whatever couldn’t be solved by the Bloke Upstairs, could be settled by a bottle of rum in no time. The diminishing influence of Catholicism (helped substantially by a government bent on imposing its own version of religion, albeit under the guise of socialism) meant that when it came to alienating themselves from the tropical ennui Cuban state bureaucracy stood for, people, mainly men, decamped to the “barcito de la esquina”.
At a very young age I became acquainted with some of the characters who frequented this bar. Since my father was a famous musician (please, understand, ‘famous’ by Cuban standards; he appeared on a few television programmes with his band and performed many times on the aforementioned radio station) occasionally the local drunkards would find their way to our flat and ask “¿El músico está?”. To what my mother, already used to this ilk, would reply: “No, he isn’t, but also if he were, he wouldn’t be joining you. You know that”. Never mind her obvious discomfort, a couple of nights later they would knock on our door again. These were the same characters dozing off on one of the benches of the nearby park and waking up in a pool of their own vomit. As I grazed my knees climbing walls, they plunged deeper in their own alcohol-driven inferno.
Amidst this heterogeneous dramatis personae, there was a man I remember perfectly. Maybe, because the last time I saw him alive I was already a teenager and the sight of his hands shaking uncontrollably has stayed with me all these years. He had also been a pianist like my dad, but he’d fallen prey to alcohol and had not been able to beat it. One night, he actually came into our house and sat down. Hardly any of the local drunkards went beyond our front door. But, surprisingly my mum let him in this time. She was not nervous at all, but I was. The guy was a wreck. He was in such an intoxicated state that he called my mother by several names. He also asked for money. In his breath I smelled the acrid stench of death. In his smile I saw a limping Ms Hope boarding a train that read Despair on the front. I remember thinking then, no newspaper will write about this man, he will make no headlines, he will die and someone else will take his seat at the bar and he’ll probably ask his new drinking partner: “What’s become of So and So?”, “Didn’t you hear?” they’ll reply. “He died”. And at the thought of that word “die”, my adolescent body would jerk as violently as the guy’s veiny hands.
After he left that night, my mum gave our sofa a thorough clean. She used alcohol. She used a special type of alcohol to wipe clean a sofa on which an alcoholic had sat down. Of such ironies is life made.
On Sundays there was an extra pillar to our shapeless square (the park, the radio station and the church were lined up on the same road, only the bar remained defiantly apart, like a drunkard who refuses to accept that it’s closing time): dominoes. Decades before, families would have filed past our building on a Sunday morning on their way to the house of God, dressed to the nines. But now the only sartorial requisite was a vest, a pair of shorts and metede’os. The stage was set, the lights dimmed and the actors had learnt their lines…
… And the sight of Bacchus’s followers arriving at 10 or 11am, an hour before the bar opened…
… And the old Soviet-made Selena radio (jukeboxes had ceased to exist by then) blaring out old boleros and sones courtesy of Rosillo’s Discoteca Popular de Radio Progreso, La Onda de la Alegría…
… And the banging of domino pieces on the table once the game started. The square piece of furniture would normally come from Juanita’s, whilst the cajones would be provided by El Jabao. The same Jabao who would turn the temporary seats into percussion instruments as soon as the rum flowed and the mood turned festive…
… And the furtive glances of some of the players, looking around to see if there were any coppers nearby. The bets, the money passing hands, the child running, coming out of nowhere and being told to put “dos pesos al 33 fijo y tres al 1 corrido que soñé con tiñosa con barba ayer por la noche”. Yeah, he dreamt of a bearded vulture, he played the 33 and 1 hoping to get a “parlé”. The Voice of the Táchira ruled over the game, but that guy, he would have to wait until Monday to find out if the bearded vulture had brought him fortune. Because it was Sunday then. Day of rest… and libations…
… And the wife who came to take her husband home because he was drinking their money away. He was legless, beyond recognition and she wrestled with him, dragging him away and looking up to the sky at the same time, asking, imploring, begging, cursing Santa Barbara bendita, mi’ja, que salación es esta, coño, que mal yo le hecho al mundo, Dios mío…
… And wallets came out and more alcohol was bought. And the sound of the domino pieces hitting hard on the table was deafening: “Oye, asere, no me mates la mía, chama”, “Coño, consorte, suelta la gorda, no te quedes más con ella”. yes, the fat one, let go of her, there was never political correctness in el barcito or when playing dominoes. There was always El Tuerto, El Mongo, El Flaco, El Gordo, El Gamba’o. No fear of linguistic reprisals. Language was the real social leveller. I call you what I want, you do the same…
… And wallets kept coming out. But this time, inconspicuously, not pulled out by their owners. The alcohol kept flowing and money disappeared, some in the direction of the bar, some to someone’s house…
… And the guy who ran the bar talking to me one day: “You, study, right? You hear me? You, study, because you don’t want to end up like me”. And his face, another day, beaming, when the film crew rolled into our neighbourhood and chose his bar as the set for a movie. It wasn’t the first time, though, but before, he’d been told to close the bar because the film demanded that the whole area be cordoned off. This time, though, it was a co-production and there were foreigners around and he’d been told to let the locals in and pretend that it was a normal day. Well, what is a normal day, uh? He asked himself. Everyday is a normal day around here. And I don’t know whether him chewing gum was because he wanted to impress los extranjeros or because he really thought his ship had come in…
… And when I sat down in the cinema a year later, to watch the movie in which the barcito de la esquina featured in the very first scene, and I found out that the movie had been shortlisted for the Oscar as the Best Foreign Film, I thought of the local drunkards, of the dramatis personae, of the four pillars, of the dominoes game, of the drunkards going from the bar to the radio station to be part of the live audience of Alegrías de Sobremesa, one of the more popular programmes in Cuba, and then, going back to the bar for a nightcap, only that it wasn’t just the one nightcap, this night had to be capped several times…
… And them, later, much later, probably sleeping their binge off in one of the park benches or the piss-soaked floor outside the church….
Because in a city like Havana, if God didn’t deal with you properly, the bar (one of the four pillars) would.
