Nat King Cole's syrupy voice swooned out a barred window in the old part of the city, repeating that seductive little slippery word: "MAYBE MAYBE MAYBE..." And across the street somebody ordered a pizza and I heard the guy selling it yell up inside the building to his woman 3 floors up with the oven and a minute later she dropped a basket on string with the food steaming and he picked it up over a towel and handed it to a guy who got back on his bike and doubled and then tripled his girl and kid brother. If childhood had a hometown... shucks. Then it gets dark and the streets are caught under the glow of pennies from whatever lights bother to burn, and the stars poke out and gather rust... but a swamp of clouds swept over and I finally had a chance who owns the place I'm shacked up in way over just behind Castro used to give his speeches behind the stencil 8 stories high of Che.
I was talking my home owner about Nancy. Nancy was the prettiest girl I ever saw in Cuba bar none and STILL the prettiest girl I've seen in this place. And I saw her the first minute I got out of a cab when I got here initially, cherry popped, back in Feb 2000 right after Elian Gonzalez jumped up into his daddy's arms. Door opened and there she was, BREEEEN?. Blink Blink. "YOU'RE Nancy?" "Jes." She leans in for the cheek kissing thing. "Jes, I yam Nancy." "Wow." "Jes. But, jew are nhat stayang weez me." "Why not?" "Jew wheel stay weez, Jesus." "That's okay, I'll stay with you." "EEs not possibeel." The cruelty inflicted in this place, human rights attrocities right from the get-go. Long limbed, elegant, doe-eyed, pony-tail, full lips always threatening smile---all of this in JOGGING PANTS at 2 in the morning---and that librarian thing with invisible glasses perched on hair ready to be thrown off and crushed under stilleto spike... the walk 3 houses down still felt like a stroll down death row.
But she ditched Havana with her husband 6 months ago. And we're left on a rainy night and me and the doctor are under his roof smoking, me trying to finish off whisky without much luck, talking about what made her so pretty. She never had to try. Every breath she took was a provocation. And the more she tried to subdue it the more everybody felt like we had a Cuban Sofia Loren all to ourselves in the cage of the street, feathers far far far too bright for our own good. But it didn't matter how miniscule the sound back when she strolled around bringing home groceries or saying hello to neighbors---I was on Nancy-invasion watch whenever I got back to our street. And after it got out I was nuts about her the whole fucking neighborhood, kids to parents to grandparents would point off to one side of the street or the other, BREEN, NANCY! and it never failed and some unforseen person would catch me doing it and snort.
But everybody's ditched our street these days. Miami, various towns around Spain. Checked out for keeps. Kinda creepy.
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