Read Online Havana Lunar by Robert Arellano - Free Book Online Page B

wasn’t sure how I felt about her staying, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to leave. What was the point of this liason? A search for love? No. She was simply a remarkable girl. She seemed to be sharpening everything that had become dull and indifferentiable in the fog of lust that accompanied my relationship with Carlota.
    I gave Julia the rice and beans. “There should be enough food here until I get back on Sunday. Keep the door bolted.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Mano. Those punks won’t come around again.”
    I drove through the Almendares tunnel to Miramar and out Quinta Avenida. Before getting on the Carretera Central, I pulled over and took Hernán out of the trunk. When the pediátrico upgraded to a synthetic skeleton last year, Hernán had so many broken bones that it wasn’t worth holding onto him. Director González wanted to stay out of trouble with Palo Monte by giving him to someone trustworthy, so Hernán fell to me. The Lada’s back windows are tinted, but the license plates are state. That means I have to stop if hailed by the yellow-shirts. When they see an empty seat, they pounce into the break-down lane and flag you over. Even after making it past prominent stops like La Novia del Mediodía, there’s always the chance that one of those vultures will spring out at any point along the highway from the shadow of a parasombra, throwing my happy solitude into a headlock. I didn’t feel like being forced to pick up a hitchhiker, so I propped Hernán in the passenger seat wearing a hooded fútbol shirt and Mickey Mouse sunglasses. In case I should ever get pulled over, I keep a letter from the director in the glove compartment to prove Hernán’s not stolen.
    In the reservoir at the outskirts of Havana, neumáticos fish from floating inner tubes. You know you’re getting into the provinces when the organ pipes of the sierra appear on the right-hand side of the horizon. On the median, bare-chested boys in tattered shorts hoist platters of guayaba con queso over their shoulders. Everyone slows, mulls it over: a fat slice of sweet guava and a wedge of homemade cheese for a few pesos. Pull off the road and they’ll run a half-minute hundred meter with their ten-pound platters. I pulled over. The last boy raced up and showed his guayaba y queso. Before I was done dealing with this one, another kid ran up with a great braid of garlic over his head. I bought a little bit from each and pulled back on the highway, leaving them both gawking at famished Hernán.
    At kilometer seventy-five the road began to curve directly into the setting sun. Estábamos en provincia. At the entrance to the city, I drove past the statue to los Hermanos Saíz, then through Pinar, and out to Viñales.
    I didn’t want to leave the Lada down at the mural prehistórico, where any unattended cars arouse suspicion when they close the gates at sunset, so I parked in town and put Hernán back in the trunk. A few trucks pulled up to offer rides, but I prefer to follow the road from town to the dark side of the valley on foot, three kilometers up a shadeless, steady slope. It helps me get in the right frame of mind. The poinsettias grow enormous on either side of the trail. Later in the summer, a river runs between these rocks and I can’t climb this way without getting covered in mud. I passed over streams and between farms and started up the spine of Abuelo’s mountain. Pinareños know how to make use of every part of the palma real. The bark becomes walls, the pencas and yaguas finish the roof and also make the best cigar boxes. Take the natural tint from the stones of the mogotes to paint bohíos or henhouses.
    Abuelo sat in his chair in front of his wooden house. “I saw you coming an hour ago.”
    I kissed my grandfather’s cheek. “You’ve got the eyes of an eagle, Abuelo.” He is also named Manolo, although ever since