Read Online Waiting for Snow in Havana by Carlos Eire - Free Book Online Page A

always, blood trickling down His face, that nasty crown of thorns piercing His forehead. They were such huge thorns, and so sharp. His hair was long and messy, and bloody too.
    He just stood there and stared at me.
    My family kept eating dinner, as always, oblivious to the visitor. There they were, seated around the table, stuffing food in their mouths, making small talk, while Jesus parked Himself at our window, staring at me. “Pass the fried plantains, please.” “Azucena, dish me out some more malanga .” “Tony, eat your soup, it’s getting cold. If you eat cold soup, you’ll get indigestion.” “Antonio, are you ready for dessert?”
    How He stared. God, those eyes, those eyes, so full of pain. Brown eyes, not blue. So all-commanding, so all-consuming. Eyes that pierced right through to the very core of my soul, eyes that read my mind. Eyes that seemed to beg and command at the same time.
    â€œCome, follow Me.”
    Go away, go away, go away, please. Vanish. Disappear, please. Stop torturing me. Why do you do this? I didn’t have to speak. He knew what I was thinking before I thought it. And I knew He knew it.
    He just stood there and stared at me.
    I tried to speak to my family, but no words would come out of my mouth. It was useless to try. He let me know it was useless. He was there for me alone. And then He would vanish, as suddenly as He had appeared.
    This happened so many times I lost count.
    Funny thing, whenever Jesus appeared, I was sitting in my father’s usual spot at the table, facing the window that looked out on the house with the breadfruit tree. When awake, I sat at the other end, facing the window that looked out on the house with the bitter-orange tree. Chachi’s house.
    Chachi was a girl my age. Her father was in the cigar business, and she was an only child. I don’t know what her real name was; all I can remember is her nickname, Chachi. All of the adults in my house used to tease me constantly: “Chachi is so cute; she’ll be your girlfriend someday.” Tu novia. Novia means both “girlfriend” and “bride” in Spanish. It’s that kind of language, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. Te quiero means both “I love you” and “I want you.” They were merciless, relentless, my elders: “Wait and see: you’ll grow up to marry Chachi.” “You’ll marry her someday.” “What a cute couple you two will make.”
    How I hated her stupid lipstick. And what the hell was she doing wearing lipstick at the age of six anyway?
    Knowing that your future is sealed is an awful thing when you’re a child. I didn’t know which was the worse window to face: the one where I could expect to see Jesus with His cross or the one where I knew I would see Chachi with her lipstick. Jesus let me know my future clearly: I was going to get one of those giant crosses and a crown of thorns. My family also predicted my future: I was going to marry Chachi and be smeared with her stupid lipstick for the rest of my life. Which was worse?
    Both were frightening prospects. But there was a huge difference between these two beings, and their place in my life.
    One was God, the other was not.
    And there was another difference too: I saw Jesus only in dreams; I saw Chachi in the flesh just about every single day. And I heard her voice all the time, drifting over the wall that separated our houses.
    If my family had not soured my relationship with Chachi, we might have become good friends. I suspect her family also teased her about me constantly, in the same way. Cubans like to do things like that. I suspect that many Cuban mothers begin planning their children’s weddings and arranging relationships for them before they even get married themselves. Anyway, whenever Chachi and I played outside at the same time, or even saw each other, we were like two positively charged magnets: a