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I owe to the visit of Yoan Rivero , a young Cuban bibliophile, that these memories have been stirred up. Rummaging through my bookshelves, we found some interesting books, both because of the quality of the texts and the generous autographs of the authors. Eliseo, at the same time as authority, gave off a human warmth that many times materialized in the painstaking attention when listening and in certain jaunty little lights that sparkled in his eyes. His goatee, his eternal pipe, his fine humor, made him a hybrid of an English lord and a Cuban prankster. I quickly showed him some perfectly forgettable poems. Come see me in my office next week, and we can talk there. I of course entrusted him with my complete works…until then. And I began to count the days. When I thought it was time, I dropped by one morning where he worked. He received me with a cordiality that disarmed me from the outset. He spoke. When he finished giving me encouragement and suggesting readings, he let me know that what interested him most in my poems was what I had not written in them, the potentiality that made him augur I remember that he used this verb that I could write truly remarkable poems. Anyway, I was so comradely and happy with the maestro, that I ventured to blurt out, out loud, a stream of poems I had written since our last meeting. He listened to me with the resignation of a bull grazing in the rain, and from time to time he checked his wristwatch. Half an hour before noon, they met in the office of the Presidency to joke and have an ice-cold vodka, as an aperitif before each one went home for lunch. In those meetings, I found out later, they joked like schoolchildren. I stammered two or three words of greeting and left the office terrified. Behind me were the laughter and the humorous comments. In he had entered the then Faculty of Philology. Very soon I alternated my duties as a student with work in the culture team of Juventud Rebelde. Ignorance is bold. Alejandro Alonso, my boss, asked me to review that book for a Sunday edition, to which I more than gladly agreed. Now that I think about it, perhaps it is not entirely nonsense to say that. Mid-morning on Sunday my comment appeared, Eliseo called me to thank me for having noticed his book. After that, every time we saw each other he reminded me that we had a pending conversation. I would get away as best I could and change the subject. It must have been in the late s. It may have been Ukamau , Yawar Malku or El coraje del pueblo The fact is that in the film there was a sequence of some men celebrating something around a bonfire. They were drinking chicha and they sang and danced to the melancholic sound of the quena. I think what they were playing were huaynos. At the exit of the Charles Chaplin theater, Eliseo was waiting for me. It is also from Don Quixote:. Evil signum! Hare runs away; greyhounds chase her: Dulcinea does not appear! The conversation here is moderated according to OnCuba News discussion guidelines. Please read the Comment Policy before joining the discussion. Your email address will not be published. All Rights Reserved. Home Culture Literature. Three with Eliseo His goatee, his eternal pipe, his fine humor, made him a hybrid of an English lord and a Cuban prankster. April 13, Related Posts. Pablo Neruda was poisoned, according to new expert report February 16, Tags: Cuban literature Eliseo Diego. Alex Fleites Poeta, curador de arte y editor afincado en La Habana. Next Post. Most Read. Most Commented.

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In Cuba, bloggers face reprisals and internet access is governed by mysterious forces. They took your picture in Havana. They knew you were going to that hotel. They were waiting for you. A cantankerous old man, who followed us into this Camaguey bar seemingly just to leer at us while we drank, was now bringing our paranoia to a head. We were already nervous about sneaking into Cuba from the U. We were just simple tourists curious to spend time on a beach and see what life was really like behind the plantain curtain. But it was certainly possible we were being followed. Why are you telling us this? Tourism may have saved the island; the country only survived the Soviet collapse and the U. There are separate bus systems, separate places to eat, and separate currencies. It takes some getting used to. My wife and I visited Cuba for a week this spring, and the mysteries were everpresent and left unanswered. Was this segregation aimed at separating us from Cubans, or the other way around? Was the concern that, if we intermingled with the locals, we would accidentally enlighten them to the exciting world of NASCAR and pay inequality? Or, more likely, was it just another opportunity to charge us more? This low-level commerce is everywhere, and the jineteros on the street take to it with a fervor that would make a used car salesman proud. Unguarded tourists traipsing about like walking bags of money, we were asking for a shakedown. My father, he works in a factory many long hours, paid very little. Only enough to live on, but he is able to steal a cigar here and there just so he has a little extra to get by on. Here, I want you to have this cigar he gave to me. After my watch was stolen in seventh-grade gym class, I gave up on any assumptions about a social utopia free from exploitation. Still, I had held out some hope that Cuba, with its lack of social ladders and brotherhood of the worker, could be the exception. But with every street salesman we ran into, it appeared they were all plenty capitalist. They were just really bad at it. Walking through the dark, worn streets of old Havana, I had to constantly remind myself that crime is low, or so said Lonely Planet El Libro de Dios and just about every local and tourist we met. If I were Cuban, I would have certainly robbed me. Having been brought up in the U. Maybe money has less power when you eliminate the culture of consumerism. What do people do when there are no commercials selling weight-loss-through-tanning diets, all-you-can-eat buckets of chicken, or Super Big Gulps? Maybe Cuba, with its culture of machismo and lacking the corrupting distractions of capitalism, is the direct opposite of modern narcissism and short attention spans. I asked a friend who had spent some time in Soviet Russia what he thought, and he relayed the following story. What would you sacrifice for the revolution? If you had three houses, what would you do? The farmer stays silent. Everybody in the crowd waits anxiously. El jefe is waiting. Those trappings of modern society already exist in Cuba, albeit in alternate reality, Marxist variations. And thanks to transnational corporations you can sometimes find Coke— hecho en Mexico —next to TuKola— el refresco nacional. There are sporadic appearances of Nike shoes, Korean cars, cellphones, flat-screen TVs, and fancy hotels—most of them partially owned by foreign investors—alongside water shortages and a lack of soap in some areas, but Cubans make the most of what they have. Nobody seemed to understand the concept of depression—possibly a good thing—or what a burrito was. We used the opportunity to test the firewall. Connections to servers in other countries were spotty, but nothing seemed to be banned. Maybe it was all an exception for tourists. Later that night we sat down with the man running our casa particular —a bed and breakfast that was part of a country-wide system used in lieu of hotels. There was something perpetually inviting about his constantly squinting, friendly, sailor-like demeanor. He shrugged. The Cubans we met during our week on the island were consistently vocal and well-educated college is free for Cubans, and the island has one of the highest literacy rates in the Americas , but there were strange holes in their knowledge. Were they allowed to leave the country? Some visited Miami every other month. They certainly had access to the world of entertainment outside of Cuba. Bootleg recordings of American movies, mostly dubbed from cable-equipped televisions in the fancier resorts, are passed around the black market. Cuban televised news had a Caribbean Pravda slant, but its focus on international affairs, lack of filler, and attention to detail put CNN to shame. At night, we heard the houses of Trinidad through our window, tuned to the same Brazilian and Mexican telenovelas, echoing their dramatic affairs through the streets. In Central Havana, we searched out La Guarida , a famed Cuban restaurant located in a beautiful run-down mansion where Fresa y Chocolate was filmed. All that remained was a short man with no shirt and a wild-eyed stare standing inside. He sadly informed us that the palladare had closed down last year and the owner moved back to New York. I will show you where. It was just as empty as the last one, save for an elderly woman in a rocking chair in the back room and a few plastic-covered tables. Being a totalitarian state, Cuba places many restrictions on what its people can do. The few private restaurants that exist have strict limitations on meat consumption, money taken in, and how many chairs are allowed 12 max. The quintessential Cuban food no longer appears to be cubano sandwiches or black beans and rice, but bland cheese pizza and cold ham sandwiches. Tawdry, salacious details of torrid love affairs distract the proletariat from the true fight of revolutionary ideals. Still, while drug lords do battle in Mexico, the body count rises in Jamaica, crime spreads through the Dominican Republic, and people starve in Haiti, Cuba remains stable. Everybody gets fed, educated, and cared for to a certain degree. Plus the streets are clean, and the stability and security means that tourists can admire the dilapidated-yet-fascinating colonial architecture of the poorest parts of a city with impunity. There are relatively few cars—most people ride bikes or horse-drawn buggies—yet the shoulders of the highway are mown with a machete. Picking up hitchhikers, unheard of in the States, is an everyday occurrence and sometimes required by yellow-flag-waving highway patrolmen. Cuba simultaneously appears as a pinnacle of governance and repression. Are those in any way equivalent? I have absolutely no idea. People have been thrown in jail for years for buying concrete on the black market or speaking out against the government, yet any complaint we had about the jailing of human rights workers seemed insignificant once we remembered how the U. Any leftover sense of moral objectivity was abandoned once we learned the story behind Flight —the terrorist attack on a Cuban commercial jetliner whose perpetrators were eventually pardoned by the White House. Cuban bookstores, like all stores, are almost nonexistent. In Cuba, they might as well have been calculus textbooks. In Santiago, I was able to track down Stephen King and Danielle Steel novels translated into Spanish, but after being Cuban-ized, who could be bothered? Canadians, as well as Germans, Italians, and the occasional Australians, come here to take advantage of deals on hotels without the competition from American tourists. Being partially foreign-owned, Varadero resembles any of a number of posh seaside resorts, but it still remains very Cuban. Did the phones not work because of a government mandate limiting tourists to their resorts, or because nobody knew how to use the phone system? By this point, eight days into our trip my terrible Che Guevera impression had morphed into a disembodied, Mexican Yakov Smirnoff. Somewhat suspicious, I lurched back to the room and tried again, and this time, someone quietly picked up, then there was a hush of silence and what sounded like quiet breathing. No response, only more breathing, then the phone went dead. The same thing happened three more times. Finally, I dialed the full number, only to hear the voice on the other end suddenly speak up. I was altogether confused. Was the operator the desk clerk? Did they listen in on every outgoing call? Were they manually patching the telephone exchanges, like those old Klondike numbers? I sometimes leave the phone off the hook while I am at home. That would mean all of Cuba would have the phone off the hook. Could you try dialing an outside line for me? At that point I felt like I finally understood. There was a logic to it all, but it is a logic buried below layers of confusion and mystery that no tourist will solve during a brief stay. There were rules for security purposes, and others for environmental and efficiency concerns, but the lack of information drove us crazy. Everybody we asked had a different interpretation. Cuba has survived decades of embargos and assasination attempts. Back in the hotel room, we turned on the Disney channel, only available to tourists; its easily palatable folderol was like a small drop of heroin in the veins. The Attica prison uprising lasted five days. It took 45 years to get a more or less complete public account of what transpired—and only thanks to the efforts of a few heroically stubborn people. When five million people share your name, your Google-ability is miserably low. Will this forever change naming? Oliver Conroy. Dribbling in the Dark by Andrew W. Being John by John Sherman.

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