Havana Noir by Achy Obejas Page A

days before we had to move out of the building.
    They spent four hours chatting. I spent the time sitting back on my mother’s lounge chair, with her pad and her pillow, trying to see our view of the city through her eyes. I imagined her opening her eyes in the hospital or in some other house. And then I closed my own eyes firmly to shut out this image.
    After the priest’s visit, my mother slept for forty-eight hours straight. I think the absence of telephone, electricity, and neighbors helped. I don’t think it rained, or that the north wind blew, that humid breeze that smudges the windows and gives Vedado an air of impatience and cosmopolitanism. I think that after this dialogue with God, my mother began preparing herself to die.
    Now, with tonight’s deadline approaching, I hear her say in a weary voice that she’s very tired. It’s midnight and she doesn’t even have the strength to stir in bed. Anyway, there’s nothing to see outside. Nor inside either. I’m going to find the battery-powered lamp in the kitchen so I can look at the calendar, the one that reminds me that we must leave the building tomorrow and that my mother still has two weeks of life.
    I come back with the lamp and she’s fallen asleep, complaining through her dreams. What must it be like to never get relief, even from sedatives? Or to close your eyes and not open them again? Or to spend your last days in a strange place?
    I start to fix the syringe. I do it very slowly, and it’s not because I’m clumsy; I’ve actually gotten quite agile with this business of giving shots. I review all the decisions I’ve made in the last few days. After my mother passes, I will not go to San Francisco; there’s nothing for me there. It’s possible my presence would disrupt my brother’s biorhythm and inhibit his successful life as a designer.
    Nor will I go to Paris to look for the poster man. A person who’s incapable of writing two lines to ask about my sick mother is not anyone I can trust. In any case, I’ve got my presentation written. It doesn’t matter to me if it gets published. It felt good to write it. It was like old times, as if my brother and mother were out on the terrace with me, with our toy soldiers, dolls, or jigsaw puzzles, depending on the day.
    Now I hold the syringe in my right hand. I make sure the needle can spit out the first few drops, which indicate all is well, and I make my way to the bedroom. I don’t need the lamp. I’ve gotten to know my mother’s body well in these dark but blissful days. I should move out of the building tomorrow. With my free hand, I go to the calendar and mark off my mother’s dying day. And then I go to her.
    Translation by Achy Obejas

STARING AT THE SUN
    BY L EONARDO P ADURA
    Marianao
    I t’s been two hours I’ve been staring at the sun. I like to look at the sun. I can look at the sun for an hour straight, without blinking, without tears.
    I’m still staring at the sun, leaning against the wall at the corner, listening to the old women as they come out of the bakery, complaining about how shitty the bread is but eating it anyway cuz they’re dying of hunger. On this corner, you can smell the smoke from the buses as they pass by on the avenue, the stink from the many dogs who think they’ve found something in that awful piece of bread, the bitter stench of desperation, like in that shitty song my mother likes. It’s a disgusting corner and I think I like it even more for that very reason; I spend huge chunks of time here, waiting for something to come along, just staring at the sun. I’m singing a little bit of that song and don’t notice when Alexis comes up.
    “Hey, man, what’s going on?” he asks.
    “Nothing. You?”
    “Hanging.”
    “Cool,” I say, looking at Alexis. I suppose Alexis is my best friend. We’ve known each other from before we even went to school, from when his father and mine worked together at the Ministry. Later, they fucked over Alexis’s dad, but