Mona and Other Tales by Reinaldo Arenas Page A

Aunt Olga, working all day long to pay for my bed and board while hiding from the police. At times, when I’m taking the empty water cans to the brook, I begin to sing. And one day I spent some time fishing for
pitises.
And once, night was catching up with me while I was still at the brook. I then took out the knife you gave me, which I always carry beneath my shirt, and started looking at it. I slid my finger along the edge—was it ever sharp. And I stayed for quite a long time there, handling it, and whistling, not very loudly, under the
cupeyes
by the brook. I got back very late. My aunt was impatient. That day only half of the water cans were filled. But the following day I filled them up. And the next. And the next. And the one following. Always like that: filling those water cans. Here on this good-for-nothing hill, where you can’t see any rebels and you can only hear the distant shooting. And I wonder how’s your life in the Sierra. And I keep carrying water. Going to and coming from the brook; sometimes I bathe in the water hole; and sometimes I try catching pitises just for fun; sometimes I whistle a lot. And sometimes I think it would be best to . . . And here in the water, with my pants rolled up, I am just doing some thinking when I hear shots. Nearby shots. And then the rumble of crowds of people approaching and the shouts of “Viva!” And I drop the water cans, and start running down the savanna toward the main road. “Batista fled!” I hear at the gate of the Pupo sisters’ farm, and the crowds start to come. And there, my clothes in tatters, I run with the crowd on the way to town. Right behind me are the people from Guayacán. The bicycles appear. An oxcart crammed with women is coming down the hill very slowly, following us. We’re going past Cuatro Caminos, and that’s where we meet our first group of rebels. They are coming from Velasco on foot, shooting in the air, shouting,
“Viva
Cuba, cojones,”
and lots of other things. You are with them. I call out to you at the top of my lungs. As soon as you see me, you abandon your group and come running. You throw your arm around my shoulders, and begin talking.
Flags and more
flags. Front and rear. High and low; in the arcades that suddenly
spring up in the streets; on the telegraph poles at the first wide avenue; hanging from the laurel trees; on the doors and windows of
every home. Scattered on the ground. Tied to a long series of ropes,
and flapping in the wind. Flags. Thousands and thousands of flags,
hastily set on remote corners. Red rags and black rags. Colored
papers. Papers, papers. Rags. Because we are already entering Holguín. And all of us below the flags. And everybody is hollering.
Shouting vivas. Singing. And ahead of us, tied to mops and broom-sticks or any kind of pole, flags fluttering. And cars blowing their
horns nonstop. And all the boys from the hill on one side of the
road, watching us pass by. “There go the rebels,” someone shouts.
“There go the rebels.” And now everybody flocks to you. And the
whores from La Chomba and Pueblo Nuevo approach you. And
one of them touches your face. “But look how young he is,” she
says. “He doesn’t even have a beard.” And you look at her and burst
out laughing. Flags. Flags.
And suddenly there is loud noise, louder than before, and shouts of “To the execution wall! To the execution wall!” The people are shouting, “They caught a Mansferrer Tiger!” and they all run toward the center of the commotion. The rebels try to prevent the lynching of the henchman, and run to protect him with their rifles. An old woman goes up and manages to hit him. The crowd roars. They ask for his death. The henchman says nothing. He simply stares ahead. He seems to be in a distant world. And we continue advancing along the avenue full of flags. Until, ahead of us in the middle of the street, a tall, thin woman