he’d seen her so upset. “Did they do something to her?”
“No, Usnavy, no—they didn’t do anything. What happened was … when she went to see the Campos, she didn’t have an ID to show—”
Usnavy flinched.
“Not that it would have mattered, since the police wouldn’t have let her go up to their room at the Habana Libre anyway.”
Usnavy slumped against the wall. There was no way around that. Even with an ID, Cubans needed to be on official business to enter hotels, everybody knew that. And there was never any business beyond the lobby considered official, if that.
“And … and Nena resisted,” said Lidia, looking at the floor. “I don’t know all the details, she hasn’t told me and I don’t even know where to begin. But she got in an argument with the police. They had to drag her out of there. When they brought her to our door, she wasn’t any calmer.”
Usnavy ran his hand over his face. Nena was an exemplary student who’d breezed through her initiation into the Union of Communist Youth. She did volunteer work with a Jamaican benevolent society that had a small chapter in Havana (this, though it was much harder to get people to admit to a Jamaican past in Havana than in Oriente). She had been elected to leadership posts at her school’s camp in the countryside. How could this happen?
“We’re failing her. We need to pay more attention to her, buy her things—I don’t know!” exclaimed an exasperated Lidia.
“Buy her things? She has all she needs!” Usnavy protested.
“All she needs? Oh, Usnavy, don’t you get it? She’s a girl, a girl turning into a young woman. She needs things you can’t even imagine.”
“Well, if I can’t even imagine then—”
“You know what I mean!”
“What do you want me to do, Lidia? Break the law? Steal? Would that make you and her both happy?” Obdulio’s fading figure crossed his mind, his raft held together with the illicit rope. Usnavy felt his throat grow dry and tried to move his tongue around, to scare up some spit.
“What would make me happy is if you weren’t so naïve … If we have all we need, why can’t we try and get her something extra now and again? I don’t know, a decent pair of shoes … I don’t know ! This is going to kill you?”
“Everything requires dollars! Where am I going to get dollars?” Of course, he’d been thinking about this already—about the injured lamp, about getting Nena her own bike, but he couldn’t say anything yet. After all, he still hadn’t figured out any kind of plan. He still didn’t have a clue what to do. He still didn’t have a single dollar to his name.
“I don’t know, Usnavy, where does everybody else get dollars?”
“Okay, okay,” he said. He had to figure something out.
“No, Usnavy, it’s not okay,” Lidia insisted. “Everybody saw what happened, how she …” Lidia’s voice drifted off and she stamped her foot, crossing her arms across her waist as if she had a stomachache.
“How she what? How she what?” Usnavy demanded, desperate.
“My god, she was reciting Guillén at the top of her voice: I have —”
“Lidia, Lidia—I know how it goes!” Usnavy exclaimed in a fierce whisper.
Ever since he could remember, Nicolás Guillén’s “ Tengo ,” an early celebration of the Revolution, was required reading for every Cuban school child:
When I, just yesterday, look
and recognize myself, me, Juan Nobody,
and today Juan Somebody,
I have everything today,
I open my eyes, I see,
I touch myself and see
and ask myself how things have come to be this way.
I have, let’s see,
the pleasure of strolling through my country,
master of everything within it,
with things at hand that
I didn’t or couldn’t have before.
I can say harvest,
I can say mountains,
I can say city,
I can say army,
forever mine and yours, ours,
a vast array
of light, star, flower.
I have, let’s see,
the pleasure of going—
me, a peasant, a worker, an ordinary
“No, Usnavy, no—they didn’t do anything. What happened was … when she went to see the Campos, she didn’t have an ID to show—”
Usnavy flinched.
“Not that it would have mattered, since the police wouldn’t have let her go up to their room at the Habana Libre anyway.”
Usnavy slumped against the wall. There was no way around that. Even with an ID, Cubans needed to be on official business to enter hotels, everybody knew that. And there was never any business beyond the lobby considered official, if that.
“And … and Nena resisted,” said Lidia, looking at the floor. “I don’t know all the details, she hasn’t told me and I don’t even know where to begin. But she got in an argument with the police. They had to drag her out of there. When they brought her to our door, she wasn’t any calmer.”
Usnavy ran his hand over his face. Nena was an exemplary student who’d breezed through her initiation into the Union of Communist Youth. She did volunteer work with a Jamaican benevolent society that had a small chapter in Havana (this, though it was much harder to get people to admit to a Jamaican past in Havana than in Oriente). She had been elected to leadership posts at her school’s camp in the countryside. How could this happen?
“We’re failing her. We need to pay more attention to her, buy her things—I don’t know!” exclaimed an exasperated Lidia.
“Buy her things? She has all she needs!” Usnavy protested.
“All she needs? Oh, Usnavy, don’t you get it? She’s a girl, a girl turning into a young woman. She needs things you can’t even imagine.”
“Well, if I can’t even imagine then—”
“You know what I mean!”
“What do you want me to do, Lidia? Break the law? Steal? Would that make you and her both happy?” Obdulio’s fading figure crossed his mind, his raft held together with the illicit rope. Usnavy felt his throat grow dry and tried to move his tongue around, to scare up some spit.
“What would make me happy is if you weren’t so naïve … If we have all we need, why can’t we try and get her something extra now and again? I don’t know, a decent pair of shoes … I don’t know ! This is going to kill you?”
“Everything requires dollars! Where am I going to get dollars?” Of course, he’d been thinking about this already—about the injured lamp, about getting Nena her own bike, but he couldn’t say anything yet. After all, he still hadn’t figured out any kind of plan. He still didn’t have a clue what to do. He still didn’t have a single dollar to his name.
“I don’t know, Usnavy, where does everybody else get dollars?”
“Okay, okay,” he said. He had to figure something out.
“No, Usnavy, it’s not okay,” Lidia insisted. “Everybody saw what happened, how she …” Lidia’s voice drifted off and she stamped her foot, crossing her arms across her waist as if she had a stomachache.
“How she what? How she what?” Usnavy demanded, desperate.
“My god, she was reciting Guillén at the top of her voice: I have —”
“Lidia, Lidia—I know how it goes!” Usnavy exclaimed in a fierce whisper.
Ever since he could remember, Nicolás Guillén’s “ Tengo ,” an early celebration of the Revolution, was required reading for every Cuban school child:
When I, just yesterday, look
and recognize myself, me, Juan Nobody,
and today Juan Somebody,
I have everything today,
I open my eyes, I see,
I touch myself and see
and ask myself how things have come to be this way.
I have, let’s see,
the pleasure of strolling through my country,
master of everything within it,
with things at hand that
I didn’t or couldn’t have before.
I can say harvest,
I can say mountains,
I can say city,
I can say army,
forever mine and yours, ours,
a vast array
of light, star, flower.
I have, let’s see,
the pleasure of going—
me, a peasant, a worker, an ordinary
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