leashes in his hands and his right hand was covered by a band of white cloth, as if he were protecting a recent wound. I noticed that he was wearing khaki-colored cotton pants, leather sandals, and a wide, colorful shirt: an outfit that immediately revealed his condition as a foreigner in a country of this-is-all-we’ve-got shirts (striped or checked), run-or-I’ll-kick-your-ass or “stinky feet” shoes (Russian boots or plastic moccasins), and sailcloth or polyester pants that would smother your balls in the summer heat.
We came so close to one another that our eyes inevitably met: I smiled at him, and the man, with the pride of the owner of two Russian wolfhounds, also smiled. After calling to the dogs again, he lit a cigarette and I decided to imitate him, to advance another four, five steps to where the presumed foreigner had stopped.
“Your dogs are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” the man answered. “ Ix! Dax! ” he repeated, and I was still incapable of placing his accent.
“It’s the first time I have ever seen borzois.” I preferred to look at the animals, now that they were running close to their owner.
“They’re the only ones in Cuba,” he said, and I thought: He’s a Spaniard. But there were some strange inflections in his intonation that made me doubt it.
“They need a lot of exercise, although they have to be careful with the heat.”
“Yes, the heat is a problem. That’s why I bring them out here.”
“I’ve read that these animals are very strong but at the same time very delicate. They were the dogs to the Russian czars.” I wondered if it wouldn’t be too daring, but since I had nothing to lose, I made the leap: “Did you bring them from the Soviet Union?”
The man looked toward the sea and dropped his cigarette in the sand.
“Yes, they were given to me in Moscow.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not Russian, right?”
The man looked me in the eye and snapped the leashes against the leg of his pants. I deduced that perhaps he hadn’t liked being mistaken for a Russian, but I convinced myself that my question did not give the impression of that possibility. Or was he Russian—no, perhaps Georgian or Armenian, by the color of his hair and his skin—and that was why he had that strange intonation and a certain thickness upon pronouncing his words?
At that instant, in the clearing between the casuarinas, I saw a tall, slim black man who, with a towel rolled over his shoulder, observed us without the least reserve, as if he were keeping watch on us. But I turned my gaze when I heard the man in tortoiseshell glasses whispering something in a language I couldn’t place, either, as he put the leashes on the dogs. When the man stood up, I noticed that his steps faltered, as if he’d gotten dizzy, and I heard him breathe with some difficulty. But he immediately asked me:
“How is it that you know so much about dogs?”
“I work for a veterinary magazine and, coincidentally, I just reviewed an article about genetics that a Soviet scientist wrote, and he said a lot about borzois and two other European breeds. Besides, I love dogs,” I answered in one breath.
For the first time the man smiled. The lack of response regarding his origins, his unusual look, and the fact that he had lived in Moscow—in addition to the presence of that tall, slim black man watching us—suggested the possibility to me that the man with the dogs was a diplomat.
“I would like to read that article.”
“I think I could get a copy,” I said, not considering that to fulfill that promise (until the magazine came out, which wouldn’t be for another couple of months) I would most likely have to type up that article full of strange genetic codes myself.
“I love dogs,” the foreigner admitted, using the very verb “to love” in that way in which almost no one ever used it anymore, and in his smile I seemed to glimpse a hidden nostalgia that had nothing to do with what he said next:
We came so close to one another that our eyes inevitably met: I smiled at him, and the man, with the pride of the owner of two Russian wolfhounds, also smiled. After calling to the dogs again, he lit a cigarette and I decided to imitate him, to advance another four, five steps to where the presumed foreigner had stopped.
“Your dogs are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” the man answered. “ Ix! Dax! ” he repeated, and I was still incapable of placing his accent.
“It’s the first time I have ever seen borzois.” I preferred to look at the animals, now that they were running close to their owner.
“They’re the only ones in Cuba,” he said, and I thought: He’s a Spaniard. But there were some strange inflections in his intonation that made me doubt it.
“They need a lot of exercise, although they have to be careful with the heat.”
“Yes, the heat is a problem. That’s why I bring them out here.”
“I’ve read that these animals are very strong but at the same time very delicate. They were the dogs to the Russian czars.” I wondered if it wouldn’t be too daring, but since I had nothing to lose, I made the leap: “Did you bring them from the Soviet Union?”
The man looked toward the sea and dropped his cigarette in the sand.
“Yes, they were given to me in Moscow.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not Russian, right?”
The man looked me in the eye and snapped the leashes against the leg of his pants. I deduced that perhaps he hadn’t liked being mistaken for a Russian, but I convinced myself that my question did not give the impression of that possibility. Or was he Russian—no, perhaps Georgian or Armenian, by the color of his hair and his skin—and that was why he had that strange intonation and a certain thickness upon pronouncing his words?
At that instant, in the clearing between the casuarinas, I saw a tall, slim black man who, with a towel rolled over his shoulder, observed us without the least reserve, as if he were keeping watch on us. But I turned my gaze when I heard the man in tortoiseshell glasses whispering something in a language I couldn’t place, either, as he put the leashes on the dogs. When the man stood up, I noticed that his steps faltered, as if he’d gotten dizzy, and I heard him breathe with some difficulty. But he immediately asked me:
“How is it that you know so much about dogs?”
“I work for a veterinary magazine and, coincidentally, I just reviewed an article about genetics that a Soviet scientist wrote, and he said a lot about borzois and two other European breeds. Besides, I love dogs,” I answered in one breath.
For the first time the man smiled. The lack of response regarding his origins, his unusual look, and the fact that he had lived in Moscow—in addition to the presence of that tall, slim black man watching us—suggested the possibility to me that the man with the dogs was a diplomat.
“I would like to read that article.”
“I think I could get a copy,” I said, not considering that to fulfill that promise (until the magazine came out, which wouldn’t be for another couple of months) I would most likely have to type up that article full of strange genetic codes myself.
“I love dogs,” the foreigner admitted, using the very verb “to love” in that way in which almost no one ever used it anymore, and in his smile I seemed to glimpse a hidden nostalgia that had nothing to do with what he said next:
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