Gregory Monteith HAVANA CalIe Monserrat y Obrapia, cigar smoke on the iron balcony, I hold the rusted railing of floral tracery, 18th century house across the alley, paint slowly peeling away. An old woman sits folding laundry, dogs scratching to get in, she looks away. A mouthful of rum soothes, the band begins with keys, in the bar on the corner through the street beneath. Last night I danced with an old man in front of the Monserrat, his Spanish beyond me, along-weathered robe, dangledicons, a holy man, bishop of the corner, frenzied gestures, asking for money, another dance, to proselytize, to prance. So I smiled, listened patiently in his light-faded eyes, wishing him FelizAno Nuevo, as I walked away from an outstretched hand.
How long ago and still I envision Hemingway, stumbling down Obispo, to the music of gone daiquiris, from the Floridita around the corner to his bed at the Ambos Mundos where the bell once tolled, and the paint still peels away. How long the fade, of photographs, papa smiling, hunting, fishing, speaking in Castro’s ear, adorning the walls of bars, restaurants, hotels, carried around in the cameras of spies, come to pirate with their screened eyes. Amid the crowds we find the drum, and the sugary mint that tempers the rum. 53
