Gregory Monteith, pág 53

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.

“Hemingway drank here,” they say, so down the street I plot his escape, unpoetic mobs fail to sell me, as the tour guides earn their take. Neither my English nor my Spanish would translate from where, the muse emerged or Hemingway vanished, but through the still colourful vitrales I manage to grasp the old city’s glow, sung by the saxophone, maraca, claves, guitar, folk songs of the heart. The trumpet I bought in the market made of recycled trash. The mouthpiece, a metal fork handle wired to a broomstick sawed in three, for two slides and a mouth pipe, curved by two horseshoes at each end, wrapped in wire, curled to mend. An old tape deck’s keys, play, stop, forward, rewind, record, release, sounding directions once disposed, chant the trumpet’s six valves, three more than ever known. The bell, where the blast swells, in piercing cries and elephant roar, is a melted 45, once Fernando Alvarez, now a petal-edged cornucopia. Grave goods for the afterlife, filled with breath, reaping reward. Painted in gold, once forsaken by diaspora, in the artist’s inspired hands, fashioned whole. Alleyway sanctuaries, congregated by dancers of all ages, Callejon du Hamel, a rave by lovelight, community of artists crafting their urban mecca.

Pounding drums reverberate, feet stomping the cracked concrete, manic rumba offered to the metal totems and dream creatures awakening, iridescent graffiti murals, open-armed temple of Afro-Cuba, cathartic undulations, bodies conduits of frenetic rhythm, throwing off the repression of poverty with a convulsive shrug. Jaimanitas, a once-sleepy fishing village near Havana, reborn as Fusterlandia, aneighbourhood reimagined as living sculpture. Walls, gates, domes, gardensand public spaces, gloriedin mosaics with Apollonian traces, myriad colours of glass and pottery shards, tiles, and shining stones, dazzling sea creatures and rampant animals, abstract delicacies and symbol feasts, surreal landscape of kaleidoscopic delight where imagination enraptures daily life, vision realized by Jose Fuster, sanctifying communal spirit. Along the Malecon while accompanying the moon, walking to our hotel, we met a group of minstrels, singing by the sea. Their smiling circle offered rum, passing the guitar from hand to hand, voice to voice, closed eyes to dancing feet. We shared the songs we knew and drank ‘til dawn the morning dew, exchanging names, embracing, then venturing on, knowing true, that those who sing are those who hear, and the most tantalizing moon can be the one most dear. The song, the dance, the sculpture, the voice, oncity corners, in alleyways, have each escaped the Iron Fist. The weight of history, war, revolution, havenot broken the spirit, nor silenced the muse, and whether refuse, body, voice or whatever the inspired may choose, Havana’s soul, in the hands of artists, no flag may defuse. No state or military can parade, the arms of creation unstaid.