HABÁNAME (Havana [Verb Transitive] Me) by Ana Ortiz Copyright © May 23, 2002 Ana Ortiz All Rights Reserved
Legal disclaimers: Not written for profit. The lead characters often look and sound like THEM. Chapter Nine Disclaimer: At this point, I find myself incapable of sorting out what is potentially disturbing to readers from what is not. I personally find the real political and economic policies that would lead people to commit the desperate acts described in this chapter more obscene than any curse words or sexual acts I could insert into the plot. There is a lot of suffering in this chapter. There is a lot of suffering in the Caribbean. I will warn readers that there are graphic scenes of animal sacrifice. They are limited to the section beginning ?Mid-September 1993/ Los Cocos Sanatorium.? Thanks to Prof of Xena Warrior Lesbian, and to Jessica Michallet for coming on board as beta-readers and editorial advisors for this story. Thanks to the Masked Punctuation Goddess. Thanks to OW for test driving this story. Todo pasa y todo queda Pero lo nuestro es pasar Pasar haciendo caminos Caminos sobre la mar. Nunca perseguí la gloria Ni dejar en la memoria De los hombres mi canción. Yo amo a los mundos sutiles Ingrávidos y gentiles Como pompas de jabón. Me gusta verlos pintarse De azul y grana al volar Bajo el cielo azul temblar Súbitamente y quebrarse Nunca perseguí la gloria. Caminante, son tus huellas El camino y nada más Caminante, no hay camino, Se hace camino al andar. Al andar se hace camino Y al volver la vista atrás Se ve la senda que nunca Se ha de volver a pisar. Caminante, no hay camino Si no estelas en la mar. Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar Donde los bosques se visten de pinos Se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar Caminante, no hay camino Se hace camino al andar. Golpe a golpe Verso a verso. Murió el poeta lejos de su hogar Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino Al alejarse le vieron llorar. Caminante, no hay camino Se hace camino al andar. Golpe a golpe Verso a verso. Cuando el jilguero no puedo cantar Cuando el poeta es un peregrino Cuando de nada nos sirve rezar, Caminante, no hay camino Se hace camino al andar. Golpe a golpe Verso a verso. Antonio Machado, Joan Manuel Serrat, ?Cantares,? (Used without permission) Chapter Nine:  The Reading is Eyorosun June 1993          Habana Vieja (Old Havana) Chela struggled down the narrow streets of the old city, the cardboard box she balanced on her shoulder seemingly increasing in weight with each block she covered.  The humidity made her blouse feel as if it was affixed to her body with a thick paste, and the sweat trickled in rivulets off her curls and down her temples. The moisture in the air made the city perspire along with her, and the aged buildings found themselves choked in the tight embraces of plants that thrived in the water pooling on their cracked faces. This was the case of the venerable establishment that was her final destination, the Rubén Villena Library, which suffered the additional indignity of having sewage flowing from a pipe in its front wall out to the gutter. Still, Chela found herself smiling as she approached the library: even if the shell were deteriorated, the marvelous organism of knowledge that lived within had never disappointed her. She entered the main reading room and found the tables predictably full. Citizens of all varieties ? from young women she recognized from the business to old men who used their straw hats as placeholders in their books ? were packed in tightly together like fine needlework stitches. As she passed close to one of the tables, two pimply and smiling teenaged boys wearing the uniforms of the Polytechnic elbowed each other, then scooted over to make room for her, beckoning with raised eyebrows. Yeah, right! she thought to herself. ?Thank you, compañeros,? she mouthed silently, as she went past them to the reference desk, where a wizened, dark-skinned woman ? her head covered in a dirty white handkerchief - presided over the room. She just keeps getting dustier,