I made the trip to San Luis as if under anesthesia, my brain in neutral, and when I boarded the Santiago-Havana train, I fell asleep without hesitation, completely, a state nothing like the alert immobility that now so baffles doctors. After a brief blink at the Camagüey station, I woke up completely beyond Santa Clara and gradually took in the sunset landscape, the almost full Pullman car and… wait a minute, nephew, can you tell me where this man sitting next to me came from? As I recall, there was a young blond man with a face reddened by invasive acne, but now there is an elegant old mulatto. He is wearing one of those suits that were fashionable years ago, with a black jacket, wide lapels, and double buttons; he has gray hair, large cheeks, and a narrow forehead… Do you recognize him? He looks very distinguished and serious, although as a young man he must have endured all the teasing in the world for his upside-down cake-shaped head. No, that man with the bulldog expression is not from my memory. He is looking over my head, through the window, so I too dissolve into the green landscape, which alternates between wide valleys and small rolling hills. As the train rounds a bend, in the distance, between two mogotes, something that looks like a mirror of water sparkles. As if praying, the man next to me says:
On the blurred horizon, an ambiguous
sea and mountains, glaucous reflections appear,
when the crucible of sunset pours its meager stream
of fiery purple that falls on the landscape.
It’s crystal clear, nephew, the man comes from your voice that I am obliged to use. I couldn’t memorize those lines even if I were dead because I never read or heard them; when it comes to rhyming words, I can remember very little: a few songs, five or six annoying ten-line stanzas, and fragments of poems written by José Ángel Buesa, the ones that almost everyone knew in my day. I look at the man again and he looks back at me just as seriously.
“I think I know who you are, young man. Not long ago, I saw a photo of you with Germán Pinelli in Carteles magazine.
Well, it’s lucky that none of this happened because my last wish on that trip was to run into a nosy, forgetful fan, although… I admit, this man seems different. I don’t know, it’s just an impression, and I hope I’m not mistaken. In any case, I proceed with caution.
“That could be. My name is Armelio Domínguez, and I’m a baseball commentator on Radio Salas.”
“Mello, right? Mello Domínguez. I played a lot of baseball when I was very young, of course, and the press in my town said I was a pretty good second baseman, but my temper didn’t help me when I had to lose. I’m still attracted to championships, but only occasionally and only amateur ones… that’s where I’ve heard you.
I smile. This guy you made up has a lot going for him, nephew. I try to respond to his kindness with a tone of voice that doesn’t sound like a know-it-all teacher: our amateur baseball has been far superior to the professional game until now, but that’s changing and there are already several big stars of the amateur game who have signed or are on the verge of signing as professionals. It’s a matter of money, which we all need to live… The mulatto nods, leans back in his seat and looks up at the ceiling of the carriage, whose lights have just come on.
“Although I don’t read the capital’s press very regularly, I think I’ve noticed a certain ill will towards you lately, am I wrong?
Before going any further, I satisfy his curiosity: And you, what do you do? With that laid-back attitude, you could well be a politician, but you don’t seem to have the habit of laughing to please others.
“I’m a lawyer and notary—how could I not have guessed? I’m going to the capital to deal with certain aspects of my retirement from the Guantánamo Institute of Secondary Education… And don’t worry, if you don’t want to talk about your work, I completely understand.”
On the contrary, now it’s me who feels the urge to open up, to air my concerns as I move toward them. After all, the space we share will last only as long as the rest of the trip, and my interlocutor is such a light being that he lives inside a voice, someone I will hardly ever see again in my life or in my death; in short, the ideal person to lay bare in words what happened after my contract with Radio Salas and admit that fortune exists, of course. If any further proof were needed of its importance in our lives, it would have been provided by that capricious midwife when she had the radio station call me one morning in a hurry. Orlando Sánchez Diago, the narrator in charge of the Professional League, couldn’t get back from Miami (what awful weather in South Florida!) and Mr. Guillermo Salas needed / in fact, requested / better still, urgently requested that I cover that afternoon’s game between Habana and Almendares, plus the next day’s game between Habana and Cienfuegos… Perhaps you happened to hear one of those games… I’ll leave the comment hanging, waiting for a response to let me know if the man witnessed the marvel. And although he shakes his head from side to side, denying it, I’m not convinced in the slightest. His expression remains too calm, suspiciously complacent, that of someone who is seeing beyond my words and perhaps even knows that at this moment I am about to mention the name of Dick Sisler, that lanky white Yankee who stood in the batter’s box that first afternoon, displaying a nonchalance similar to that with which my interlocutor is listening, and when his bat met the ball thrown by none other than Agapito Mayor, La Tropical Stadium shook under the impact of that dry, chilling sound that lifted us (me, microphone in hand) from our seats, trying not to lose sight of the white dot that rose higher and higher into the sky, seemingly defying gravity, until the ball landed with six or eight violent bounces far beyond the second fence in right field. It was impossible. The most knowledgeable and the most ignorant had agreed that a hit like that would never be seen again at La Tropical from the moment it first happened, when Claro Duany achieved what everyone at the time claimed was an unrepeatable feat. But there was that almost unknown player named Dick Sisler, strolling as if nothing had happened, a feat he repeated three more times in the next day’s game against Sal (El Barbero) Maglie, a veteran pitcher in the US Major Leagues…
I pause and my interlocutor smiles very slightly, who knows if he is aware of how embarrassed I feel talking about the number of letters received at the station in the following weeks and Mr. Salas’ order that from then on I be given a couple of tickets from time to time for the remaining games of the professional tournament. But I need a conclusion to the story, I feel it, and I go in search of it: From that moment on, Dick Sisler won the hearts of Cuban fans… and my voice along with him. No sooner had I uttered the last syllable than I felt that the phrase sounded like something you would say, nephew, contrived and melodramatic, so I continued talking, trying to dilute the nonsense with more words: And that would have been the end of it if the Association of Radio and Print Journalists had not chosen me, to my amazement and that of half the world, as the best sports commentator of the year in Cuba. The photo you saw in Carteles was taken during the award ceremony, which was hosted by Germán Pinelli. By then, the attacks against me had already begun…
We fall silent. The arrival of night livens up the passengers, the conversations inside the car grow louder, and I look out the window at the shadows outside taking possession of the landscape.
We continue like this for a couple of minutes. “It’s the same old story, Mr. Domínguez, building a nice building for the rats to gnaw on,” he says, leaning over in his seat to look at me as directly as possible. “You know, your story reminded me of a poet friend of mine.
We were classmates when, still very young, he believed himself to have enough talent and courage to write poetry that was different from what was being written in Cuba at the time, at the beginning of this century, so he took a stand and declared himself a fiery literary rebel.
Those who considered themselves established poets, those who had some power within the press, and above all the intellectuals of the capital, turned against that young man who dared to challenge them from Guantánamo, that is, from the back of beyond. And he falls silent. I let half a minute pass, but nothing, he doesn’t seem willing to resume his story, something I can’t allow.
In principle, because hearing someone else talk is a relief I need and appreciate right now. I try to encourage him: Was it your friend who wrote the poem you just recited?
—Yes, that stanza is his.
My curiosity is genuine: How did it all end? Is your friend still alive?
“Yes, of course. One day, fifteen years later, he realized that his work was beginning to be appreciated, and instead of rejoicing in his supposed victory, he chose to regret all the time and effort he had wasted fighting that useless war. In the end, he told himself, his only responsibility was to write poetry; if it had value, someone would eventually pay attention to it.
I also lean over and look for his eyes. I feel a light beginning to move inside my confused head. This guy you found, I don’t know where, may look like a pain in the ass, nephew, but he’s a genius: So what did your poet friend do then?
—He closed the door to his house and, with one blow, also closed his public life. He gave no more interviews, published nothing more in the press, and accepted no tributes. That’s how he’s grown old, writing and working far away from everything and everyone, except his family and a few friends, like me. When someone writes to him because they want to honor him, he simply replies that he doesn’t think he deserves it and that the intention to consider him is recognition enough for him. He explains it this way:
I carve my diamond,
I am my diamond.
While others shout
I remain silent, I cut, I carve;
I make art in silence.
And while others stir
with the rhythms of battle
and my name is not mentioned.
I am my diamond,
I carve my diamond,
I make art in silence.
Do you see, do you see? This dialogue cannot be real. How can I remember the verses of a poem that no one recited to me seventy years ago? I need to respond, however: But you won’t deny that there are many differences between a poet and a sports commentator. We depend on the public, on businessmen, on the press, even on the players and the fans… If we lock ourselves away to carve diamonds, we’re done for.
He nods his head affirmatively. Slowly and thoughtfully.
“You’re right. Now, wouldn’t you find it interesting to discuss possible similarities between poets and baseball commentators in terms of certain ways of using language?” Pause. I search my mind for the best words to say without causing offense that I think the subject is a waste of time, that the worst commentators I’ve heard in baseball are the poetic ones. Believe me, there is a lot of technique, even mechanics, in the craft of writing verse. Anyway, I have a hunch that we would find some interesting points of convergence, precisely because they are not too obvious… Ah, my name is Regino,” and he extends his hand to me.
Regino was the name of the old man who brought lottery tickets home every week for my father to choose.
A month and a half after that trip, businessman Julio César González Rebull didn’t send a lottery ticket to the guest house where I was living, but he almost did. He left a note for me to go to the offices of his newspaper, El Crisol, on Lealtad Street, on the ground floor of the building where the COCO radio station was also located. When I arrived, he wasn’t there, so I had to wait in the outer office. Occupying the absent secretary’s desk, four young men were playing Capitolio, buying and selling properties, going to jail, or winning prizes on a colorful cardboard game printed by Pan American Toy. They were in the middle of a heated discussion, which was cut short by the arrival of González Rebull. He smiled, took off his top hat, and asked one of the boys (Ramirito, as he called him) to give him a few properties to invest in.
When we entered his office, he was very direct. He had bought COCO from the Casas Romero family and was interested in changing the station’s slogan, which from then on would be La Primera en Deportes (The First in Sports). He aspired to broadcast as much baseball and boxing as he could…
“Do you want to come work with me? How much does Guillermo Salas pay you?”
I remained silent while nodding and shrugging my shoulders (ummm). I knew that the previous year Salas had taken away the professional baseball broadcasts (well…) and it was most likely that González Rebull wanted revenge, an intention that I could well use to my advantage (how do I tell him?), but something pushed me to be honest and I let the truth slip out: Eighty pesos a month, that’s what he pays me; after all, I thought, if the new owner of COCO offered me a hundred, I’d say yes.
He slumped back in his seat.
“I’ll pay you three hundred pesos a month.”
[Excerpt from the unpublished novel Y la noche doblaba por tercera]
