FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #1

She told him with a little gesture he had never seen her use before. The afternoon wind then began to blow violently through the trees, and a mass of dark clouds gathered overhead. He had no sooner asked than forgotten to what question she had responded. Acting as if nothing had happened, they said their goodbyes and parted unceremoniously. She hurried off in the opposite direction, rushing to keep up with her husband. He returned home. The rest of his day was occupied with errands and cooking and it wasn´t until he was climbing into bed that night that it struck him odd their interaction had been. The normality of her countenance held a level of restraint he found nearly ominous- her previous identity with no characterizing features, the flair cast to the wayside. Sophia was, for the most part, a vivacious being. Her words were often like music and her inability to speak Spanish correctly made it that much more poetic, yet today she was solemn and serious. She offered no light to the conversation. Her husband had stood by anxiously while they spoke, not bothering to introduce himself. He was rumored to be a defiant, crapulous man who worked hard during the day and partook in heavy drinking at night. Whether or not that was true, Manuel remained unimpressed by her lover. He remembered that as they had parted earlier the husband offered not a single hand to help her carry the bags that burdened her arms. This thought stayed in his mind for a moment and then, dissolving like dreams unremembered, his mind fell to rest.   

He did not see her again for two weeks. She called in sick for their Tuesday appointment and it was not until the following week that she would appear. He had woken later than usual and dressed quickly, eager for some coffee before she would arrive. The air was already hot and the streets busied with vendors and school children, fresh and cheerful, rushing to catch the morning bus. Fidel´s speech, a preamble to the soon-to-come 40th Anniversary of the Revolution, sounded from every radio and television in sight. He had only been home a minute when he heard her hand rapping against the thin wood door. He opened it and she stood there beaming, slightly out of breath. The walk from her house to his was a rather long one. He always offered to meet her but she insisted the time passed quickly alone.  From the rich, large houses on the Punta Gorda to the zigzagged stretch of his strange neighborhood it took a good forty minutes. He lived in an unmarked apartment at the end of a dead-end street. It was more like a cement enclosure but he had done his best to make the place cheerful. As usual, she was well dressed in a crisp black button up with a light purple skirt, waist high, and short black heels. He ushered her in and they quickly settled near the study.

Her Spanish was improving steadily and he was pleased to see she had been studying hard. She stared intently over a piece of poetry she was translating, something she had heard in Memories of the Underdeveloped, the underappreciated book by Edmundo Desnoes regarding the Cuban Revolution. The piece, when loosely translated, regarded the sovereignty of true love. It dealt with the attachments one places on the free heart, and how often one is moved to contain or enclose the beauty that is born from such freeness, if not for our own keeping, then out of fear. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and she pushed her golden hair behind her ears, a look he was accustomed to seeing. There was something childlike about her look of concentration; it seemed too innocent, so heartfelt. Her dimples disappeared in her face and her smile, so often present, disappeared. Her hazel eyes narrowed slightly. There was no doubt she was a beautiful woman. She was also an ardent student and a graceful human being, he could tell through their discussion of the piece that it resonated with something within her, and this filled him with a sense of joy.

                He had often wondered if other Americans were this way. This precise and immodest and passionate. She had a love for the arts that was rare in his country, being that art itself was rare, he found hope in her admiration and often wondered what she busied herself with at home. She was outspoken in a way no Cuban woman was and it often made him laugh how serious she could become about politics and American culture. Her love for words was newfound. He asked her if she read at home and she told him that while she had always enjoyed books she was seldom moved by the language that wrote them. With Spanish she seemed to be discovering something new, she was very interested in the structures and fragility in composition, mainly in poetry, one must adhere to when formulating their thoughts. It no doubt felt more inventive due to its mysteriousness, and the fact that it was not her native tongue.

                She had come from America not long before, to bring a loved one from the impossibility of the semi-functioning socialist society. They were still awaiting the finalization of whatever tedious bureaucratic hoops one has to go through in order to legally extricate a Cuban from his homeland. The government did not make it easy, and in the meantime his mother had fallen ill, forcing them to remain for the indefinite future. Not knowing the family, she was making the most of the situation, and attempting to adapt to the Cuban lifestyle.

                 She had definitely taken a liking to him, as a friend. He was flattered by it, most Cubans found him boring and treated him like one would an antiquated form of communication, antique, fusty, barely functioning. Modern culture offered little to youth culture beyond reggaeton and alcohol. And while he once found entertainment in the sweaty nightclubs and overcrowded boardwalk it now seemed so vapid and contrived. Like a situation put on endless repeat, playing itself out until death, and not a soul to notice it. His students didn´t know who John Lennon was, didn´t care about Ernest Hemingway, and would prefer to move their bodies against one another to Daddy Yankee than hear an orchestral piece  or learn a thing about modern discoveries in science. He had, in all ways, given up, and sought refuge in his old books in his old home, determined to die alone rather than seek the same falsities that others fiended on around him. Manual was, in short, an intellectual. Something of little value in modern day Cuba, which left him estranged and misunderstood within his local community. Yet he was inured to the strange treatment he was given and, if anything, he felt it was just another trial of life one must make in order to enjoy their freedom of thought.

                Their friendship was built on this love for words and Spanish culture and he was soon excited for her to come over, eager to show her his writing and those authors he had come to adore in private. They would go on long walks and sometimes get dinner together. He felt nothing romantic in their interactions aside from the romance they each felt for the art, which they discussed in lively detail. It was one of the first times he felt inspired by his otherwise bucolic surroundings. It was unfortunate his intentions could not be televised, for as strongly as he felt for their friendship, there nothing but misinterpretation from the outside world. No sooner had they grown comfortable being around one another and she began to get harassed by friends of her lover´s, and Manuel, being somewhat of an outcast already, found himself getting even harsher glares as he walked down the street. One day he even came home to find threatening words written on his door in smeary black paint. He worried that the news of their involvement, however innocent, might get back to that strongarm of hers. His verification of this came in the post the following day;

                ¨I am writing to cancel my remaining lessons, as my husband and I have decided my Spanish is of adequate quality already. I will continue the studies on my own; I hope this payment makes up for any trouble this may have caused you. My sincerest apologies for the last minute notice.¨ Enclosed was a check for a hundred dollars, which was a small fortune given the current economic state.

                It was not until months later that he saw her again, one final time. He would never know what became of her afterward for, as large of an imprint as she had made on his life, she was merely a passer through to the rest of the city.

It was nearing the end of summer and the rainy season would soon commence. It had been a ripe summer for the arts, there was a book festival a few weeks prior and now a local arts festival was being held near the center of the city and, although modest in size, the turnout was decent and the stage set up for readings had been occupied all day. When people ran out of new work to read they began to read old favorites, from Jose Marti, to Pablo Neruda, to Octavio Paz. Manuel had not planned to stay late but, realizing he had nothing else to do, ordered a glass of rum of planted himself in one of the folding chairs near the edge of the stage. The sun had just set and the sky was a burst of champagne and orange, the clouds washed across the darkening blue sky.  The next performer lifted himself onto the stage and began to read Romance Sonambulo by Frederico Garcia Lorca.

¨Green, how I want you green. Under the gypsy moon, all things are watching her and she cannot see them.¨

                He heard someone stirring behind him and there was Sophia, in the opposite corner, watching intently to the performer. His enunciation was a bit overdone but his timing was incredible, and it ended up being a very moving performance of the piece. After the piece was over he offered a few words of praise to the speaker. The man smiled warmly in return, thanking him for listening. Manuel then wandered to the bar and ordered two drinks for them. He was startled to find Sophia sitting there, nursing the same glass of white wine, which was by now room temperature. She sat by herself at the end of the bar, staring towards the portrait of Jose Marti on the wall. He walked over toward her, ¨Can I buy you a drink?¨

                She shook her head no, ¨I was just leaving, thank you.¨

                ¨Did you like the last poem, by Lorca?¨

                ¨Yes, very much. But he wasn´t sad enough while reading the last verse. He was too vulnerable, but a vulnerability that was too openly aware of itself.¨

                ¨I would have to agree. Are you still translating?¨

                ¨No, I am not. The language feels dead to me now. I can´t see the point, being that there is so much else to do.¨

                ¨What a strange thing for you to say.¨

                To this she looked at him, straight in the eyes. She had been staring forward up until that point and although he had assumed she was just feeling pensive, or maybe slightly moody, it was now evident there was further reason for her aloof posture. Her face had more make-up on it than usual, a thing she hardly needed, yet he could still make out the fading edges of a black eye. It formed a half moon arc beneath her left eye, no longer swollen yet the thick sliver of amaranthine skin stood out beneath the concealor. He looked away quickly, pretending not to notice there was an implicit understanding that questions were not to be asked or answered. They sat in silence a moment and then she stood, flattened the wrinkles in her skirt, and gave him a large smile. She proceeded out the door in silence.

back to Contest #1