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Fiction

The Lagoon

By Abilio Estévez
Translated from Spanish by David Lisenby
In this short story, Abilio Estévez's narrator wades into reminiscences of the murky, weed-choked waters of his adolescence in Cuba and an indelible experience with an older friend.

1

This is the story of a small happiness that, for some inexplicable reason, occurred the day I turned sixteen. Now, after such a long time, I can’t be sure if what took place had anything to do with my birthday. In any case it undoubtedly was a Sunday, gray and humid, because I went to the lagoon only on Sundays; further, winter was finally shaking the branches of the nearly leafless mango trees, the aralejo trees, the cedars, with its light northern winds, as it always did when my birthday was approaching, releasing its first misty rains, an uncertain drizzle that dissipated like a fog before landing to earth. Winter’s timid arrival heightened the excitement of the Sunday trips. The winter was so sudden and so fleeting, its presence transformed the landscape, as if we’d suddenly awoken in a different place entirely, as if, after so much sun, the country was not our country but a distant region of hideaways, storm clouds, glimmers, and shadows. And that ephemeral illusion, like any illusion, added pleasure to already pleasureable Sundays.

To get to the lagoon I usually took the eleven o’clock train. I say “train” because it traveled on rails and because it must have been one once, and because we continued calling it a train with that stubborn determination to maintain the nobility of things and times past. In reality I’m talking about two decrepit passenger cars, nearly roofless and lacking windowpanes, pulled by an ancient locomotive that, if it wasn’t a steam engine, gave the impression of one with the inexplicable trail of white smoke it left behind. It wasn’t the only train that crossed through my town, but it was the only one that made the zigzagging journey from Marianao to Guanajay, traversing the most remote villages (El Guatao, Corralillo, La Matilde, La Fautina), reaching Vereda Nueva and beyond, and the only one, moreover, that stopped not only in every town (and was accordingly dubbed “the ice cream truck”) but at each and every station, lost or illusory though they might seem. It passed by twice, departing at ten or eleven in the morning and returning at four or five in the afternoon. It never stopped exactly at the station, but a little ahead, practically at my front door. Maringo B., the conductor, was a friend of the family and always came down to share a pot of coffee. Thanks to Maringo B., I was able to make those trips, completely alone and at ease, all the way to the lagoon in search of güin reeds for my cages. Maringo B. made the trips peaceful, trouble free.

I should mention, with all humility, that in my town (and even among many of the surrounding towns) no one made cages like me. I’d learned from my grandfather, and I’d learned well. Not just well, extraordinarily well. Even better than my grandfather, if I could believe what I heard from people who knew him. In my hands the güin reed held no mysteries. I must be honest and confess that never, since that time, have I seen any birdcages like mine. It’s also true that they hardly exist anymore; it’s a lost art, like many other things that disappear from this carefree, dizzying, distracted world we’re living in. Like every art, cage-making required not only skill with my hands but also a blend of fretfulness and serenity, of confident apprehension, with my stubborn patience, with the tenseness of my reasoning and the balance of my imagination. In any case, they were admirable constructions, I know. Magnificent even. They rose with delicate skill, almost miraculously. Tiny castles for mockingbirds, finches, canaries, and goldfinches. Palaces that I first “saw” with eyes closed, always lying on the cold tile floor of my house or on the moist grass in the yard near the septic tank, and that later my hands were charged with turning into something tangible, crafting, with expertise that surprised even me, the pliable slender fibers.

Regarding what we called, grandiosely, “the lagoon” . . . it was nothing of the sort. A little no-name pond, not far from the real lagoon, Ariguanabo, where I found the best güin, the straightest, the most sturdy yet malleable I would ever find.

Usually, the train was full of families in their Sunday best, traveling from one town to another to get together with other families, to eat, drink, give thanks, and celebrate the day of rest. They knew me. They greeted me. When we got to the crossing at El Anón Farms, Maringo B. would slow the train and wave good-bye to me with his gray engineer’s cap. I’d leap jubilantly down the red road, with my backpack on my shoulder. The families would tell me good-bye too, with the delicious melancholy that Sundays tend to provoke, especially when trains are involved. I’d wave my arms with the strange delight that jumping from a train tends to inspire on any given Sunday out in the country. “Good-bye, good-bye,” I would yell. And I’d continue down a path only Igor and I knew, through spaces where the brush became less tangled. A path we ourselves surely cleared, which descended through brambles and sicklebushes on a gentle decline to the lagoon covered with water hyacinths, tucked in among those small, stiff reeds we called güin. I’d approach and feel the lagoon water on my skin. My sweat wasn’t sweat but an omen. In the middle of the oppressive silence of the forest, one could hear a scratching of leaves, the leap of a toad, an avocado, too tender and too green, that the wind threw into the lily pads. And the scent of the water would hit with the same intensity as that scent of September downpours plunging to the dry earth yearning for storms. And I would sense the sweet, gratifying taste that moistened my lips.

I usually sat down on the trunk of a fallen palm tree. It was essential to become immersed in the respiration of the lagoon before starting to cut the güin. Above all, one had to allow the silence to penetrate with full dignity and, of course, had to know with precision the proper way to cut the small reeds. It wasn’t something just anyone could do. If it was cut poorly, it dried poorly, lost its firmness, folded like a dead stalk, and was no longer useful for cages or anything else. I sat, too, to wait for Igor to arrive from Cayo La Rosa, where he spent the weekends at his grandparents’ house. He would come walking, or running, because my friend didn’t walk, he always ran, and he had the most powerful legs for running I’d ever seen. Besides, to get to the lagoon, from anywhere, there were no uncomplicated routes for bicycles or mule carts. In the afternoons, with the güin necessary for the week’s work, we would go together to El Anón crossing and wait for the train to pass with Maringo B. and his gray cap, and we’d sit satisfied between the families returning with their bags full of mangoes and a weariness completely distinct from the everyday kind: the comical burden of armchairs, jokes, laughter, meals, beer, rum, and endless games of dominoes.

 

2

That Sunday in January, however, when I (finally) turned sixteen years old, the day’s events didn’t follow their usual course. Naturally, I wasn’t capable of understanding then. The present, very often, takes its definitive shape in the past, so that only now, after so many years, do I feel certain we hadn’t woken up to an average Sunday. Although even today I still don’t know for certain if its being my birthday was or was not connected to the things that occurred. Minor details, small signs, I would say, took place starting early that morning, like Maringo B. not coming down to have coffee, for example, and with what could be taken for rudeness letting my mother bring the coffee to the locomotive. I saw them talking in hushed tones, with a concentration that felt unsettling. My father came in from the fields, his clothes dry despite the misty rain. His machete was missing from his belt too. He joined my mother for a moment, and I saw him talking to the engineer with the same deliberateness. Also, the train was empty. Well, almost empty. There was a traveling scissors-sharpening man sitting on a faraway seat in the back car. When I approached, to sit across from him, I saw he was an old black man of uncertain age. It seemed to me that like all black men with white hair and gaunt, he could just as easily be one hundred as he could be seventy. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt with gold snaps at the neck and linen pants rolled up to the knee. I was struck by how clean his clothes were, astonishingly clean, an impeccable white, and by the fresh scent he gave off, of flowers and lemongrass, that reached me with more strength than the smell of the bay trees wet with mist. The immaculate clothing was at odds with his bare feet, which were like hardened leather and covered in dirt. Next to him, a fraying woven balsa fan, a small bag, and the big blue grinding wheel mounted on a crank, which is, together with the pan flute, the universal instrument of scissors sharpeners. He didn’t respond when I waved. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. After a few seconds I felt the courage to look directly at him, and I noticed his eyes looked opaque, erased and pupilless, as if they had been formed from a mixture of glass and ash.

When we got to El Anón crossing, the train slowed down. Maringo B. did not wave good-bye with his gray cap. I stepped off the train with a feeling that was hard to describe, as if everything I was doing on the Sunday of my sixteenth birthday was routine and, even so, happening for the first time. The path to the lagoon, I should mention, was the same one as usual, but more humid, more green, less stifling, though with the same brambles and sicklebushes, the identical rejoicing of sparrows and parakeets, and the inevitable prophecy of the water with its lily pads and the earthy smell I loved so much. I sat down on the trunk of the fallen palm tree. Something told me I should wait a while longer for Igor to show and for the precise moment to cut the güin reeds.

Igor arrived a little after noon, looking tired and sad. I’m unsure if “tired and sad” are the precise words. In any case, it was certainly not the Igor I knew and needed: the one who was always smiling, strong, impatient, friendly, ready for anything that meant “springing into action.” He was two years older than I, and he made me see life through his exhilaration and his strength. And despite being only eighteen, Igor was a grown man, tall, light-complected, almost blond, seemingly built of steel cables. There was a noticeable contradiction between his powerful body and his soft gaze, clear and cheerful, with green eyes that seemed wise beyond their years. He knew no discouragement. And above all, he cut the güin like no one else, even if he lacked the patience necessary to create anything out of those yellowish stalks. He would eye my cages with amazement, as if they were acts of magic. I admired his confidence, his kindness, and his strength. He admired my concentration, my dedication, and my skill. But the Igor that arrived that Sunday was somewhat distant. He was smiling, like always, and yet not smiling like always. His eyes had darkened; they had lost, in a sense, their warm elation or their wisdom. Even his dominating body showed uncommon weariness. I asked him what was wrong. He stayed silent a long while before responding that he didn’t know, that something must be going on but he wasn’t sure what, maybe it had to do with the day, the drizzle, the muddy road, or having skipped breakfast, he didn’t know, honestly he didn’t. I reminded him it was my birthday. He threw himself on top of me, smiling, pretending to beat me up, and even that game, so routine, lacked substance, authenticity. We stayed lying on the grass, without talking, looking at the reddish gray sky, the branches of the aralejo trees, the fragility of the raindrops disappearing between the dark green leaves.

3

I took off my clothes. I said I was going to swim in the lagoon. It wasn’t something I did often, swimming (an inexact word) in the always cold, always dirty waters of the lagoon. It wasn’t pleasant wading into that pond. I think I’d only gone in once or twice before. And on those few occasions the water hadn’t risen higher than my knees. Igor did go in often. Every Sunday he took off his clothes and went in the water, and when he came out it looked as if he had emerged from the center of the earth: his skin was smeared, covered in mud, leaves, black stems looking like leeches, and with a strong smell of moss and muck that stirred a strange uneasiness in me. When the lily pads were parted and one’s feet touched the bottom, the lagoon bed always seemed to move, or rather it truly did move, and the surface, already muddy on its own, became indistintinct from the bottom. It unnerved me to have parts of my body—in this case my feet, my legs—come into contact with what was hidden. It was disturbing that my eyes could not control anything happening below my thighs. I always feared, and still fear, the things I am not capable of seeing.
I entered the water feeling apprehensive and cold. Nakedness proved ill-suited to the January day. The water, the soil with the appearance of water that is a lagoon, was even dirtier than usual, and looked as if covered by a layer of ice. My feet sank in the mire. They experienced the unpleasant contact with sludge, oily rocks, and the roots of the water hyacinths. I walked toward the center of the lagoon as if pushing a heavy obstacle. For a time the water lost its immobility. It moved, though only in my immediate surroundings, in tiny waves that promptly disappeared. From the bottom rose an odor of moss, of cave, of darkness, of rotting plants. I’d have sworn the lily pads made way for my steps. I sensed what seemed like enormous rocks falling into the water and supposed they were frogs and toads. I knew that swimming there was impossible, yet I tried it. My body sank among the green leaves. I managed to close my eyes. I returned to the surface with the inevitable sensation that I was emerging not from water but from earth. I breathed deeply. I looked high above. I thought I saw a white bird passing over. I imagined I should return to the edge. Instead, I waded deeper. The water covered my chest. My eyes were level with the water hyacinths. There was no lack of beauty on that green surface, where white flowers opened, surrounded by the defiant güin reeds on the banks. I realized that from there the world looked different, as if it were sheltered by cathedral ceilings. I called out. I strained to hear an echo that didn’t come. From the high branches of the aralejo trees fell slow, black leaves. Except for those falling leaves and the distant, brief barking of a dog, it was as if I’d found myself in a painted landscape, as if I were the motionless figure on a gigantic canvas. I think, in that instant, I imagined things, more things than I am able now to recall. I imagined, for example, a round cage, topped with a wide green dome of güin. I imagined music for that cage, music new to me. I imagined a silver bird, metal, immobile, with its wings open. I imagined the cage on a crystal terrace, and that the landscape beyond appeared white, white as snow, or at least how I then imagined whiteness and snow. I imagined Igor there, on that terrace next to me. I closed my eyes with the hope that what I had imagined would not be undone. Closing my eyes caused me to take a step where one did not exist. The water of lagoons does not permit false steps. It wasn’t a step so much as a flawed movement. As if I were walking on air, in the sky. Lagoons resemble the air, the sky. I lost the bottom. The slippery sensation of the rocks disappeared; the plants at the bottom were gone. Without opening my eyes, I kicked my feet to stay afloat. As I was not in the ocean, nor on land, my action was fruitless. I realized something was pulling me down. Attempting to resist that pull, desperate and instinctive, my feet found roots, vines, the long stems of the lily pads. Something tied itself to my left leg and pushed toward the bottom. Uncertainty, or more precisely, fear. Perhaps I opened my eyes. Perhaps I discovered only confusion and opened my arms. As if in the sky, as if trying to fly. And, of course, just as I would have been unable to fly in the sky, I couldn’t in the lagoon either, or anywhere else. These are things one learns quickly, that simply become known without having to be learned. The water conquered me with a speed that was, simultaneously, a peculiar slowness. And it wasn’t a sinking into water, clearly, but into mire. I’m certain it surprised me the way time seemed to stop. I’m certain I stopped breathing during that eternity.

The arms lifted me, held me under my shoulders, carried me to the güin reeds on the banks. When I opened my eyes with a long sigh, Igor was over me, pushing on my abdomen, opening my arms, pressing his mouth to mine, attempting to transmit the vitality of his breath to me. When he saw me responding, he held still watchfully; his green eyes, locked to mine and wide with disbelief, gradually recovered their cheerfulness and their wisdom. He soon sighed, smiling in a way I will never forget. A smile just shy of bursting into roaring laughter. He hurled a few curses and hugged me and again pressed his lips to mine to give me his breath. I pulled him tight against me and closed my eyes. I’m not sure how much time passed before he jumped up. From where I lay, I saw him as he was in that moment, a giant. We both were covered in mud and plants. Anyone observing the lagoon landscape from afar would not have discovered us; we were indistinguisible from one another and from everything surrounding us, vegetation, water, dirt, all of which I feel and taste even now. Igor’s saliva was inside me, Igor’s breath inside my body, inside my breath, and that, I confess, made me extraordinarily happy.

We got dressed unhurriedly, without looking at each other, almost without realizing what we were doing. I didn’t notice whether it continued drizzling, nor did it matter to me. As might be expected, we did not gather the güin reeds for my cages. We sat next to each other on the fallen palm trunk, and we held hands. I think we were looking at the water hyacinths and the water lilies, and I think we were looking at nothing. Or at least nothing that was there in the pond that, with so much enthusiasm, we called “the lagoon.”

 

4

We returned to town walking, or rather, balancing our way down the railroad tracks like a couple of kids. My raised right arm connected with Igor’s raised left arm, and despite my friend’s being taller, with more developed extremities, we somehow found the exact angle to keep ourselves stable on the rails while making the long trip back home. We sang quietly as we walked, whispering: “Give me your calm stillness, spill out your water of peace over the fierce flame.” Long before we approached the first houses, the night had already fallen. A swift night, cold, without moons and without stars. The wind forcefully shook the branches of the aralejo trees. It wasn’t raining, or maybe it was, I can’t be sure. Most likely the drizzle had changed into a fog that erased the profiles of things. It was quite late when we reached the edge of town. The streetlights were off. Dark like the night, the town formed part of the night; they shared an identical silence. We knew the town wasn’t abandoned because we heard children crying and the voice of a woman trying to calm them, singing a lullaby. We heard the crow of roosters too, the town’s deranged roosters that crowed at all hours. At the door of my house, Igor slid his hand around my waist, drew me close to him. He didn’t kiss me, but I felt his breath, and that was better. His breath and the smell of his body, his warmth. With so much darkness, I couldn’t see the wisdom of his green eyes. However, his hand on my head revealed what his eyes held, everything he would have wanted to say and didn’t say. I don’t think he smiled either. My memory, though, sees him smiling. “See you tomorrow,” he said. Just that. Not that anything else was needed. I entered my house without making a sound, like a ghost. I suppose my parents were sleeping. The only life there seemed to emanate from the flame of a candle lit in front of an image of Saint Martín de Porres. I lay down on the floor, without undressing. The tiles were cold. The house smelled like flowers, but my clothes, my body, smelled of earth, of cave, of moss, of roots. I tried to sleep. Though with such elation it seemed impossible that I’d be able to close my eyes.


“La laguna” © Abilio Estévez. First published in
Mañana hablarán de nosotros: Antología del cuento cubano (Editorial Dos Bigotes, 2015). By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by David Lisenby. All rights reserved.

English Spanish (Original)

1

This is the story of a small happiness that, for some inexplicable reason, occurred the day I turned sixteen. Now, after such a long time, I can’t be sure if what took place had anything to do with my birthday. In any case it undoubtedly was a Sunday, gray and humid, because I went to the lagoon only on Sundays; further, winter was finally shaking the branches of the nearly leafless mango trees, the aralejo trees, the cedars, with its light northern winds, as it always did when my birthday was approaching, releasing its first misty rains, an uncertain drizzle that dissipated like a fog before landing to earth. Winter’s timid arrival heightened the excitement of the Sunday trips. The winter was so sudden and so fleeting, its presence transformed the landscape, as if we’d suddenly awoken in a different place entirely, as if, after so much sun, the country was not our country but a distant region of hideaways, storm clouds, glimmers, and shadows. And that ephemeral illusion, like any illusion, added pleasure to already pleasureable Sundays.

To get to the lagoon I usually took the eleven o’clock train. I say “train” because it traveled on rails and because it must have been one once, and because we continued calling it a train with that stubborn determination to maintain the nobility of things and times past. In reality I’m talking about two decrepit passenger cars, nearly roofless and lacking windowpanes, pulled by an ancient locomotive that, if it wasn’t a steam engine, gave the impression of one with the inexplicable trail of white smoke it left behind. It wasn’t the only train that crossed through my town, but it was the only one that made the zigzagging journey from Marianao to Guanajay, traversing the most remote villages (El Guatao, Corralillo, La Matilde, La Fautina), reaching Vereda Nueva and beyond, and the only one, moreover, that stopped not only in every town (and was accordingly dubbed “the ice cream truck”) but at each and every station, lost or illusory though they might seem. It passed by twice, departing at ten or eleven in the morning and returning at four or five in the afternoon. It never stopped exactly at the station, but a little ahead, practically at my front door. Maringo B., the conductor, was a friend of the family and always came down to share a pot of coffee. Thanks to Maringo B., I was able to make those trips, completely alone and at ease, all the way to the lagoon in search of güin reeds for my cages. Maringo B. made the trips peaceful, trouble free.

I should mention, with all humility, that in my town (and even among many of the surrounding towns) no one made cages like me. I’d learned from my grandfather, and I’d learned well. Not just well, extraordinarily well. Even better than my grandfather, if I could believe what I heard from people who knew him. In my hands the güin reed held no mysteries. I must be honest and confess that never, since that time, have I seen any birdcages like mine. It’s also true that they hardly exist anymore; it’s a lost art, like many other things that disappear from this carefree, dizzying, distracted world we’re living in. Like every art, cage-making required not only skill with my hands but also a blend of fretfulness and serenity, of confident apprehension, with my stubborn patience, with the tenseness of my reasoning and the balance of my imagination. In any case, they were admirable constructions, I know. Magnificent even. They rose with delicate skill, almost miraculously. Tiny castles for mockingbirds, finches, canaries, and goldfinches. Palaces that I first “saw” with eyes closed, always lying on the cold tile floor of my house or on the moist grass in the yard near the septic tank, and that later my hands were charged with turning into something tangible, crafting, with expertise that surprised even me, the pliable slender fibers.

Regarding what we called, grandiosely, “the lagoon” . . . it was nothing of the sort. A little no-name pond, not far from the real lagoon, Ariguanabo, where I found the best güin, the straightest, the most sturdy yet malleable I would ever find.

Usually, the train was full of families in their Sunday best, traveling from one town to another to get together with other families, to eat, drink, give thanks, and celebrate the day of rest. They knew me. They greeted me. When we got to the crossing at El Anón Farms, Maringo B. would slow the train and wave good-bye to me with his gray engineer’s cap. I’d leap jubilantly down the red road, with my backpack on my shoulder. The families would tell me good-bye too, with the delicious melancholy that Sundays tend to provoke, especially when trains are involved. I’d wave my arms with the strange delight that jumping from a train tends to inspire on any given Sunday out in the country. “Good-bye, good-bye,” I would yell. And I’d continue down a path only Igor and I knew, through spaces where the brush became less tangled. A path we ourselves surely cleared, which descended through brambles and sicklebushes on a gentle decline to the lagoon covered with water hyacinths, tucked in among those small, stiff reeds we called güin. I’d approach and feel the lagoon water on my skin. My sweat wasn’t sweat but an omen. In the middle of the oppressive silence of the forest, one could hear a scratching of leaves, the leap of a toad, an avocado, too tender and too green, that the wind threw into the lily pads. And the scent of the water would hit with the same intensity as that scent of September downpours plunging to the dry earth yearning for storms. And I would sense the sweet, gratifying taste that moistened my lips.

I usually sat down on the trunk of a fallen palm tree. It was essential to become immersed in the respiration of the lagoon before starting to cut the güin. Above all, one had to allow the silence to penetrate with full dignity and, of course, had to know with precision the proper way to cut the small reeds. It wasn’t something just anyone could do. If it was cut poorly, it dried poorly, lost its firmness, folded like a dead stalk, and was no longer useful for cages or anything else. I sat, too, to wait for Igor to arrive from Cayo La Rosa, where he spent the weekends at his grandparents’ house. He would come walking, or running, because my friend didn’t walk, he always ran, and he had the most powerful legs for running I’d ever seen. Besides, to get to the lagoon, from anywhere, there were no uncomplicated routes for bicycles or mule carts. In the afternoons, with the güin necessary for the week’s work, we would go together to El Anón crossing and wait for the train to pass with Maringo B. and his gray cap, and we’d sit satisfied between the families returning with their bags full of mangoes and a weariness completely distinct from the everyday kind: the comical burden of armchairs, jokes, laughter, meals, beer, rum, and endless games of dominoes.

 

2

That Sunday in January, however, when I (finally) turned sixteen years old, the day’s events didn’t follow their usual course. Naturally, I wasn’t capable of understanding then. The present, very often, takes its definitive shape in the past, so that only now, after so many years, do I feel certain we hadn’t woken up to an average Sunday. Although even today I still don’t know for certain if its being my birthday was or was not connected to the things that occurred. Minor details, small signs, I would say, took place starting early that morning, like Maringo B. not coming down to have coffee, for example, and with what could be taken for rudeness letting my mother bring the coffee to the locomotive. I saw them talking in hushed tones, with a concentration that felt unsettling. My father came in from the fields, his clothes dry despite the misty rain. His machete was missing from his belt too. He joined my mother for a moment, and I saw him talking to the engineer with the same deliberateness. Also, the train was empty. Well, almost empty. There was a traveling scissors-sharpening man sitting on a faraway seat in the back car. When I approached, to sit across from him, I saw he was an old black man of uncertain age. It seemed to me that like all black men with white hair and gaunt, he could just as easily be one hundred as he could be seventy. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt with gold snaps at the neck and linen pants rolled up to the knee. I was struck by how clean his clothes were, astonishingly clean, an impeccable white, and by the fresh scent he gave off, of flowers and lemongrass, that reached me with more strength than the smell of the bay trees wet with mist. The immaculate clothing was at odds with his bare feet, which were like hardened leather and covered in dirt. Next to him, a fraying woven balsa fan, a small bag, and the big blue grinding wheel mounted on a crank, which is, together with the pan flute, the universal instrument of scissors sharpeners. He didn’t respond when I waved. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. After a few seconds I felt the courage to look directly at him, and I noticed his eyes looked opaque, erased and pupilless, as if they had been formed from a mixture of glass and ash.

When we got to El Anón crossing, the train slowed down. Maringo B. did not wave good-bye with his gray cap. I stepped off the train with a feeling that was hard to describe, as if everything I was doing on the Sunday of my sixteenth birthday was routine and, even so, happening for the first time. The path to the lagoon, I should mention, was the same one as usual, but more humid, more green, less stifling, though with the same brambles and sicklebushes, the identical rejoicing of sparrows and parakeets, and the inevitable prophecy of the water with its lily pads and the earthy smell I loved so much. I sat down on the trunk of the fallen palm tree. Something told me I should wait a while longer for Igor to show and for the precise moment to cut the güin reeds.

Igor arrived a little after noon, looking tired and sad. I’m unsure if “tired and sad” are the precise words. In any case, it was certainly not the Igor I knew and needed: the one who was always smiling, strong, impatient, friendly, ready for anything that meant “springing into action.” He was two years older than I, and he made me see life through his exhilaration and his strength. And despite being only eighteen, Igor was a grown man, tall, light-complected, almost blond, seemingly built of steel cables. There was a noticeable contradiction between his powerful body and his soft gaze, clear and cheerful, with green eyes that seemed wise beyond their years. He knew no discouragement. And above all, he cut the güin like no one else, even if he lacked the patience necessary to create anything out of those yellowish stalks. He would eye my cages with amazement, as if they were acts of magic. I admired his confidence, his kindness, and his strength. He admired my concentration, my dedication, and my skill. But the Igor that arrived that Sunday was somewhat distant. He was smiling, like always, and yet not smiling like always. His eyes had darkened; they had lost, in a sense, their warm elation or their wisdom. Even his dominating body showed uncommon weariness. I asked him what was wrong. He stayed silent a long while before responding that he didn’t know, that something must be going on but he wasn’t sure what, maybe it had to do with the day, the drizzle, the muddy road, or having skipped breakfast, he didn’t know, honestly he didn’t. I reminded him it was my birthday. He threw himself on top of me, smiling, pretending to beat me up, and even that game, so routine, lacked substance, authenticity. We stayed lying on the grass, without talking, looking at the reddish gray sky, the branches of the aralejo trees, the fragility of the raindrops disappearing between the dark green leaves.

3

I took off my clothes. I said I was going to swim in the lagoon. It wasn’t something I did often, swimming (an inexact word) in the always cold, always dirty waters of the lagoon. It wasn’t pleasant wading into that pond. I think I’d only gone in once or twice before. And on those few occasions the water hadn’t risen higher than my knees. Igor did go in often. Every Sunday he took off his clothes and went in the water, and when he came out it looked as if he had emerged from the center of the earth: his skin was smeared, covered in mud, leaves, black stems looking like leeches, and with a strong smell of moss and muck that stirred a strange uneasiness in me. When the lily pads were parted and one’s feet touched the bottom, the lagoon bed always seemed to move, or rather it truly did move, and the surface, already muddy on its own, became indistintinct from the bottom. It unnerved me to have parts of my body—in this case my feet, my legs—come into contact with what was hidden. It was disturbing that my eyes could not control anything happening below my thighs. I always feared, and still fear, the things I am not capable of seeing.
I entered the water feeling apprehensive and cold. Nakedness proved ill-suited to the January day. The water, the soil with the appearance of water that is a lagoon, was even dirtier than usual, and looked as if covered by a layer of ice. My feet sank in the mire. They experienced the unpleasant contact with sludge, oily rocks, and the roots of the water hyacinths. I walked toward the center of the lagoon as if pushing a heavy obstacle. For a time the water lost its immobility. It moved, though only in my immediate surroundings, in tiny waves that promptly disappeared. From the bottom rose an odor of moss, of cave, of darkness, of rotting plants. I’d have sworn the lily pads made way for my steps. I sensed what seemed like enormous rocks falling into the water and supposed they were frogs and toads. I knew that swimming there was impossible, yet I tried it. My body sank among the green leaves. I managed to close my eyes. I returned to the surface with the inevitable sensation that I was emerging not from water but from earth. I breathed deeply. I looked high above. I thought I saw a white bird passing over. I imagined I should return to the edge. Instead, I waded deeper. The water covered my chest. My eyes were level with the water hyacinths. There was no lack of beauty on that green surface, where white flowers opened, surrounded by the defiant güin reeds on the banks. I realized that from there the world looked different, as if it were sheltered by cathedral ceilings. I called out. I strained to hear an echo that didn’t come. From the high branches of the aralejo trees fell slow, black leaves. Except for those falling leaves and the distant, brief barking of a dog, it was as if I’d found myself in a painted landscape, as if I were the motionless figure on a gigantic canvas. I think, in that instant, I imagined things, more things than I am able now to recall. I imagined, for example, a round cage, topped with a wide green dome of güin. I imagined music for that cage, music new to me. I imagined a silver bird, metal, immobile, with its wings open. I imagined the cage on a crystal terrace, and that the landscape beyond appeared white, white as snow, or at least how I then imagined whiteness and snow. I imagined Igor there, on that terrace next to me. I closed my eyes with the hope that what I had imagined would not be undone. Closing my eyes caused me to take a step where one did not exist. The water of lagoons does not permit false steps. It wasn’t a step so much as a flawed movement. As if I were walking on air, in the sky. Lagoons resemble the air, the sky. I lost the bottom. The slippery sensation of the rocks disappeared; the plants at the bottom were gone. Without opening my eyes, I kicked my feet to stay afloat. As I was not in the ocean, nor on land, my action was fruitless. I realized something was pulling me down. Attempting to resist that pull, desperate and instinctive, my feet found roots, vines, the long stems of the lily pads. Something tied itself to my left leg and pushed toward the bottom. Uncertainty, or more precisely, fear. Perhaps I opened my eyes. Perhaps I discovered only confusion and opened my arms. As if in the sky, as if trying to fly. And, of course, just as I would have been unable to fly in the sky, I couldn’t in the lagoon either, or anywhere else. These are things one learns quickly, that simply become known without having to be learned. The water conquered me with a speed that was, simultaneously, a peculiar slowness. And it wasn’t a sinking into water, clearly, but into mire. I’m certain it surprised me the way time seemed to stop. I’m certain I stopped breathing during that eternity.

The arms lifted me, held me under my shoulders, carried me to the güin reeds on the banks. When I opened my eyes with a long sigh, Igor was over me, pushing on my abdomen, opening my arms, pressing his mouth to mine, attempting to transmit the vitality of his breath to me. When he saw me responding, he held still watchfully; his green eyes, locked to mine and wide with disbelief, gradually recovered their cheerfulness and their wisdom. He soon sighed, smiling in a way I will never forget. A smile just shy of bursting into roaring laughter. He hurled a few curses and hugged me and again pressed his lips to mine to give me his breath. I pulled him tight against me and closed my eyes. I’m not sure how much time passed before he jumped up. From where I lay, I saw him as he was in that moment, a giant. We both were covered in mud and plants. Anyone observing the lagoon landscape from afar would not have discovered us; we were indistinguisible from one another and from everything surrounding us, vegetation, water, dirt, all of which I feel and taste even now. Igor’s saliva was inside me, Igor’s breath inside my body, inside my breath, and that, I confess, made me extraordinarily happy.

We got dressed unhurriedly, without looking at each other, almost without realizing what we were doing. I didn’t notice whether it continued drizzling, nor did it matter to me. As might be expected, we did not gather the güin reeds for my cages. We sat next to each other on the fallen palm trunk, and we held hands. I think we were looking at the water hyacinths and the water lilies, and I think we were looking at nothing. Or at least nothing that was there in the pond that, with so much enthusiasm, we called “the lagoon.”

 

4

We returned to town walking, or rather, balancing our way down the railroad tracks like a couple of kids. My raised right arm connected with Igor’s raised left arm, and despite my friend’s being taller, with more developed extremities, we somehow found the exact angle to keep ourselves stable on the rails while making the long trip back home. We sang quietly as we walked, whispering: “Give me your calm stillness, spill out your water of peace over the fierce flame.” Long before we approached the first houses, the night had already fallen. A swift night, cold, without moons and without stars. The wind forcefully shook the branches of the aralejo trees. It wasn’t raining, or maybe it was, I can’t be sure. Most likely the drizzle had changed into a fog that erased the profiles of things. It was quite late when we reached the edge of town. The streetlights were off. Dark like the night, the town formed part of the night; they shared an identical silence. We knew the town wasn’t abandoned because we heard children crying and the voice of a woman trying to calm them, singing a lullaby. We heard the crow of roosters too, the town’s deranged roosters that crowed at all hours. At the door of my house, Igor slid his hand around my waist, drew me close to him. He didn’t kiss me, but I felt his breath, and that was better. His breath and the smell of his body, his warmth. With so much darkness, I couldn’t see the wisdom of his green eyes. However, his hand on my head revealed what his eyes held, everything he would have wanted to say and didn’t say. I don’t think he smiled either. My memory, though, sees him smiling. “See you tomorrow,” he said. Just that. Not that anything else was needed. I entered my house without making a sound, like a ghost. I suppose my parents were sleeping. The only life there seemed to emanate from the flame of a candle lit in front of an image of Saint Martín de Porres. I lay down on the floor, without undressing. The tiles were cold. The house smelled like flowers, but my clothes, my body, smelled of earth, of cave, of moss, of roots. I tried to sleep. Though with such elation it seemed impossible that I’d be able to close my eyes.


“La laguna” © Abilio Estévez. First published in
Mañana hablarán de nosotros: Antología del cuento cubano (Editorial Dos Bigotes, 2015). By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2018 by David Lisenby. All rights reserved.

La laguna

1

Esta es la historia de una pequeña felicidad que, por alguna inexplicable causa, tuvo lugar el día que cumplí dieciséis años. Ahora, después de tanto tiempo, no puedo asegurar si el suceso guarda relación con semejante acontecimiento de mi vida. Estoy dispuesto a garantizar, en todo caso, que era un domingo gris y húmedo, porque yo sólo iba a la laguna los domingos, y, además, el invierno, como siempre que llegaba mi cumpleaños, sacudía por fin las ramas de los aralejos, los cedros, los mangos casi sin hojas, con sus vientecitos leves, grises, del norte, y dejaba caer las primeras lloviznas, un escurrir inseguro que se dispersaba, como una neblina, antes de llegar a la tierra. La tímida revelación invernal agregaba exaltación al viaje de los domingos. Era tan inesperado y efímero el invierno, que su presencia transformaba el paisaje, como si de pronto despertáramos en otro sitio, como si luego de tanto sol, el país no fuera el país, sino en paraje lejano, de cobijas, nubarrones, escarchas y sombras. Y esa ilusión fugaz, como cualquier ilusión, constituía un goce agregado al goce habitual de los domingos.

Para llegar a la laguna, solía tomar el tren de las once. Digo “tren” porque se desplazaba sobre raíles y porque alguna vez lo debió haber sido, y porque además así lo continuábamos llamando con esa obstinada voluntad por mantener la nobleza de los tiempos y las cosas. Estoy hablando en realidad de dos coches viejísimos, casi sin techo y sin cristales en las ventanas, tirados por una locomotora antigua que, si no era de vapor, lo simulaba bien, por el humo blanco e inexplicable que iba dejando a su paso. No era el único tren que cruzaba por mi pueblo: sí el único que realizaba el trayecto zigzagueante desde Marianao hasta Guanajay, vadeando los más recónditos caseríos (El Guatao, Corralillo, La Matilde, La Fautina), atravesando Vereda Nueva y más allá, y el único, además, que paraba no sólo en cada pueblo (razón por la que le llamaban “el heladero”), sino en cada una de las estaciones, por perdidas o ilusorias que pudieran parecer. Pasaba dos veces: a la ida, a las diez o las once de la mañana; y a la vuelta, a las cuatro o las cinco de la tarde. Nunca se detenía exactamente en la estación, sino un poco más adelante, casi en el patio de mi casa. Maringo B., el conductor, era amigo de mi familia, y siempre bajaba a beber un jarro de café. Gracias a Maringo B., podía realizar yo, totalmente solo y a gusto, aquellos viajes hasta la laguna en busca del güin para mis jaulas. Maringo B. les daba la tranquilidad de un viaje sin tropiezo.

Debo reconocer, con toda humildad, que en mi pueblo (e incluyo muchos pueblos de los alrededores) nadie hacía las jaulas como yo. Lo había aprendido de mi abuelo, y lo había aprendido bien. Qué digo bien: extraordinariamente bien. Incluso mejor que mi abuelo, si iba a hacer caso a lo que decían cuantos lo conocieron. En mis manos, el güin no tenía misterio. Es preciso que sea sincero y reconozca que nunca he vuelto a ver jaulas para pájaros como las mías. También es cierto que ya casi no existen, es un arte perdido, como muchas otras cosas que desaparecen de este mundo despreocupado, vertiginoso y poco aplicado en el que vamos viviendo. Como todo arte, aquel de hacer jaulas no sólo tenía que ver con la habilidad de mis manos, sino también con una mezcla de zozobra y serenidad, de segura incertidumbre, con mi obstinada paciencia, con los desasosiegos de mi razón y los equilibrios de mi imaginación. En cualquier caso, lo sé, eran construcciones admirables. Hasta fastuosas. Se alzaban con primor, casi por milagro. Pequeños alcázares para sinsontes, tomeguines, canarios y jilgueros. Palacios que primero “veía” con los ojos cerrados, siempre acostado sobe las baldosas frías del suelo de mi casa o sobre la hierba húmeda, junto al brocal del pozo ciego, y que más tarde mis manos se encargaban de convertir en algo tangible, manejando, con pericia que a mí mismo sorprendía, las dóciles varillas de güin.

En cuanto a lo que llamábamos pomposamente “la laguna”… Nada, ninguna laguna, un pequeño charco sin nombre, cercano a la laguna verdadera, la de Ariguanabo, donde encontraba el mejor güin, el más empinado, duradero y manso que haya vuelto a encontrar nunca.

Por lo general, el tren iba repleto de familias endomingadas que viajaban de un pueblo a otro, a reunirse con otras familias, a comer, beber, a dar gracias y celebrar el día de descanso. Me conocían, me saludaban. Cuando llegábamos al crucero de la finca El Anón, Maringo B. disminuía la marcha del tren y me decía adiós con su gorra gris de ferroviario. Yo me lanzaba jubiloso al camino rojo, con mi morral al hombro. Las familias también me decían adiós, con la deliciosa melancólica que suelen provocar los domingos, mucho más cuando se mezclan con los trenes. Agitaba mis brazos con la extraña fruición que suele provocar saltar de un tren, un domingo cualquiera, en medio del campo. “Adiós, adiós”, gritaba. Y seguía por un sendero que sólo Igor y yo conocíamos, abierto por entre el monte no demasiado intrincado. Sendero seguramente desbrozado por nosotros mismos, y que bajaba, entre zarzas, aromas, en suave declive hasta la laguna cubierta de malanguetas, hostigada por aquellas pequeñas y enhiestas cañas que llamábamos güin. Me acercaba y el agua de la laguna se sentía en la piel. El sudor no era sudor, sino un presagio. En medio del silencio autoritario del monte, se escuchaba un rasgarse de hojas, el salto de algún sapo, un aguacate demasiado tierno, demasiado verde, que el viento lanzaba sobre los falsos nenúfares. Y el aroma del agua llegaba con la misma intensidad que tenía aquel otro aroma de los aguaceros que se desplomaban en septiembre sobre la tierra seca y ávida de ciclones. Y yo advertía el sabor dulzón, dichoso, que humedecía mis labios.                       Solía sentarme en el tronco caído de una palma. Había que entrar en la respiración de aquella laguna antes de comenzar a cortar el güin. Ante todo, se hacía preciso permitir que el silencio penetrara en uno con toda dignidad, y, por supuesto, había que conocer con precisión el modo justo de cortar las pequeñas cañas. No era algo que cualquiera estuviera en la capacidad de hacer. Si se cortaba mal, se secaba mal, perdía su solidez, se doblaba como un tallo muerto, y dejaba de ser útil, para jaulas o para cualquier otra cosa. Me sentaba, además, a esperar que Igor llegara desde El Cayo La Rosa, donde pasaba los fines de semana, en casa de sus abuelos. Venía andando, o corriendo, porque mi amigo no andaba, corría siempre, y para eso tenía las piernas más poderosas que yo hubiera visto. Además, hasta la laguna no existían, desde ningún punto, caminos indulgentes para los carromatos o las bicicletas. En la tarde, con los güines necesarios para el trabajo de la semana, sí que nos íbamos juntos hasta el crucero de El Anón, y esperábamos a que pasara el tren con Maringo B y su gorra gris, y nos sentábamos satisfechos entre las familias que regresaban con las bolsas llenas de mangos, y un cansancio que nada tenía que ver con el de cada día, que era el agobio jocoso de los sillones, las bromas, las risas, las comidas, las cervezas, los rones y los interminables juegos de dominó.

2

Ese domingo de enero, sin embargo, en el que yo cumplía (por fin) los dieciséis años, sucedieron cosas fuera de lo habitual. Como es lógico, no fui capaz de darme cuenta entonces. El presente, muchas veces, cobra su forma definitiva en el pasado, de manera que sólo ahora, al cabo de tantos años, tengo la certeza de que no habíamos despertado a un día cualquiera. Aunque ahora mismo continúo sin la certeza de saber si cuanto aconteció tuvo o no relación con el pequeñísimo acontecimiento de mi vida. Pequeños detalles, diría yo, pequeños anuncios, tuvieron lugar desde temprano, como que Maringo B., por ejemplo, no se bajara a tomar el café, y dejara, con evidente descortesía, que mi madre fuera con el jarro hasta la locomotora. Los vi hablando por lo bajo, con una concentración que me pareció intranquila. Mi padre, que venía de los campos, tenía la ropa seca a pesar de la llovizna. Tampoco traía el machete al cinto. Se unió un instante a mi madre, y vi que hablaba con el maquinista con idéntico cuidado. Además, el tren iba vacío. Bueno, casi vacío. Había un afilador de tijeras sentado en un alejado asiento del último vagón. Cuando me acerqué a él para sentarme en una butaca lateral, vi que era un negro viejo, de edad incierta. Como todos los negros de pelo blanco y cuerpo macilento, también éste podía haber cumplido lo mismo setenta que cien años. Vestía una camiseta blanca, sin mangas, con cuello de botones dorados, y un pantalón de lino doblado hasta media pierna. Me llamó la atención la ropa limpia, extraordinariamente limpia, de un blanco impecable, y que desprendiera incluso un aroma fresco, a flores, a vetiver, que llegaba hasta mí con más fuerza que el olor de los falsos laureles mojados por la llovizna. Aquella ropa aseada desentonaba con los pies descalzos, como cueros endurecidos y cubiertos de tierra. A su lado, un estropeado abanico de guano tejido, una pequeña bolsa y la gran rueca azul, estructurada y provista de manivelas, que es, junto con la zampoña, el instrumento inevitable de los afiladores de tijera. No respondió al saludo que le hice con la mano. No se movió. Ni siquiera pestañeó. Al cabo de unos segundos me atreví a mirarlo de frente y adiviné que tenía los ojos opacos, borrados y sin pupilas, como si hubieran sido creados con una mezcla de cristales y cenizas.

Cuando estuvimos en el cruce de El Anón, el tren disminuyó su marcha. Maringo B. no me saludó con su gorra gris. Bajé del tren con una sensación difícil de definir, como si cuanto estuviera haciendo en el domingo de mi dieciséis cumpleaños fuera habitual y al propio tiempo aconteciera por primera vez. El camino hasta la laguna, debo reconocerlo, era el mismo de costumbre, más húmedo, más verde, menos sofocante, aunque con idénticas zarzas y aromas, idéntica algarabía de gorriones y pericos, y la profecía inevitable del agua y sus falsos nenúfares, y el olor a tierra que tanto me gustaba. Me senté en el tronco de la palma caída. Algo me decía que debía esperar durante más tiempo la llegada de Igor, así como el momento preciso de cortar los güines.

Igor llegó pasado el mediodía, con aire cansado y triste. Ignoro si “cansado y triste” sean las palabras adecuadas. En cualquier caso puedo asegurar que no era el Igor que yo conocía y necesitaba. Aquél sonreía siempre, era fuerte, impaciente, animoso, dispuesto a cualquier cosa que significara “entrar en acción”. Tenía dos años más que yo y me hacía ver la vida a través de su euforia y de su fuerza. Y es que a pesar de sus dieciocho años, Igor era un hombrón alto, blanco, casi rubio, construido como con cables de acero. Se descubría una contradicción entre el cuerpo poderoso y la mirada mansa, clara, jovial de los ojos verdosos, que parecían haber vivido mucho. No conocía el desánimo. Y sobre todo, cortaba el güin como nadie, si bien carecía de la paciencia necesaria como para crear algo con aquellos tallos amarillentos. Miraba mis jaulas con el asombro con que se miran los actos de magia. Yo admiraba su seguridad, su bondad y su fuerza. Él admiraba mi concentración, mi entrega y mi destreza. Pero el Igor que llegó aquel domingo tenía algo distante. Sonreía, como siempre, y no sonreía como siempre. Sus ojos se habían oscurecido, habían perdido, en cierto modo, el júbilo benévolo o la sabiduría. Hasta su cuerpo prepotente mostraba un cansancio poco común. Le pregunté qué le pasaba. Dejó que transcurriera un largo silencio antes de responder que no sabía, que en efecto algo debía sucederle, ignoraba qué, tal vez tuviera que ver con el día, con la llovizna, con el camino enfangado, o con que no había desayunado, no sabía, de verdad, no lo sabía. Le recordé que era mi cumpleaños. Se lanzó sobre mí sonriendo, fingiendo que me golpeaba, y hasta aquel juego, tan habitual, carecía de fuerza, de autenticidad. Quedamos luego acostados sobre la hierba, sin hablar, mirando el cielo gris o rojizo, las ramas de los aralejos, la fragilidad de la lluvia cuyas gotas desaparecían entre las hojas de un verde casi negro.

3

Me desnudé. Dije que iba a bañarme en la laguna. No era algo que hiciera a menudo, eso de bañarme (palabra inadecuada) en las aguas siempre frías y siempre sucias de la laguna. No me daba gusto entrar en aquel charco. Creo que sólo me había sumergido en él una o dos veces. Y en esas pocas ocasiones el agua no había ascendido más allá de mis rodillas. Igor sí solía hacerlo. Cada domingo se desnudaba y entraba al agua, y cuando salía, más bien parecía que hubiera llegado del centro de la tierra: su piel estaba opaca, cubierta de lodo, de hojas, de tallos negros que simulaban sanguijuelas, y con un fuerte olor a musgos y a negrura que me provocaba una turbación desconocida. Y es que no bien se apartaban los falsos nenúfares y se ponían los pies en el fondo, éste parecía agitarse, o mejor dicho se agitaba de verdad, y la superficie, terrosa de por sí, se confundía con el fondo. Me daba mala impresión que alguna parte de mi cuerpo, en este caso mis pies, mis piernas, entraran en contacto con algo oculto. Me incomodaba que mis ojos no pudieran controlar lo que sucedía debajo de mis muslos. Siempre temí, y temo, las cosas que no soy capaz de ver.

Entré en el agua con aprensión y con frío. La desnudez no resultaba apropiada para el día de enero. El agua, la tierra con apariencia de agua que es una laguna, estaba aún más sucia que de costumbre, y se hubiera dicho que una capa de hielo la cubría. Mis pies se hundieron en el fango. Experimentaron el contacto desagradable del fango, de las piedras escurridizas, de las raíces de las malanguetas. Caminé hacia el centro de la laguna como si apartara un obstáculo pesado. Por un instante, el agua perdía su inmovilidad. Sólo se alteraba a mi alrededor, en pequeñísimas ondas que desaparecían de inmediato. Desde el fondo ascendía el olor a musgo, a cueva, a oscuridad, a hierbas podridas. Hubiera jurado que los falsos nenúfares se apartaban a mi paso. Sentí enormes piedras que caían al agua y supuse que eran las ranas y los sapos. Sabía que allí no se podía nadar y lo intenté. Mi cuerpo se hundió entre las hojas verdes. Atiné a cerrar los ojos. Volví a la superficie con la inevitable sensación de que no salía del agua sino de la tierra. Respiré profundo. Miré a lo alto. Me pareció que veía pasar un pájaro blanco. Supuse que debía regresar a la orilla. Por el contrario, avancé un poco más. El agua cubrió mi pecho. Mis ojos estuvieron al nivel de las malanguetas. No carecía de belleza aquella superficie verde, donde se abrían flores blancas, cercada por los güines desafiantes de la orilla. Me di cuenta de que desde allí el mundo se veía diferente, como si estuviera cubierto por una bóveda. Llamé. Quise escuchar un eco que no se produjo. De las ramas altas de los aralejos cayeron lentas hojas negras. Salvo eso y el lejano, breve ladrido de un perro, hubiera dicho que me hallaba en un paisaje pintado, que era la figura detenida de un lienzo gigantesco. Creo que en ese instante imaginé cosas, demasiadas cosas que ya no puedo enumerar. Imaginé, por ejemplo, una jaula redonda, rematada por una ancha cúpula de güines verdes. Imaginé una música para esa jaula, una música nueva para mí. Imaginé un pájaro plateado, de metal, inmóvil, por supuesto, y con las alas abiertas. Imaginé que la jaula se hallaba en una terraza de cristales, y que afuera, el paisaje se veía blanco, blanco de nieve, o como yo imaginaba entonces la blancura y la nieve. Imaginé a Igor allí, en aquella terraza, junto a mí. Cerré los ojos con la esperanza de lograr que lo imaginado no se deshiciera. Cerrar los ojos me obligó a dar un paso que no fue un paso. El agua de las lagunas no permite pasos en falso. No fue, pues, un paso, sino un desplazamiento equivocado. Como si anduviera por el aire, por el cielo. Las lagunas se parecen al aire, al cielo. Perdí el fondo. Desapareció la sensación resbaladiza de las piedras, las hierbas del fondo. Sin abrir los ojos, agité los pies para mantenerme a flote. Como no estaba en el mar, ni en la tierra, fue otro movimiento infructuoso. Supe que algo me atraía desde el fondo. Al tratar de negar esa atracción, desesperada e instintivamente, los pies encontraron raíces, lianas, los tallos largos de los falsos nenúfares. Algo se anudó a mi pierna izquierda y empujó hacia abajo. La incertidumbre, o mejor dicho el miedo. Tal vez abrí los ojos. Tal vez sólo descubrí una confusión y abrí los brazos. Como en el cielo, como si intentara volar. Y, claro, así como no hubiera podido volar en el cielo, tampoco podía en la laguna, y en ningún otro lugar. Son cosas que se aprenden rápido, que incluso se saben sin que se aprendan. El agua me vencía con rapidez, que era, al propio tiempo, de una inusitada lentitud. Y no era sumergirse en el agua, claro está, sino en el fango. Estoy seguro de que me sorprendió cómo dejaba de transcurrir el tiempo. Estoy seguro de que dejé de respirar durante aquella eternidad.

Los brazos me alzaron, me sostuvieron por los sobacos,  me llevaron a los güines de la orilla. Cuando abrí los ojos con un largo suspiro, Igor estaba sobre mí, hundía mi abdomen, abría mis brazos, pegaba su boca a la mía, intentando trasmitirme la vitalidad de su aliento. Al ver que yo reaccionaba, quedó inmóvil, en posición de acecho, los ojos verdosos, muy pegados a los míos, abiertos por el asombro, volvieron a adquirir poco a poco la jovialidad y la sabiduría. Suspiró a su vez, sonrió de un modo que no olvidaré. Una sonrisa a la que faltaba poco para abrirse en una franca carcajada. Profirió unas cuantas maldiciones y me abrazó y volvió a pegar sus labios a los míos para darme su aliento. Lo apreté contra mí y cerré los ojos. Al cabo de no sé cuánto tiempo, se irguió de un salto. Desde mi posición yaciente, lo vi como lo que en ese momento era, un gigante. Los dos estábamos cubiertos de yerbas y barro. Cualquiera que hubiera observado desde fuera el paisaje de la laguna, no nos habría descubierto, hasta tal punto nos confundíamos el uno con el otro, y con cuanto nos rodeaba, vegetación, agua, tierra, de las que incluso ahora yo conocía definitivamente el sabor. Del mismo modo que tenía en mí, en mi aliento, el aliento de Igor, la saliva de Igor, y eso, lo confieso, me hizo extraordinariamente feliz.

Nos vestimos con lentitud, sin mirarnos, casi sin darnos cuenta de lo que hacíamos. No supe si continuaba lloviznando; tampoco me importaba. Como era de esperar, no recogimos el güin de mis jaulas. Nos sentamos uno al lado del otro en el tronco caído de la palma, y nos agarramos las manos. Creo que mirábamos las malanguetas, los falsos nenúfares y creo que nada mirábamos. O al menos nada que estuviera allí, en el charco al que, con tanto entusiasmo, llamábamos “la laguna”.

4

Regresamos al pueblo andando, mejor dicho: haciendo equilibrio sobre los rieles, como un par de niños. Mi brazo derecho alzado, se enlazó al brazo izquierdo y también alzado de Igor, y, a pesar de que mi amigo era más alto, de extremidades más desarrolladas, hallamos de alguna manera la proporción justa para mantenernos estables sobre los raíles, y recorrer el largo camino hasta la casa. Íbamos cantando, susurrando: “Dame tu inmóvil placidez, derrama tu agua de paz sobre la fiera llama”. Mucho antes de aproximarnos a los primeros corrales, ya había caído la noche. Una noche rápida, fría, sin lunas y sin estrellas. El viento sacudía con fuerza las ramas de los aralejos. No llovía, o tal vez sí, no puedo asegurarlo. Es probable que la llovizna se hubiera convertido en la neblina que borraba los perfiles de las cosas. Entramos bastante tarde en las primeras calles. Las farolas estaban apagadas. Oscuro como la noche, el pueblo formaba parte de la noche, compartían idéntico silencio. Sabíamos que no era un pueblo abandonado porque escuchamos el llanto de un niño y una voz de mujer que intentaba calmarlo, una canción de cuna. Además del canto de los gallos, aquellos gallos enloquecidos del pueblo, que cantaban a cualquier hora. En la puerta de mi casa, Igor pasó su mano por mi cintura, me atrajo hacia sí. No me besó, pero sentí su aliento y eso fue mejor. Su aliento y el olor de su cuerpo, su calor. Con tanta oscuridad, no pude ver la sabiduría de sus ojos verdosos. Sin embargo, su mano en mi cabeza reveló cuanto había en ellos, todo lo que hubiera querido decir y no dijo. Creo que tampoco sonrió. Mi recuerdo, en cambio, lo ve sonriente. “Mañana nos vemos”, dijo. Sólo eso. Tampoco es que hiciera falta más. Entré en mi casa sin hacer ruido, como un fantasma. Supongo que mis padres dormían. La única vida allí parecía proceder de la llama de una vela encendida ante la imagen de San Martín de Porres. Me acosté en el suelo, sin desvestirme. Las baldosas estaban frías. La casa olía a flores, pero mi ropa, mi cuerpo olían a tierra, a cuevas, a musgos, a raíces. Quise dormir. Aunque con aquel júbilo parecía imposible que pudiera cerrar los ojos.

© Abilio Estevez

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