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248 pages, Paperback
First published April 1, 2014
"Havana was a woman who had once been renowned for her beauty until hard times had soured her. Her hand had gotten heavy with makeup application; her necklines had crept down; her beauty was tainted with vulgarity. But sometimes, when she was alone, after she'd taken off her makeup, she danced in her garden, bare-faced and barefoot, to an old bolero, and the old elegance appeared, normal as a Tuesday evening."
"In Cuba, her baby would be guaranteed health care in a system that boasted a laudable record; despite the decrepit appearances of most of the country's hospitals, world health organizations cite Cuba's infant mortality rate as better than that of the United States. Her child would learn to read and Sandra would be guaranteed at least some food to get him or her through the first few years."
Sometimes there was something of relief in the surrender that Havana forced on privileged foreigners. You couldn’t eat what you wanted to eat, porque no hay, and you couldn’t visit a neighborhood with new buildings because it didn’t exist. Every car, townhouse, staircase, and avenue kept the patina of a city that had given itself to the passage of time and to which I was of no consequence. (117)
The sense of precariousness remained. Businesses could be snatched away; someone with too many ties to the United States could be thrown in jail the way two foreign businessmen who were locked away for a year were; someone who is too critical, as dissident Oswaldo Payá was, could die under suspicious circumstances as he did last year. No one doubts who is still in power. So for some, these changes aren’t anywhere near enough.
Living in Havana had, for me, been a sense of simultaneous discovery and impotence, a monolith of government control Swiss-cheesed with resourcefulness, grace and squalor, yearning and resignation, passion, anesthesia, innocence, and cynicism. And leaving Havana was walking out of a movie before its final scene. But the movie was too long and the climax never seemed to arrive. (198)
Havana was a woman who had once been renowned for her beauty until hard times had soured her. Her hand had gotten heavy with makeup application; her necklines had crept down; her beauty was tainted with vulgarity. But sometimes, when she was alone, after she’d taken off her makeup, she danced in her garden, bare-faced and barefoot, to an old bolero, and the old elegance appeared, normal as a Tuesday evening. (155)
From within the hierarchies of Santería, I suddenly saw, the hierarchies of Cuba seemed less rigid, more scalable to Isnael. In his world, the world that mattered to him, there were less firmly demarcated boundaries between concrete and abstract power.
The closer anyone got to questioning the rhetoric that protected power, the invisible lines separating the owners from the players, the harsher the rejection. This may have applied everywhere, as much in my own country as in Cuba, but in Cuba, young people have always known it. I grew up very American, optimistic and believing that I could do something in the world if I tried hard enough. In Cuba, young people had already changed the world. The word “Revolution” had already acquired a meaning that was close enough to the present that there wasn’t room for another definition. (213)