Natasha is my girlfriend. Sometimes I love her. Sometimes I don’t think of her at all. When I met her she had a broken leg. I was visiting my friend Abel, who sells mobile phone minutes and lives down the hall from her in a building behind the Capitolio. I heard her crying, calling for anyone. I thought it was an old woman who’d fallen, but when I pushed the door open I saw a girl, maybe twenty-five, standing like an ibis on one leg, leaning on a metal crutch, her other leg bent and floating in a plaster cast. The stray crutch lay meters from her reach across the broken tile floor.
She looked angry even though I was there to help her. I stepped into her apartment, saw she was alone, picked up the crutch, and handed it to her. She slipped it under her arm and thanked me….
I asked her name and she told me Natasha, embarrassed the way we of our generation are to have Russian names.
“It’s ok,” I told her. “My name’s Vladimir.”
And again, as with so many stories in this year’s volume (or maybe I’m just noticing it more), there’s a dichotomy. Or rather, several dichotomies: Cuba and the world. The young, single girlfriend, and the older, married girlfriend. But most striking: the dichotomy of time. Past and future; then and now; now and some day.
It took a while for me to get oriented. I had no idea what the whole embarrassment about Russian names implied. I didn’t know that Cubans of 25 years ago gave their kids Russian manes. I’m American, so Cuba is a mystery to me, ironic since it’s so close and that very closeness is why it’s been shrouded in mystery. A Canadian friend once mentioned going to Cuba, and I was kind of shocked: isn’t that forbidden, or at least severely restricted? I had the same initial reaction when I read in Engel’s Contributor Note that she had gone to Cuba to research her novel The Veins of the Ocean. Of course, things are a bit different now, but the more things change…
Vladimir and Natasha’s quixotic romance plays out in the shadow of the Campoamor, the Havana performance hall closed in the 60s and falling to ruin. The metaphor is obvious (and yes, there is in real life an eccentric who lives in the ruins of the Campoamor). The mere presence of the building, more than descriptions of the bleak cityscape or their daily struggles, gives the story a melancholy tone, and creates the sense of multiple times existing at once, a crumbling reminder of the Havana of Hemingway and Sinatra.
We sit near what used to be the stage, where great performers once sang, where elaborate sets and intricate costumes were worn….Here in the Campoamor she is again that girl of the ripped sofa, who looks at me as if I pulled her out of darkness. Not the hard-edged girl I see walking on the street when she thinks she’s alone and doesn’t know I’m watching.
Here in the Campoamor I love only her.
Divided loyalties play out as Vladimir shuttles between Natasha and Lily, between staying and leaving. Home, however flawed it may be, is still home.
I find it interesting that for the second story in a row, we have a writer who doesn’t write. Vladimir’s description of not-writing is particularly acute: “I hear the sentences, see each phrase come together like pearls on a string, but when it comes time to write them they evaporate…..” I’ve heard editors frown on “writer stories” because they’re ubiquitous, but only a writer can do justice to not-writing. I’ve done some amazing writing when I’m in bed almost falling asleep, but by the time I get to a pen and paper it’s gone. Or maybe all that was there in the first place was the sense that something was there, a Campoamor of words in my brain.
I think the best guide to the story is found in Engel’s Contributor Note:
I wanted to write a story that reflected the ambiguous loyalties I observed in so many young people in Cuba, the ways that patriotism and survival are often in direct conflict, the negotiation of public and private life, and respective hidden desires…. I wrote it to remind myself of that particular time at the end of 2014, when there was a blend of cautious hope and skepticism that change might come to the island after decades of suffocating stillness.~~ Patricia Engel
I’m not sure why dilapidated buildings are so evocative. Is it just me? Maybe they evoke the ruins of Ozymandias, or a sense of what could have been. Here in particular, the Janus faces are both lined with nostalgia and regret even as they glow with hope.