Yolardis
by: Hojat Salehi
<9>
As it turned out that was the last I saw of her. She did not call on me again. For a few days I wondered what had happened to her. I saw the wonderboy once more when he brought a new batch of working class Italian buddies to Margarita's guesthouse. He seemed busy with his new clientele and when I asked him about Yolardis he said he had not seen her, but in time he would find out.
In the end I decided not to stress myself looking for her. I hardly knew anything about her and having only a week left of my trip, I already sensed the anxiety of returning to my real life. Beginning to feel like a weary foreigner at loose ends I needed to be on the move to change my scenery. The next day I left Havana for Santiago where I spent the remainder of my time in Cuba.
*
It was not until two years later that I went back to Havana. Leaving the airport, my backpack was next to me on the back seat of the taxi and in my hand I held the address card for Casa de Margarita. This time, thanks to the card, I had managed to prove knowledge of where I was going and was spared the hassle of having to pick and prepay for a state-operated hotel at the airport. I had called Margarita in advance about my arrival. To my delight and surprise, she remembered me well as the guapo Americano and had promised me the same room. I was hoping to get there not too late but it was already half past midnight. It had just rained and the streets were wet. The new taxicab zoomed smoothly through the dark and empty avenues of Havana. The taxi driver, a dashing young mulatto, asked:
"Where are you from? Italiano?"
"No. I live in New York."
"Nova Iorque ... el centro del mundo! ... Not your first time here?"
"No. I was here once over two years ago."
"Welcome back to communismo!"
"How is life in Cuba?"
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
0 comments:
Post a Comment