That’s it. The telephone. That’s the first word that comes to mind whenever I think of the convict. It’s clear that I won’t go visit him. If he’s waiting to see me, which I doubt, then he should wait sitting down. I don’t want any trouble. But maybe we could talk on the phone. Is there a phone on death row? I suppose there must be one, though there’s none listed in the directory. I’ve looked, and there’s nothing. A state secret. Perhaps I could find the number through some less orthodox route (c’mon, I wasn’t kidding when I said I was a warrior), and then call later, from a public phone far from the Naroca, so that I won’t be identified by those who are always spying, should they decide to trace the call. That little trick might work. But it still wouldn’t be citizen Policarpo who answers the phone. How could I get them to put him on? Hmm. I have no idea. I’m going to have to think about it with calm. I only need a half a minute with him, maybe less. Just enough time to see if I recognize his voice... or not. Whichever way it went, it would be a huge relief for me. What bothers me most about all this is the uncertainty, the doubt, the suspicion... But how in the devil can I access him or, more precisely, his voice? How? How? How? There was a period of time when I was brilliant and could come up with all kinds of schemes to get my way in all sorts of complicated situations. But now I think I’m getting kind of dumb because of the insomnia, since I can’t come up with a thing.
I don’t have anything to do tonight. The work I had — that part was true — I finished at the end of last month and sent it off. I’ve gone back to dying my hair ash-blond, which is my natural color. So I settle languidly into the couch in my studio, with just one light on, a couple of big pillows under my head, a whiskey on the rocks, a cigarette, and the phone close at hand. Meanwhile, Horowitz plays Rachmaninov very softly, as if caressing my ears.
After forty-eight hours straight without sleep, I can’t think about anything. I go off on tangents, just letting the ideas flow however they wish. London. I’m supposed to go to London, next month at the latest. But I’m not exactly dying to do the paperwork. My Israeli passport is valid everywhere in the world, I think, except here. To get through security at the airport here, I have to use my Cuban passport, which means asking for an exit permit, something I find irritating. It makes me feel like a prisoner, though I know at this point in my life I should be used to these things. Although, in service to the truth, that’s not the only reason I’m reluctant to begin the process of traveling. Deep down, I don’t want to fly to London, or anywhere else, because I still hold out hope that the guy will call. If my suspicions turn out to be true, if he’s alive and well and loose in Havana, he will call me. Oh yes. He can’t not call me. It’s an essential part of his routine, we could even say its culmination. His thing is kidnapping, raping, killing... and then telling me all about it. If he calls, I’m going to go out with him. It’ll have to be quick, right away, before there’s another scattering of corpses and the whole city goes up in arms and something comes between us, whether it’s the police or an inopportune jerk like the Beast of Macagua 8. Yes, I’m going to dive into the black of night for once. It’s decided. Well, it’s always been decided. From that first call, when he described from A to Z what he was going to do to his victim that night, and I later realized he had in fact done it to the T, well, he proved he was no joker calling just to talk stupidities. That’s when I smelled blood. And I went on alert, just lying in wait. There’s no point in fooling myself: I’m a predator too. Except that I’m not turned on by bunnies, I’m not turned on by easy prey. No sir. What gets me hot is always difficult, always requires ingenuity, courage, and patience; it’s challenges. That’s why I’m going to fire a shot right into my dear Ted Bundy’s neck. I’ll be his last passenger. Later, who knows... maybe I’ll finally get some sleep.
Translation by Achy Obejas
The scene
by Mylene Fernández Pintado
Malecón
I was sitting on the terrace when the electricity went out over the part of the city that I can see from here. Just then I heard my mother calling me. She is very ill. She’ll die soon. I’ve got a calendar in the kitchen where I’ve circled two dates. One is my mother’s death. The other is the last day to move out of this building. I should have inverted the order, because we have to leave the building tomorrow and my mother has two weeks to live.
When my mother was first diagnosed, everyone who cares about her advised me to leave her at the hospital in the care of doctors and nurses in case of an emergency. A few volunteered to sit with her. These were the same people who insisted that I don’t love her, that I’m selfish and don’t know anything about sacrifice. They thought I couldn’t hear them, that I’d fallen asleep in the rocking chair I brought into my mother’s room so I can watch her while she rests, and to be near when she needs me.
When the building was in working order, we had a woman who came to take care of the house and a nurse who gave my mother her shots. But now they can’t climb so many stairs. Now I give my mother her shots and do all the grocery shopping. I’ve told my mother that these people don’t come anymore because we can’t afford to pay them. I don’t want to tell her that the building barely exists anymore.
There’s no one here but us now. And since they turned off the electricity, no one comes to visit. We live on the fourteenth floor and the elevator doesn’t work anymore. Nor the motor that pumps water. But none of that is important. All the water tanks on the roof are full. And there are a lot of them, so there’s water all day long and there will be water long after we don’t need it anymore. It’s true that the refrigerator doesn’t work, but I buy my mother’s drinking water already chilled at the market. I buy her food there too. She only eats ham-and-cheese croissants and ice cream. Or ate. Lately, she barely touches food; she makes a pained gesture and abandons the plate between the sheets.
I found out about the city’s plans for our building when I was asked to a meeting at the office of Architecture and Urbanism near our home. It was on the twentieth floor on Malecón Avenue, with a view of the sea. The hallway walls were full of photos of our neighborhood in Vedado. Sometimes I think Vedado is so scattered and rife with transients that it’s difficult to think of it as one neighborhood, but rather many. People like to come here, to go to Coppelia dressed in their Sunday best and spend the entire day in line, to stroll La Rampa on the sidewalks still carved with things by Lam and Mariano. They go to the movies and sit along the Malecón.