Mona and Other Tales by Reinaldo Arenas Read Free Book Online Page B

continue our trip. My cycle had finally given out, and it would be better if we left it right there and took a taxi back to Manhattan. Elisa wanted to examine the motor herself. “I know about these things,” she explained with a smile. “In my country I have a Lambretta”—that’s what she said—“which is similar to this.” Mistrusting her mechanical skills, I stepped aside to the lookout on the Hudson and lit a cigarette. I had no time to finish it. Giving its characteristic explosion, the starting motor began to roar.
    Elated, we dashed off. Elisa suggested we take I-95 North to a little mountain town near the route to Buffalo. The higher we climbed, the more radiant the autumn noon became. The trees, deep crimson, appeared to be on fire. The fog had dissipated, and a warmish glow seemed to envelop everything. I kept glancing at Elisa in the rearview mirror; she had an expression of sweet serenity. It gave me such pleasure to see her like this, with her look of mysterious abandon, her face against the forest background, that I kept watching her in the little mirror, spellbound. Once, instead of her face, I thought I saw the face of a horrible old man, but I attributed this to our speed, which distorted images. . . . During the afternoon, we reached the mountains, and before dark we stopped at a town on a hill, with one- and two-story houses. More than a town, it looked like a promontory of whitewashed stones, above which rose a pure white church steeple so old that it did not seem to belong in America. Elisa cleared up the mystery for me. The town had been founded in the eighteenth century by a group of European immigrants (Spaniards and Italians), who chose such a remote location in order to be able to hold on to their old traditions. They were peasant folk, and according to Elisa, though they had arrived in 1760, they were still living as if in the Middle Ages. And it was indeed a small medieval city, despite its electricity and running water, and its location on the foothills of a New York mountain. 4
    I was not surprised at Elisa’s knowledge of architecture and history. I have always thought that Europeans, simply by being Europeans, know more about the past than Americans do. Up to a point, if you allow me, they
are
the past.
    The prison bell is ringing: it’s dinnertime, and I run. There, among the inmates and their shouting, and in the midst of all the clatter of dishes and utensils, I feel more secure than here, alone in my cell. To urge myself on, I vow that right after dinner I will continue writing this report.
    Now I am in the prison library. It is eleven P.M. I am thinking that if nothing had happened, I would now be at Wendy’s in my blue uniform with gold braid, behind the glass wall, protected from the cold and inspecting with my clinical eye every woman who passes by. But I have no time for women now. I am imprisoned here for a crime I have not committed, but given my status as a
marielito,
it is the same as if I had. I am waiting here not for my sentence, which by now obviously does not worry me much, but for Elisa, who, as soon as she can, will come and kill me.
    But let’s go back a few days to the night we spent in that old mountain town so dear to Elisa. After walking around for a while, we entered a restaurant that looked like a Spanish inn, something like La Bodeguita del Medio—The Little Inn in the Middle of the Block—a popular restaurant in Havana, which I, as a native, was not allowed to visit, except once, when a tourist, a Frenchwoman, invited me. . . . Elisa knew the place well. She knew how to choose the best table and the best dishes on the menu. It was clear she felt completely at home. And her beauty seemed to grow by the minute. She also knew how to pick a hotel; small and comfortable, it looked like a guest-house. We retired early and made love passionately. I confess that in spite of all my enthusiasm, Elisa was hard to