No Way Home: A Cuban Dancer’s Story
‘And that’s why your nose is like it is,’ my father always told me.
‘He got his wide nose from you, not from the damn drip,’ my mother would reply, rolling her eyes and assuring me that the incident with the gun was just a story my father had made up.
Aunt Lucia, unlike Aunt Mireya, treated us all equally. Perhaps that is why we loved her more, or maybe it was her sweet, retiring nature. She did not visit us frequently, but when she did she would hold us and play with us all without discrimination. Sometimes, when my father was working, they would all visit us at once: Lucia with her tiny baby Jennie, Mireya with her husband Frank and her daughter, Corairis, and Granny. Everyone would sit in the wicker armchairs and on the hard chairs from around the dining-room table. Mireya would take Berta onto her knees and Marilín and I would be left sitting on the floor. Without saying anything, Lucia would pass little Jennie to my mother and would beckon to Marilín and me to go and sit on her lap, which we would do, taking one of her knees each. Apart from my mother, she was the only one who held us.
I was seven years old when they all came to live with us. It was towards the end of 1980 and Cuba had opened its borders to anyone who wanted to leave. My mother kept trying to persuade my father that my grandmother, two aunts and cousin Corairis (Mireya and Frank had split up, and Lucia’s little baby was staying with her father) should come to live with us while they awaited the arrival of their exit permits for Venezuela, where relatives would help them make their way to Miami. But every time my mother mentioned the matter, my father would swallow hard, clench his iron fists inside his pockets and mutter, ‘I don’t know if I can.’ Eventually, though, he relaxed his hands, calloused from so much clenching, and managed to stifle his displeasure.
Papá moved back to the living room and I returned to the single bed with my mother so that Aunt Mireya, Granny and Corairis could have the double bed. Marilín moved into the bottom bunk with Berta so Aunt Lucia could have her bed, although this arrangement did not last long. Gentle, loving Lucia developed schizophrenia and was admitted to hospital, where, two weeks later, she took her own life. She was twenty-six years old. Soon after, the paperwork that was needed to apply for a visa arrived from our Venezuelan relatives, who, in light of the tragedy, had agreed to host everyone, including my mother and my beloved white sister, Berta. Everyone, except the blacks. My mother and sister decided to stay with Marilín, my father and me, but it was very painful for my mother to be separated from the rest of her family in this way.
I understood very little of life and much less of what was happening in the house, but I remember the day that my mother seemed to change into a different person, the moment she said farewell to her mother on the balcony of our apartment in Los Pinos.
My mother had not eaten for days, so anxious was she about the approach of the Friday when they all would part. She knew the day would arrive whatever happened, but she was still hoping for a miracle.
‘I don’t know what you’re going to do, María, but I’m leaving. This is your last opportunity!’ Aunt Mireya said to her.
It was unlikely that they would ever see each other again. For all any of them knew, Granny would die in exile and my mother would not be at her side to hold her hand and wipe the sweat from her brow when Death arrived to carry off her body and her love for ever.
On the other hand, my mother had us, her children, a different kind of love. What could she do? It was an impossible situation and she lost either way.
‘Mireya, why don’t you think again?’ she pleaded with her sister. ‘You don’t know what’s waiting for you there … Mami is too old for all these changes, you’ll be better off here.’
‘What … Better off here? No way! You can stay if you want to, María. I’m taking Mami.’
And she did.
The whole of the neighbourhood witnessed the parting. A car was waiting opposite the door of our downstairs neighbour Candida’s house. The dogs stood still, watching, as did the families of Cristobál and Delia, along with Milli, Chinchán and Kenia from over the way and Diana and El Chino; they were all there. Many sat on the street corners, on the walls and on the edges of the pavements. Ramona, the religious neighbour on the right, was sitting in her rocking chair, as were Omar and his family, the neighbours on the left. My mother came out onto the balcony with her arms around my grandmother’s neck, resting her head against my grandmother’s cheek, trying to show a brave face. She did not manage it. Her fear was so palpable that even the dogs could smell it.
We were waiting below next to the car. My father had already stowed the suitcases away. He had his right arm draped across Marilín’s shoulders and her arm in turn was draped across mine. I was holding Berta, my white sister, by the hand.
‘Berta, come here!’ said my aunt Mireya.
Berta let go of me and went over to her. My aunt hugged and kissed her then whispered something in her ear and Berta began to cry. My cousin Corairis approached and gave me a hug and a kiss then did the same with my father and with Marilín. Both girls wept. My father and I kept our composure.
My mother had cried out all her tears. She started to come down the stairs, very slowly, leading my grandmother by the arm. When they reached the bottom they embraced again, my mother’s eyes glinting as the full glare of the sun shone onto her damp eyelids. Some of the neighbours had tears in their eyes, even the men. They had probably been through the same thing themselves or were moved by the thought that they might go through it one day.
‘Mami, get a move on, we’ll be late.’
Aunt Mireya shoved the last suitcase into the car and turned to say goodbye to my mother. She hugged her tightly. My mother’s face crumpled. My aunt said they would write, and with that went to hug and kiss my sister Berta. She gave Marilín and me a kiss but no hug, and accorded my father a distant handshake; then she bundled my grandmother and Corairis into the car and slammed the door. The engine revved.
Mamá was left standing in the middle of the street, a shrunken shadow of herself, with swollen eyes and hollow cheeks, watching the car as it drove into the distance. Her gaze did not waver until it finally disappeared, then she turned to stare at her left hand in which she was holding a little blue book: her passport.
The promised letters never arrived.
CHAPTER TWO
The Photograph
I was always called Yuli in the neighbourhood, a name my sister Berta had given me. My father, however, had a different story.
‘Yuli is the spirit of an Indian brave from the tribe of the Sioux Indians in North America, who is with you all the time and whom I talk to every day. That’s how you got your nickname and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
My mother would sigh heavily and roll her eyes up to the ceiling but she would not say anything.
By the age of seven I was already known on my block as a fruit thief. My scheme was simple and executed with precision. Our building stood on a corner where four streets intersected. Directly opposite was Rene’s house, diagonally opposite was Zoilita’s house and on the other corner there was a wall that was used as a meeting place by the local kids. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I would steal Rene’s mangos, and at weekends I would steal Zoilita’s. Tuesdays and Thursdays were reserved for Yolanda, the neighbour who lived two doors away from my building. We took our operation very seriously because it was only by selling fruit that we could afford the entrance fee to the local cinema or pay for a ride round the block in a horse-drawn carriage. Pedro Julio would ring the doorbell, Tonito would keep lookout to make sure no one was coming from the other direction, and as soon as Rene had gone to open the door, I would squeeze carefully through a hole in the barbed wire fence that surrounded his back yard and throw all the mangos, plums and guavas I could lay my hands on into a sack.
The plan worked like a charm until, one day, Rene nearly caught me.
I was happily stuffing fruit into my sack when I heard Pedro Julio and Tonito shout from the street: ‘Run Yuli! Rene’s coming!’
I quickly threw the sack of fruit into the empty overgrown plot of land on the other side and started to scale the fence, when, to my horror, Rene seized me by one leg.
‘I’ve got you, you little rat, just you wait and see what I’m going to do with you!’
‘Let me go, let me go!’ I shouted kicking my legs.
Rene had never come close to catching me before and I was terrified. Thank God, it had rained the day before and, as a result, I was completely covered in mud from Rene’s waterlogged garden. I slipped from his clutches with one mighty tug of my leg.
‘Listen you little bandit, when I catch you I’ll kill you! I’m going to tell your father.’
He never did manage to catch me though, because nobody knew his garden better than I did.
Having made good our escape, all three of us ambled towards the forest.
‘That was a bit close, Yuli, he almost got you. I think we ought to rob some other people and leave Rene alone,’ said Pedro Julio as we passed the lorry repair shop.
‘You always say that, Pedro Julio! Rene’s too slow, he couldn’t even catch a tortoise,’ I replied.
Tonito stopped in the middle of the street to count how many mangos were in the bag.
‘I think there’s enough here to get all three of us into the cinema. Why don’t we try to sell them to Cundo?’
‘Good idea!’ I said slapping my partner’s hand and we walked towards the salesman’s wooden house.
We opened the gate and shooed away the goats that were blocking our path. Cundo hurried out to meet us immediately.
‘I don’t want to buy anything, go, get out of here!’ said the old man grouchily. It was his usual ruse. As soon as anyone tried to sell him anything, he would grumble and say he was not interested so that he could get a lower price for the goods.
‘Hey Cundo, don’t start that again, it was the same last time with the avocados. If you don’t want the mangos we’ll sell them to Alfredo,’ said Tonito throwing the sack over his shoulder.
‘Take them to Alfredo then, what do I care? Take them and see what he gives you. You lot aren’t the only ones, you know, I’ve got plenty of other people bringing me stuff.’
‘This is your last chance!’ the three of us chorused in unison, and Cundo’s face started to turn red.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll give you a peso for the sack.’
‘No way! Anyone’d give you at least five pesos for that sack, so two pesos or nothing,’ I said holding the sack up in my hands.
‘There’s no doing business with you lot,’ muttered Cundo as he finally agreed to the price.
We took the money, gave him the sack of fruit and continued on towards the pool.
‘Get me some avocados, or plums, anything, whatever you like and bring them here, don’t let Alfredo have them,’ we heard him say as he closed the gate.
On the way to the pool, we passed the fibreboard caves.
‘Hey, Yuli, listen, sounds like there’s someone in there,’ said Tonito.
We took a few tentative steps towards the caves.
‘Tonito, Yuli, keep away! My mother says it’s rude to go near the caves when there are people in them.’
‘What are you talking about, Pedro Julio? Stop bugging us.’
Tonito climbed up onto one of the fibreboard sheets and gave me a hand-up. Pedro Julio lagged behind. Just as we were at the cave entrance, a woman started to scream.
‘Oh, oh, what’s this? Oh, oh I’m dying!’
‘They’re killing her, we’ve got to help! Call someone!’ shouted Pedro Julio and ran off, but Tonito and I peered inside, imagining that we would find the screaming woman with a knife to her throat. What we saw totally confused us. There was a naked man on top of her, thrusting his pelvis backwards and forwards. She was moaning and sweating and with every thrust she let out a scream.
‘I’m dying, I’m dying!’
But there was not any blood.
We whistled to let Pedro Julio know that it was not necessary to call anyone.
‘Why was she screaming?’ asked my friend.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied scratching my head.
In the end we concluded that the man must have had a knife hidden between his legs and, shrugging our shoulders in confusion, we continued on our way to the pool.
As soon as we arrived Tonito and I jumped straight into the water, but Pedro Julio hung back looking nervously at the trees.
‘Pedro Julio, what are you waiting for?’ I asked him.
‘My mother says I’m not to swim here. Remember what happened to Pichon.’
‘Pichon said it was the pool, but the thing is he actually already had worms before he swam here,’ said Tonito and the three of us laughed.
Pedro Julio could not be convinced, however, so Tonito and I left him standing on the edge while we played ‘touched’. One of us would dive under water and the other one had to stay on the surface and try to tap him on the head. Time and time again we dived down into the dark and filthy channels of the pool, sometimes swallowing the sludgy water. The wind rocked the trees and their trunks creaked. The owls hooted as always. There were more frogs than ever, which jumped into the water with us.
‘Careful a frog doesn’t pee on you or you’ll go blind,’ said Pedro Julio, then we heard another voice.
‘Blind! I’ll leave you blind with the beating I’m going to give you!’
I stuck my head out of the pool and saw the imposing and unmistakable figure of my father.
‘You little bastard, how many times have I told you I don’t want to see you swimming in that disgusting water?’
My father pulled me out of the pool by my ear and threw me onto the rocks.
‘Wait, Papito, let me explain!’
My father was not in the mood for explanations.
‘Walk before I crack your head open,’ he said as he dragged me through the undergrowth and rocks.
‘Didn’t I tell you to wait in the house? Have you forgotten that today is the day of the photo? I’m going to kill you!
Shit, I thought as I scrambled along, colliding with the branches and sharp twigs sticking out of the bushes and trees, I had forgotten the photo.
We passed the caves and Cundo’s house and started down the hill. The people came out of their houses when they heard my father shouting. My stormy relationship with my father was a source of entertainment in the neighbourhood.
‘Hey Peeeedro … leeeave the boooyyy alooone!’ said Juanito, the drunk, as my father shook and slapped me about.
‘Out of my way Juanito!’ My old man pushed him roughly.
‘Heeeey, dooon’t you staaart picking on meeee. I’m Juaaaanito the druuuunk!’
We left Juanito with his bottle and continued on down the hill. When we arrived at my building, Zoilita, Rene, Yolanda, Candida, all the neighbours were waiting.
‘Finally you’re going to make him pay,’ they all cheered, as if a runaway criminal had just been captured. Rene was looking very satisfied with himself – he had obviously told my parents where to find me. My father walked me straight past them and up the stairs to our apartment. My mother sluiced me down to get the mud off, dressed me in my only pair of trousers, the better of my two pairs of shoes and my one school shirt. My father insisted that I wear a tie.
‘No, Mami, not the tie!’
‘You, shut your mouth!’ said my old man angrily.
‘There’s no need to yell, Pedro, we’ll make it in time,’ my mother said soothingly.
We went down the stairs once more and the neighbours started to applaud again.
‘Finally, they’re going to turn you into a respectable human being,’ said Rene smiling from his doorway.
No sooner were we inside the big wooden house of the neighbourhood photographer, than he got out a device as old as Methuselah, set it up on the cool, tiled floor and told me to sit still. Then he put his head under a cloth attached to the back of the antique apparatus and pressed a button with his right hand.
A week later my mother collected the photo, framed it and placed it in a corner of the sitting room. That was the first photo ever taken of me and it is the only image that exists of me before ballet entered my life.
CHAPTER THREE
Beginning
All I ever thought about was sport. Football was my obsession. I had ambitions to become a great player. For a long time, without my parents knowing, I tried to get into a school that trained future footballers. Sometimes, however, wanting something badly just is not enough. During the training sessions I would kill myself doing sit-ups and press-ups and running round the track. The fruit of all my labours was that I was selected to play in a match. I touched the ball twice during the game and did not make any mistakes so I was proud of how I had done and left the pitch confident that the coach would give me a scholarship. When the next day the coach treated me with indifference, I did not take it too much to heart. The following day it was the same, however, and gradually over the next few weeks I realized I had no prospects in the team: I just was not good enough. From that moment on my hopes of winning a football scholarship started to evaporate in front of my eyes. My dream of becoming the future Pelé crumbled, and though I persevered, every day the coach treated me just a little bit worse, trying to slowly break my spirit until eventually he succeeded.
It was around that time that the break-dancing craze hit Cuba. My sister Marilín was a magnificent dancer and from time to time she would show me some of her moves and take me with her to street parties. After two months, I had learnt how to spin round on my shoulders and even on my head. When Marilín saw me she was speechless.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ she asked, astonished.
‘Oh just round about …’ I replied, unwilling to go into details.
‘But when did you practise?’ she insisted.
‘In my spare time …’
The truth is that whilst Marilín was at school, I would meet up with a gang of friends in order to practise break-dancing all day long. Bit by bit, we break-dancers started to organize a club in an adjacent neighbourhood called Vieja Linda. There we would close off the streets with rubbish bins to stop cars coming through, and with the music up at full volume we would rehearse new steps in order to compete with other neighbourhoods in Havana. I particularly remember one of these competitions which took place in Parque Lenin, a huge recreation area on the outskirts of the city where at the weekends there would be salsa contests, singing competitions and history or science quizzes for children.
When the break-dancing competition was announced my gang knew it would be an important contest for our reputation and that we could not possibly miss it. So there we were, at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, with all the tools of our trade: dark glasses, gloves worn like Michael Jackson, big baggy shirts and baseball caps. We carried our ghetto-blasters and chomped away on bits of sticking plaster since there was no chewing gum.
The first prize was a trophy with a picture of Lenin surrounded by the hammer and sickle, the second prize was a bag of sweets and the third a diploma. My friend Opito and I were the only members of the gang eligible to compete because the contest was only open to kids under fourteen. Opito and I had won competitions before, dancing as a pair in Cerro and Monaco and other Havana neighbourhoods. Two nine-year-old boys, one white with ginger hair and one black, was a combination that never failed.
All the big names from the Havana break-dancing scene were there: Papo el Bucanda, Alexander ‘the Toaster’ el Tostao, that kid from the Embil district they nicknamed Michael Jackson, and Miguelito la Peste, ‘Mickey the Stink’, himself.
Everybody chewed their pieces of sticking plaster and wore their baseball caps back to front as Opito and I got ready to do our thing. As soon as we began to dance, I was filled with an indescribable sensation of release. Growing up poor had taught all of us Los Pinos kids never to ask for anything, not to have any expectations, and because of this I was quite a timid boy. But when I danced my shyness fell away and I felt like a different person: confident, attractive and free. Along with the first drops of sweat came the desire to shout my existence to the world, to become everything I dreamt. I danced my heart out for half an hour.
At the end of the contest, I was baptized El Moro de Los Pinos – the Moor of Los Pinos – by the rest of the boys in the gang, and Mickey the Stink himself held out his hand to me and said, with a challenging smile, ‘See you around.’
I still have that trophy of Lenin with his hammer and sickle. Those were my first steps towards the art of dance.
The news reached my father’s ears that I was running around the streets with gangs like a bandit.
‘We have to do something, María, otherwise we’re going to lose the boy,’ he said to my mother, in a fury.
Most of the time their conversations revolved around me: they argued continually over how to sort out my future while I continued break-dancing in Vieja Linda and spending my time at street parties. My father swore that he would thrash me to within an inch of my life, but I did not care. I just went on doing what I liked until one day my father happened to bump into our neighbour Candida on the stairs.
She was a good woman with a strident voice who was very much involved with the revolutionary process. Her nephew was one of the principal dancers with the Cuban National Ballet and her two oldest sons Alexis and Alexander went to the Alejo Carpentier School of Ballet, which was situated on the corner of L and 19 in the downtown district of Vedado. When my father started telling her about my exploits, Candida had a suggestion.
‘You say he likes dancing? Why don’t you send him to ballet school then?’
My father’s eyes lit up. ‘Ballet!’ he said and for an instant he was transported back to the cinema where for the first time ever his soul had taken flight. His heart started to beat rapidly as it had on that distant day and suddenly there was hope. He did not think twice: he thanked Candida, said goodbye almost before she’d finished her sentence and raced up the twenty or so steps to our apartment at the speed of light to tell my mother about his new idea. They considered each and every possibility, then together they sat down to wait for me.
Even though I was only nine, I can still remember that day very well. I had just got back from one of my usual break-dance practice sessions. As I went up the steps to the apartment I could see that the door was wide open and a weak light illuminated the interior where my parents were preparing to give me, so they said, some very good news.
‘Sit down, we’ve got something to tell you!’
There was something unusual about my father’s tone and I sensed that something strange was going on. His words unsettled me. What could it be about? I sat down nervously.
‘So you like to dance, eh? Well we’re going to enrol you in a ballet school,’ announced the old man.
‘Ballet? What’s that?’ I asked, perplexed.
My father shot a conspiratorial glance towards my mother, who was looking somewhat flustered, and said:
‘Well, um, it’s, um, it’s the dance of the parasol ladies.’
When she heard this definition my mother collapsed into giggles which lifted the tension for a moment.