I found myself gazing out of the window. There were some boys playing football on a patch of grass. They were sweaty and shouting and having a great time. I longed to run out and join in the game.
‘Now, stretch your legs!’ said Lupe. She prodded my buttocks to make me clench them. ‘Correct!’
I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh no! I looked more like Chaplin than ever now, posture, legs, everything – only the moustache, the hat and the walking stick were missing.
One hour and fifteen minutes later, we were still there, like performing monkeys at the circus. And to think that I would have to do the same tomorrow and every single day afterwards. It was too much to bear. Then suddenly I heard the most beautiful sound in the world: the bell.
At the break, we ate our lunch at L and 19. The food was very good, at least compared to what I was used to, but there was always somebody ready to complain that they were tired of eating eggs or sardines, or that there should be more chicken. Eggs and sardines did not bother me. I always ate everything with one eye on my plate and the other keeping a lookout in case one of the girls was dieting and there were leftovers. There were always other hungry sharks like me circling round, and I liked to get in first.
After the break we had our first French lesson with a teacher called Soraya, a light-skinned woman of mixed race who was always impeccably dressed. Her silk headscarves, expensive perfumes and immaculate make-up only added to her exotic appeal. She recounted tales of her experiences in Paris, a place of abundance and wonder, where snow fell, trains ran underground and there were no queues. She told us how once, after using a public lavatory, she had spent twenty minutes trying to flush the toilet. ‘Then I looked at the floor and saw a grey button, I pressed it, et voilà!’ We used to laugh at all her stories; we had never heard anything like them before.
For the rest of the afternoon, we had piano lessons with Angela and a class on historical dances with Nuri. We finished at half past six in the evening.
I emerged exhausted and dazed into the hustle and bustle of central Havana. The streets were full of people and traffic and light and noise. I walked past the emblematic buildings of the capital – the Cuba Pavilion, the Capri and the Hotel Nacional, with its tropical groves of coconut palms and its swimming pools, my eyes widening with disbelief and delight at the thought that I was here, alone, at the centre of all this life and luxury. But as I approached the bus-stop it was heaving with people, a seething mass of desperation, suffering and frustration. I glanced from the hotel to the bus queue and back again. They were two different worlds. With a sigh, I joined the crowd at the bus-stop, resigning myself to going back to the real world.
When my last bus finally reached Los Pinos, it was around nine o’clock at night; the odyssey usually took about two and a half hours. A large group of people was gathered outside the shop on the corner and break-dance music was blaring loudly. There was someone dancing in the centre of the circle. I approached warily, concealing myself behind walls and trees. I could see Opito in the distance, dancing without his shirt on. He was doing the routines he and I had always danced together as a pair. The onlookers were clapping and whistling in appreciation. I wanted to go up and join him but instead I got out of there as fast as I could. I was sure that everyone must know by now that my father had made me study ballet and I did not want to suffer any embarrassment.
My father was in. The green Soviet Zil 59, the lorry of the company he worked for, was parked outside.
‘How did you get on?’ he asked me.
‘Fine,’ I said, not wanting to go to bed smarting from a beating after such a long and arduous day.
‘But did you like it?’ he demanded.
‘I prefer football.’
‘To hell with football! Go and get washed, your mother’s heating some water for you.’
And that was all he had to say.
My mother kissed and hugged me and made a fuss of me, wanting me to tell her every detail.
‘Mami, it’s really boring and they make me stand in strange positions.’
‘What do you mean strange?’
‘Like this, like Charlie Chaplin.’ And I showed her.
My sisters started giggling.
‘It’s not funny!’ I shouted at them.
‘That’s enough now, Yuli. Go and get washed, and you girls come and eat, the food’s already on the table.’
After dinner, I collapsed into bed. That night I dreamt that I was playing in a football match and that I had scored the winning goal. Everyone carried me on their shoulders and threw me up high, really high, into the air. They were all proud of me, and even the coach, who only a little while before had killed my hopes, was now pleased to have me in his team. I was ecstatically happy for a few seconds.
Then the alarm went off. It was five o’clock. I had slept so deeply that I had forgotten about the bedsprings and there was a streak of blood on my right thigh. I dried it quickly and got dressed, still half asleep. My sisters were snoring as always. My father had already left in his lorry without saying goodbye.
I remembered my dream. It made me feel happy. I drank my milky coffee, picked up my rucksack, kissed my mother and went out to meet Alexis and Alexander. We walked to the bus-stop and there we were, ready to start the new day.
To hell with dreams!
About six months after I started ballet school I came home one Wednesday evening to hear wailing coming from our apartment. As I hurried up the stairs, the wailing grew louder.
‘It’s me, Yuli,’ I called.
My father opened the door. My sisters were sitting in the living room with tears in their eyes that they hurriedly brushed away. I assumed that my father had been telling them off for not doing their homework. It had been a while since I had done mine, so I moved nervously in the direction of the kitchen to look for my mother.
‘Yuli, wait,’ said Papá.
Oh hell, now it is my turn, I thought to myself, breathing deeply and crossing my fingers.
‘Your mother’s been taken to hospital.’
Then there was total silence in the living room. I did not understand. I looked at the faces of my sisters as they began to cry again, then I looked my father in the eye.
‘What do you mean taken to hospital?’
‘She’s had a stroke.’
My father’s words seemed to be coming from a great distance. I ran to the kitchen in a panic, searching for my mother. I checked the patio and the bathroom, nobody there. I returned to the living room.
‘What’s a stroke?’ I asked, covering my mouth with my hands.
‘It’s a brain haemorrhage.’
‘A what?’
‘Bleeding inside her brain.’
My mother had been doing her housework, washing the floor, dusting. She liked to keep the place spotless. She even cleaned the old man’s shrine, getting rid of the flies and other insects attracted by the half-rotting fruit that the stone and iron idols left untouched. She stopped for a moment to go to the bathroom and a vein exploded in her head. She lost consciousness almost immediately, but not before emitting a few loud screams. My father was working, as always, driving his lorry.