Havana, June 12, 1930
–¡¡¡Uuuuuuuuuuu!!! ¡¡¡Uuuuuuuhhhhhhh!!!
Federico howls with pleasure –the nose of the Fiat 1930, at full speed, cuts through the warm air of the streets of Havana– and the wind ruffles his black hair. Standing in the passenger seat, he enjoys the race of the convertible to the docks. Flor laughs at the wheel, looks out of the corner of her eye at her happy friend and accelerates to the fullest.
–Flor... Flor... –Salazar stammers, white as paper, in the back seat, clutching the front seatback with both hands–, we're going to kill each other! Flor faces Dragones Street, passes the Capitol and turns onto Belgium Avenue towards the docks of Havana. She dominates her machine, she feels like a living creature. His noble, swift and brave 'bovine' of her!
-Faster! Faster! – Federico laughs, euphoric and half out of the car.
"We're going to kill each other..." moans Salazar in a strangled voice.
It was Salazar who sounded the alarm, after dinner in Detroit, Carta de Oro rum in the glasses and Federico reciting:
Oh my! Oh my! Oh my!
This look of mine was mine, but it is no longer mine.
This look that trembles naked from alcohol
and fire amazing ships
by the anemones of the docks.
– Docks! Frederick! We have to go, look what time it is! –Salazar pointed out after consulting his chain watch.
I defend myself with this look
that flows from the waves where the dawn does not dare
Federico dissolves in the Havana air, pink and orange and mauve, he sees the plumes of the palm trees greener and brighter than ever, and the arcades of the Plaza del Vapor, on the opposite corner, with porticos crowded with grocery stalls, harmoniously , dried fish and poultry, of newspapers, churrerías and watchmakers, of shoemakers, locksmiths, chandlers and lottery players like the Cantonese, at the door of Chinatown, with its lotteries and gambling venues, and the Shanghai theater, laundries, brothels, funeral homes and opium dens.
I, poet without arms, lost
among the vomiting crowd,
no effusive horse to cut
the thick mosses on my temples
And Flor, full of rum and verses, sees Federico as more of a poet than ever. His friend Federico!
Frederick, Frederick! Salazar has shaken him. Come on, boy, upstairs, we have to go, come on!
–What?
-Yeah I know! And your bags? Salazar asked.
– What suitcases?
–Yours, man of God, your suitcases!
–Well... I haven't made them.
-What do you say?!
-Frederick! Are you in the bullshit? Flor laughed.
Salazar, as if an alligator were running towards him, got up and waved his arms in exasperation:
"We'll lose steam!" Come up, Flower! You go up to Federico's room, pack his suitcase, his trunk, whatever there is! Boy, go with her! Oh Frederick!!!
Alone in Federico's room, on the top floor of the Detroit Hotel, Flor has opened the closet, has pulled out drawers, has collected shirts, pants, bow ties, and the white denim suit. She has folded everything quickly, and into the suitcase. She has been surprised by the paucity of her friend's luggage: a suitcase.
Razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, to the suitcase! Notebook with drawings, papers with letters and doodles, colored pencils, to the suitcase! Flor knows that there is very little time left. He will drive fast! He has closed the suitcase. She hands it over to the black boy and yells at him:
-Runs! Down! Go with Mr. García and Mr. Salazar: put everything in the car, in front! Runs! I'm down right now!
The burly black waiter has come out with Federico's suitcase under his arm. Flor, alone, has walked around the room with an alert look and brisk steps to make sure that she doesn't forget anything here. And then she sees an object on a chair.
A black doll. A black doll. In a pink dress with ruffles. Golden earrings. Curly hair, brown eyes that close and open.
A black doll for a soon to be born girl.
–¡¡¡Uuuuuuuuh!!!
Uuuuuuuhhhhhhh!!! LOL! –Federico laughs, disheveled, full.
–Cavalry Pier! Flower announces. The steam, there! We have arrived! Gentlemen, jump out of the car! To embark!
Antonio Quevedo is on the dock. And Juan Marinello. They embrace their friend for the last time, saying goodbye to their “numerous, warm and rich presence”, as Marinello will later say. Luis Cardoza watches them from the deck. Salazar says goodbye and embarks, with the help of a sailor from the crew who carries suitcases –full of Cuban music slate records to listen to during the trip and in Spain–, including that of Federico and that of a twenty-seven-year-old sagüero singer: Antonio Machin. A bosun, from the gangway, warns Federico: they will set sail without him if he doesn't come up immediately.
“I could still stay in this paradise”, Federico thinks. He looks at his friends, the same ones who six years later will cry when they remember this smile and the sparkle in the eyes of his excited Federico, who tells them:
I am missing in Spain. My friends, things are going to change there. I feel it. Spain will achieve everything we dream of, as you dream for your Cuba. More spiritual elevation and less injustice. And I must help. I owe it to myself: I will take to the peoples the standing poetry that is the theater. I miss in Spain.
Federico is already moving away from Cuba, from the paradise that has taught him to live with full knowledge of himself. Already on the catwalk, he turns because he has heard a cry:
–¡Federico!
Flor yells her name from the Fiat, at the end of the pier. She waves the object she has picked up from the passenger seat and runs towards Federico.
-The doll! – Panting Flor, who before her friend throws herself into his arms and hugs him with all her might.
Flor feels that she has not had and will never have a friend like her. Never before has anyone, man or woman, looked at her with so much heart. Never before has she felt so listened to. She doesn't know if she will live that unique light again. She has never hugged like this, she has never been hugged like this. She wants to melt into Federico's chest. She doesn't want to lose him. Tears stream down both faces.
Before stepping on the deck of the Manuel Arnús, Federico looks at Flor, raises his hand with the black wrist, and with the same passion with which he defends his best verses, he sentences:
I have spent the best days of my life here!
