grotesquely in the rain.
“Yamilet, what’s going on?” Usnavy called out to her. “What are you doing?”
She rushed by him with doorknobs and light switches dangling from her hands like viscera. “What does it look like?”
It looked, Usnavy thought, like a scourge of locusts. His neighbors swarmed the body of the place, each tearing off bits that seemed two or three times their size and weight. They worked like the rafters at Cojímar, in utter silence. The only sound came from rocks groaning as they were moved, the hard human breathing of such extraordinary effort, and the occasional mumbled courtesy or warning extended a bystander such as himself.
In a moment, Usnavy realized he was drip-drying, the rain having stopped abruptly, the warmth slowly returning to his face and shoulders. He felt the water still on him running down, inexorably pulled by the magic of gravity. It clung to the bottom edges of his T-shirt, the rim of his short sleeves, and the seams of his pants. The rest of his clothing stiffened a bit as if touched by a natural starch.
Usnavy looked up—it was only mid-morning and the sun, though rising, wasn’t quite high enough to hide the beauty of a western rainbow, its red arch sweeping across the colonial rooftops. He located the orange, yellow, and green layers that dropped down—like on his own lamp at home—and then just below the first rainbow, a second, paler one, barely visible, like the reflection in his own amazed eyes.
To his surprise, Usnavy spotted a glint of the same swatch of colors in the earthly rubble before him, now stripped clean of every usable element. He leaned forward and squinted, holding onto the handlebars of the bikes on either side of him, trying to make out exactly what it was. Everyone seemed to be walking away now; no one else appeared to care or even notice the tiny fountain of colors. Yet the beams danced and danced: ruby, gold, emerald.
With the bikes at his sides, Usnavy pulled up as close as he could to the edge of the wreckage, but he was still too far to decipher the precise secret of the light in the ruins. With luck, he thought, he might be able to maneuver the bikes over there. But after venturing a bit in to the destruction site, it became clear that was impossible: There were rusted nails poking out everywhere, broken cement, sharp rocks, slippery puddles of rain. The tires wouldn’t make it; the chains might get caught on something. And the bikes were so heavy.
Again Usnavy leaned on the bikes and stretched forward for a closer look, but the shards of color sparkled obliquely. He wondered if perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. He’d heard on the streets how the food shortages had begun taking their toll on people, how the new spartan diets had started to eat at some, making their bones mushy, causing paralysis and blindness in others.
Usnavy rubbed his eyes, looked again. Then, to be sure he wasn’t imagining anything, he pulled a coin—a hollow Cuban coin—out of his pocket and pitched it in the direction of the shiny treasure. The coin struck something, producing a little geyser of what looked like red mist or powder.
Usnavy was taken aback. He put the bikes down in a pile, Obdulio’s newer one on top so it wouldn’t get scratched, and rather than undo the chain around his waist and deal with that complication, he snapped the American U-shaped lock on the necks of both bikes so that they seemed to be embracing. He dashed to the lights, skipping over chunks of broken walls, rusted steel spokes, shredded paperback books, and the inevitable orange slush from the old building’s life fluids.
The lights! Usnavy got down on his knees. The lights came from a lamp like his, only small, injured, its stained-glass panels fractured, strings of soft mucilage barely holding onto a piece of glass here, a loose wire there. Usnavy unearthed the heavy brass base, shoved aside the pieces of cement that pinned it, and held the lamp, letting
“Yamilet, what’s going on?” Usnavy called out to her. “What are you doing?”
She rushed by him with doorknobs and light switches dangling from her hands like viscera. “What does it look like?”
It looked, Usnavy thought, like a scourge of locusts. His neighbors swarmed the body of the place, each tearing off bits that seemed two or three times their size and weight. They worked like the rafters at Cojímar, in utter silence. The only sound came from rocks groaning as they were moved, the hard human breathing of such extraordinary effort, and the occasional mumbled courtesy or warning extended a bystander such as himself.
In a moment, Usnavy realized he was drip-drying, the rain having stopped abruptly, the warmth slowly returning to his face and shoulders. He felt the water still on him running down, inexorably pulled by the magic of gravity. It clung to the bottom edges of his T-shirt, the rim of his short sleeves, and the seams of his pants. The rest of his clothing stiffened a bit as if touched by a natural starch.
Usnavy looked up—it was only mid-morning and the sun, though rising, wasn’t quite high enough to hide the beauty of a western rainbow, its red arch sweeping across the colonial rooftops. He located the orange, yellow, and green layers that dropped down—like on his own lamp at home—and then just below the first rainbow, a second, paler one, barely visible, like the reflection in his own amazed eyes.
To his surprise, Usnavy spotted a glint of the same swatch of colors in the earthly rubble before him, now stripped clean of every usable element. He leaned forward and squinted, holding onto the handlebars of the bikes on either side of him, trying to make out exactly what it was. Everyone seemed to be walking away now; no one else appeared to care or even notice the tiny fountain of colors. Yet the beams danced and danced: ruby, gold, emerald.
With the bikes at his sides, Usnavy pulled up as close as he could to the edge of the wreckage, but he was still too far to decipher the precise secret of the light in the ruins. With luck, he thought, he might be able to maneuver the bikes over there. But after venturing a bit in to the destruction site, it became clear that was impossible: There were rusted nails poking out everywhere, broken cement, sharp rocks, slippery puddles of rain. The tires wouldn’t make it; the chains might get caught on something. And the bikes were so heavy.
Again Usnavy leaned on the bikes and stretched forward for a closer look, but the shards of color sparkled obliquely. He wondered if perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. He’d heard on the streets how the food shortages had begun taking their toll on people, how the new spartan diets had started to eat at some, making their bones mushy, causing paralysis and blindness in others.
Usnavy rubbed his eyes, looked again. Then, to be sure he wasn’t imagining anything, he pulled a coin—a hollow Cuban coin—out of his pocket and pitched it in the direction of the shiny treasure. The coin struck something, producing a little geyser of what looked like red mist or powder.
Usnavy was taken aback. He put the bikes down in a pile, Obdulio’s newer one on top so it wouldn’t get scratched, and rather than undo the chain around his waist and deal with that complication, he snapped the American U-shaped lock on the necks of both bikes so that they seemed to be embracing. He dashed to the lights, skipping over chunks of broken walls, rusted steel spokes, shredded paperback books, and the inevitable orange slush from the old building’s life fluids.
The lights! Usnavy got down on his knees. The lights came from a lamp like his, only small, injured, its stained-glass panels fractured, strings of soft mucilage barely holding onto a piece of glass here, a loose wire there. Usnavy unearthed the heavy brass base, shoved aside the pieces of cement that pinned it, and held the lamp, letting
Similar Books
