little lamp, the injured one he’d brought home from the derrumbe—he set himself on a route through Old Havana, scoping out the possibilities of finding another small and simple thing. If he could get some glass to match that of his find, he could figure out later how to cut it and work it into the frame (which needed to be straightened out and reinforced).
Often, though, what he spied instead were vitrales—those stainedglass portals above doors or windows—usually drawn like petals or blossoms, but in primary reds and blues, yellows and nebulous white. They were very pretty, he thought, but a little vulgar, certainly not gorgeous like his magnificent lamp, or even the injured one, with their tight, meticulous designs, their colors like dawn or the many shades the sea boasts when it nestles against the coast.
The purpose of the vitrales, he realized, was exactly the opposite of that of the lamps. Instead of delivering light, the vitrales were designed to temper its intensity. They were part of the eighteenth-century criollo architects’ scheme—with impossibly high ceilings, top-to-bottom windows, fluttering shutters—to create dark little rooms, cool and dry, a refuge from the heat and daze of the tropics. Instead of cradling its inhabitants in a homey shade, criollo architecture obliterated any notion of privacy and left them as exposed as nomads on the Sahel, victims to every climatic extreme. The floor-to-ceiling windows were essentially doors with bars, allowing anyone on the streets to put a spotlight on life inside at any time: a young woman doing the wash in a metal tub, kids reading imported comic books, a circle of seniors playing mah-jongg.
The tall rooms usually opened up to a central patio ringed by a balcony that served as both perch and thoroughfare. Without hallways, the tenants used these terraces to navigate from room to room. But when it rained or stormed, they became wet and slippery, forcing the residents inside, knocking from bedroom door to bedroom door, tiptoeing around weeping widows in moments of prayer, embarrassed young lovers, or harried mothers hoping for a moment of quiet.
Now here he was, suddenly a voyeur, contributing to the spectacle: eyeing every flash of light in each humble home, sticking his nose between the window bars to see if he could spy a lamp inside, even talking up old women (and some young ones too, who surely thought him an amusing old man, not lecherous but eccentric), just to find out if there were more of these lamps somewhere out there and what he could learn from them. Instinctively, Usnavy refrained from talking to men—the few who might hang out at home during the thermal afternoons—afraid they might see through him, all the way to his newly emerging and embarrassing cupidity.
“Oh, yes, they’re American, the lamps you’re talking about,” said an elderly woman with a kindly grandmother’s face. They were talking through the bars on her window, like courting teenagers. She was jittery in all her extremities, mahogany-colored. Usnavy imagined her ancestors tender and sweet, among the thousands of outwitted, unwilling seafarers at Badagry or Gorée more than a century ago.
“Excellent lamps, excellent—as only Americans can make them,” she continued.
She lived only blocks from Usnavy, though it seemed a universe away. He was sure he’d spotted a large auspicious shape above her shoulder, a muted aurora. “They’re for kings and presidents, you know, for kings and presidents …”
“Kings and presidents?” Usnavy asked with a laugh as he tried to focus on what appeared to be an extraordinary shade draped in shadow above a table in a back room. One of the rear walls seemed to be tilting.
“Yes, every palace has one—every palace in every country. Somebody told me that. I mean, in civilized countries,” the old woman went on.
“Every one?” he asked, making time, wondering why he’d never noticed that before, curious as to how it
Often, though, what he spied instead were vitrales—those stainedglass portals above doors or windows—usually drawn like petals or blossoms, but in primary reds and blues, yellows and nebulous white. They were very pretty, he thought, but a little vulgar, certainly not gorgeous like his magnificent lamp, or even the injured one, with their tight, meticulous designs, their colors like dawn or the many shades the sea boasts when it nestles against the coast.
The purpose of the vitrales, he realized, was exactly the opposite of that of the lamps. Instead of delivering light, the vitrales were designed to temper its intensity. They were part of the eighteenth-century criollo architects’ scheme—with impossibly high ceilings, top-to-bottom windows, fluttering shutters—to create dark little rooms, cool and dry, a refuge from the heat and daze of the tropics. Instead of cradling its inhabitants in a homey shade, criollo architecture obliterated any notion of privacy and left them as exposed as nomads on the Sahel, victims to every climatic extreme. The floor-to-ceiling windows were essentially doors with bars, allowing anyone on the streets to put a spotlight on life inside at any time: a young woman doing the wash in a metal tub, kids reading imported comic books, a circle of seniors playing mah-jongg.
The tall rooms usually opened up to a central patio ringed by a balcony that served as both perch and thoroughfare. Without hallways, the tenants used these terraces to navigate from room to room. But when it rained or stormed, they became wet and slippery, forcing the residents inside, knocking from bedroom door to bedroom door, tiptoeing around weeping widows in moments of prayer, embarrassed young lovers, or harried mothers hoping for a moment of quiet.
Now here he was, suddenly a voyeur, contributing to the spectacle: eyeing every flash of light in each humble home, sticking his nose between the window bars to see if he could spy a lamp inside, even talking up old women (and some young ones too, who surely thought him an amusing old man, not lecherous but eccentric), just to find out if there were more of these lamps somewhere out there and what he could learn from them. Instinctively, Usnavy refrained from talking to men—the few who might hang out at home during the thermal afternoons—afraid they might see through him, all the way to his newly emerging and embarrassing cupidity.
“Oh, yes, they’re American, the lamps you’re talking about,” said an elderly woman with a kindly grandmother’s face. They were talking through the bars on her window, like courting teenagers. She was jittery in all her extremities, mahogany-colored. Usnavy imagined her ancestors tender and sweet, among the thousands of outwitted, unwilling seafarers at Badagry or Gorée more than a century ago.
“Excellent lamps, excellent—as only Americans can make them,” she continued.
She lived only blocks from Usnavy, though it seemed a universe away. He was sure he’d spotted a large auspicious shape above her shoulder, a muted aurora. “They’re for kings and presidents, you know, for kings and presidents …”
“Kings and presidents?” Usnavy asked with a laugh as he tried to focus on what appeared to be an extraordinary shade draped in shadow above a table in a back room. One of the rear walls seemed to be tilting.
“Yes, every palace has one—every palace in every country. Somebody told me that. I mean, in civilized countries,” the old woman went on.
“Every one?” he asked, making time, wondering why he’d never noticed that before, curious as to how it
Similar Books
