LITMIR.BIZ

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day arrived. Our first performance was at the National Theatre, a modern building which seated more than two thousand people. I was to perform a quick, energetic Polish dance called the mazurka with Grettel, a light-skinned brunette with almond-shaped honey-coloured eyes. Every time those eyes looked at me, a bolero seemed to echo in the air, but I thought she was far too pretty to bother with someone as rough as me. I often saw her chatting to other boys in the class, boys who were well dressed, with neatly combed hair, and who had more class and better style than me. She and I were completely different. I had no refinement and my hair was never combed. I dropped my consonants and swallowed the ends of words like everyone else in my neighbourhood. Most of the children at the ballet school were brought up in a different way from me. A girl like Grettel was never going to take any notice of a thick-lipped, flat-nosed black kid who lived on the wrong side of town with a lorry driver for a father and an invalid housewife for a mother.

      But if she could never be interested in me, at least we were dancing together. There were eight of us performing in pairs, making geometrical patterns on the stage as we danced the mazurka. I stretched out my arm to Grettel, she rested hers on mine. She looked at me and smiled slightly. I looked at her and felt as if I had turned to liquid. We both continued to mark time without missing a beat.

      The theatre was pulsating with music, light and colour. It was like a fantastic vision. I suddenly understood the true meaning of the word ‘marvellous’. As the dance drew to a close, a great torrent of applause cascaded round us, and for the first time in my life I felt a sense of purpose. All this hard work meant something. I was playing a role in the great circus we like to call life.

      ‘Bravooo! Bravooo!’ the audience cheered.

      My heart felt as if it were bursting out of my chest. What a sensation! We beamed as we bowed and still the applause continued. We bowed again then retreated upstage. The curtain fell.

      I turned to congratulate Grettel and to my huge surprise she stepped towards me and kissed me softly on the cheek.

      ‘Love me oh so lovingly, treat me oh so sweetly …’ The bolero played in my head.

      I gave a little leap of joy as I went to take off my make-up. I climbed the stairs to the second floor full of that kiss, that gentle kiss, the beginning of my life as a romantic. Even then, it was enough for me just to be in the presence of a girl I liked to start making plans as insubstantial as dreams. The same is true today. My lungs fill with oxygen, everything in my life suddenly seems to sparkle and before I know it I am soaring through the clouds, too high up to see reality. Then I always fall flat on my face and say to myself, ‘There you are, you stupid idiot, you’ve gone and done it again!’

      I wiped my make-up off, got dressed and ran down to the lobby to look for the beautiful Grettel, the girl with the almond eyes.

      But she was not there. I searched the crowd of people, but all I could see were happy parents showering their children in affection, tenderness and support. One or two of them saw me standing there on my own and smiled at me sympathetically. None of my family had come to watch me. They had to care for my mother. I have never felt so lonely. Leaving the happy crowd behind me, I went outside to the theatre steps.

      In the distance, the orange rays of twilight were beginning to turn to deep violet. Opposite, the Square of the Revolution loomed imposingly, with its tall buildings and the vast memorial to José Martí in its centre. I looked in vain for Grettel. Some of my classmates called goodbye to me, waving their hands out of the windows of their parents’ cars, their faces radiating security and jubilation.

      There was nothing left for me to do but head for the bus-stop.

      The tranquillity of the evening encouraged me to think lucidly. I asked myself why my life was like this, why I had to train myself to live with almost nothing and depend on no one so the pain did not screw me up. Why was no one there to see me dancing, to kiss and congratulate me, and take me off for an ice cream to celebrate my first performance?

      I took a deep breath and hung on to one of the rear doors of the 174 bus.

      It trundled down Santa Catalina and Diez de Octubre. I liked the polluted wind that caressed my face and blew through my hair. I was comfortable, enjoying myself out there, until a woman piped up, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, move on down please, there’s a boy hanging on to the door!’

      They all squeezed up a bit to give me enough space to get on.

      ‘Are you all right, love?’ the woman asked me.

      ‘Thanks for destroying my comfort,’ I felt like replying, but instead I just smiled, breathing in the stench of sweaty armpits made worse by the tremendous heat.

      When I finally reached my bus-stop, I walked slowly up Cisneros Betancourt towards Naranjito, the street where we lived. It was a moonless night and the absence of light bulbs in the street lamps meant that Los Pinos was in pitch darkness.

      As I turned the corner, five figures loomed out of the darkness and blocked my way.

      ‘Hey, arsehole!’

      I knew what was coming. It would not be the first time that the neighbourhood gangs had taunted me.

      ‘Well, look who’s here!’ sneered my former dancing partner, Opito.

      ‘Get out of my way, I’m not in the mood,’ I replied.

      I already knew the routine. I had been through it all before with other former friends, like Pichón and Tonito.

      ‘Oooh, careful, the swan is touchy!’ he baited me.

      ‘Drop it, Opito, I’m not feeling well.’

      ‘Oh dear, what’s the matter? Is it your mother? I heard they shaved all her hair off. Now you’re a fag with a bald mother.’

      I jumped on him, but I only managed to kick him feebly in the knee before another guy, El Milly, grabbed me by one arm while Chinchán caught me by the other. Opito landed me two sharp punches in each eye saying: ‘That’s so you learn to respect men, you fucking faggot!’

      They left me there sprawled on the ground and ran away, laughing and joking. It was a while before I managed to get up: I did it slowly, my vision blurred, and had to use my hands and a wall to help me. I had become the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, the designated clown. I thought of my mother in the hospital, expressionless, withered and wilted like a neglected rose, and I did not have the strength left to hold back the tears that ran down my face from swollen eyes that burnt with pain.

      Somehow I made my way blindly, feeling my way along the walls, stumbling over every tree and refuse bin until at last I collided with my father’s lorry and knew I had finally arrived home.

      I told my father I had fallen over, but he did not believe me and shouted in a fury that he would kill Opito and his gang. My sisters had better comfort to offer. They placed two bags of ice over my eyes and told me the wonderful news that my mother would probably be home the following week. Suddenly, the pain was nothing. Mamá was coming back to us!

       CHAPTER SIX

       With Hate in My Heart

      The ambulance pulled up outside our house. Most of the neighbours stopped what they were doing and came out into the street. A few of them stayed inside, and watched everything through the cracks in their windows. None of us children had gone to school because we wanted to make the house as nice as possible for our mother’s return. Marilín cleaned, Bertica washed the clothes and I went out to fetch the provisions for the month and to carry some buckets of water upstairs to fill the tanks. The old man had left early for the hospital.

      We came out onto the balcony just as the two ambulance men were preparing to carry out the stretcher on which my mother was

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