LITMIR.BIZ

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      But in the dream, it was just my father, whereas now there were two figures next to him, which ruptured my sense of déjà vu. As they struggled, they looked as though they were contorting themselves in an extraordinary African dance, but there was no sound of drumming, just the machete waving in the air. I blinked, trying to convince myself that it was a dream, but then the figures started to come into focus and I realized my father really was lurching towards me, machete in hand, and my sisters were hanging on to his arms, trying to hold him back.

      ‘Run, Yuli, run!’ they screeched at me.

      In her bed, my mother was screaming with her eyes, unable to do anything to save me.

      As fast as I could, I jumped over the patio railing, onto the roof of our neighbour Raquel’s house. I clambered down the wall and escaped along the alleyway between our buildings, running as fast as I could until I was sure my father could not catch up with me. My father’s voice echoed in my ears – ‘I’m going to kill you, you little son of a bitch!’– and I could still hear my sisters shouting ‘Run, Yuli, run!’ Panting with panic I tried to think what to do now.

      Where could I go where my father would not find me? Eventually, I thought of Eddie, a pal from my break-dancing days who lived in Vieja Linda. I ran up the hill, past the lorry repair shop, Cundo’s house, the fibreboard caves and into the forest. My face was still smarting, my mind filled with the image of my powerless mother. What would happen to me? Would I ever see her again? My 9-year-old heart was broken. Still I ran, grabbing on to tree trunks and up the hill until I got to the pool. I was so hot, it would have felt good to have a dip, but this would be the first place my father would think of looking for me. I continued running, past a tobacco field, cows, and over a stream until eventually I came to Vieja Linda in the south-eastern part of Havana.

      Vieja Linda is not one of the worst districts in Havana, but it certainly is not one of the best. Eddie lived on a hill which we used to close off with rubbish bins in order to practise our break-dancing. He was mixed race, with delicate features and round black eyes. He was much older than me, about twenty-three, and lived alone with his brother Humberto as all the rest of his family were in the United States. I never knew how they got there, but Eddie also dreamt of leaving the country one day, being reunited with his relatives and following the so-called American Dream. That is what got him into break-dancing, because it was all the rage in the USA. He used to take every opportunity to pepper his speech with phrases and swear words in English.

      Eddie was happy to see me because it turned out he had been trying to track me down for ages. There was about to be a break-dancing competition in Almendares Park, and he wanted me to join up with the gang again. I told him what had been happening at home and asked if I could stay with him for a few days. Sure, he said, as long as I competed. I told him it was a deal.

      I went to bed and tried to forget about what had happened, but my soul was as bruised as my skin, and as soon as I had fallen asleep, the nightmares started: my father with the machete in his hand, my mother and my sisters crying, my ballet classmates making fun of me …

      In no time at all, Eddie was shaking me awake.

      We went out to meet up with the rest of the gang. A guy called Lalo had put a piece of linoleum down in the street and was practising his moves. He was really good at doing ‘windmills’ with his legs in the splits, at great speed and with incredible control.

      ‘How’s it goin’, bro’?’ I said, slipping back into the language of the street with ease.

      ‘Hey! Fucking excellent, man! Heard you took up ballet, that true?’

      ‘Yeah, s’just temporary though … hey, bro’… Who’re we going for tomorrow?’

      ‘Alta Havana.’

      ‘Alta Havana … heard they’re fucking dynamite!’

      ‘Yeah, and you got picked against Michael from Envi.’

      ‘No way! Shit! That’s tough!’

      ‘Who you kidding, brother, that’s nothing for you.’

      ‘I haven’t practised for ages.’

      ‘Then whaddya waiting for … come on, it’s all yours.’

      He turned the music up even higher, and gave me space to warm up in. I had hardly started to move when I began to sweat. I practised the moonwalk repeatedly then I asked Guillermo, another member of the group, to pass me a towel. I put it beneath my knee and started to spin round, gathering momentum, but I soon lost my balance. I tried again. Little by little the old sensations came back and my confidence grew and grew until I became, once again, El Moro de Los Pinos.

      ‘Hey brother, you’re looking really good!’ said Lalo, stretching out his hand to help me to my feet. I grinned, feeling pretty good, until a voice behind him spelt trouble.

      ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Alicia Alonso herself, come to grace us with her presence!’ Opito had arrived.

      ‘Shut the fuck up, arsehole, or I’ll knock you down,’ I answered him.

      ‘Yeah, yeah. Like you did last time.’

      ‘I’m warning you, shitface, I’ll punch your head in.’

      ‘Hey, hey, hey … we’re doing some training here, getting this neighbourhood a famous name. If you wanna fight you can both fuck off … unnerstan?’

      On that emphatically American note, Eddie pulled us forcibly apart.

      ‘Opito, get warmed up, it’s late, you gotta practise the moves with El Moro here.’

      ‘No, I wanna dance on my own,’ replied Opito.

      ‘You’re gonna dance with who I tell you, if you don’t like it you can geddafuckout!’

      There was silence. Opito looked at me then looked at Eddie. There was still tension in the air as we started to rehearse our choreography together. Eddie watched us, chewing on his strip of sticking plaster, his baseball cap on sideways. Slowly, as we practised, we started to get into it, like in the old days when Opito and I were one. Somebody cracked a joke and we all laughed. The day ended well.

      At eleven o’clock the next morning, Almendares Park was full of break-dancers. It was a lovely place, lush and green, but totally enveloped by the stench that rose from the river. The gang from Alta Havana were already rehearsing some steps, but they broke off when they saw us arrive. The gang leader, Alfredo ‘the Tyre’, came over.

      ‘For a moment there, I thought you was getting scared,’ he said, ironically, to Eddie.

      ‘Scared of who, you? Who you fuckin’ kidding, man?’

      ‘You just wait and see, got a li’l surprise in store for you.’

      ‘I don’t fucking care. You know I kick your ass any time.’

      ‘Hey, speak Spanish, punk. Up yours!’

      Mickey the Stink interrupted them. Black and of medium height, he lived in the Lawton neighbourhood and was still considered to be the best break-dancer in the whole of Cuba. He had arrived with a crew of about twenty, including two enormous fat guys.

      ‘Girls, girls,’ he teased. ‘We’ve come here to dance, leave your kisses and hugs for another day!’

      One of the fat guys, ‘Tar Ball’, passed him the tape recorder. The music started. A hundred or so people had gathered in a circle big enough to allow us to dance in its centre. Nearly all of them were tough guys who spent hours lifting weights and were anxious to pick a fight and show off their strength.

      Eddie’s brother Humberto began the contest. His body-popping moves went off to thunderous applause. A guy called ‘the Coffee Pot’ did some steps from Soul Train and some windmills resting his hands on the ground. Lalo looked at Eddie, waiting for the order to go in. Eddie raised his hand and Lalo entered the centre

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