Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo, Translating Cuba, Translator: Unstated
You never know which is worse. The debacle of a hospital in ruins, like
most in the city of Havana or perhaps in the whole country, or the no
less deadly accuracy of a luxury therapy room, one of the science
fiction hangars that come out in First World movies, and suddenly, a Day
of Love you stumble upon, but in a corner of Vedado.
29th and E approximately.
Oncology and radiology it says on the facade in a creepy font. In the
lobby, a monstrous masterpiece of modernity dedicated to "hope." It's
obvious that we are entering a terrain where materialism and God share
the same isotropical homeland (like radioactive isotopes).
I tried to get in and out with blinders on. Without noticing the
details. Without humanizing the faces of those who come toward me in
wheelchairs. Without hearing the moans from the next bed. Without
understanding the maternal tongue that says right out in the hall the
age of this boy (the undermined maxilla) or of that bald teenager (the
blood liquified).
I greeted my family as if they had returned from a long exile. I looked
through the fogged glass. I swear I didn't know what city that was, much
less what date it was. The night was so beautiful and I didn't want to
think I was still breathing. I came not from abroad, but from among the
dead. Dead for now without a diagnosis of cancer, like my country
cousin, but still ready to go to pieces in operation after operation.
Pieces of memory cut for free. Dizziness. Feeling absolutely nothing.
Not recognizing the ancient faces of other cousins younger than I. When
you wake up, suddenly I'll be like a hundred.
They sedated her in a luxurious private room. Full of tubes. Partial
glossectomy, I thought I understood, or at least I reconstructed the
word thanks to its etymology. My cousin would have to learn to speak
again. Would have to, also, cling to that amateur monument of hope. This
is not her first surgical intervention. And so much cut-and-paste on the
body wears us out.
The medical report was gentle. Each nurse with the demeanor of a
professional reggaetoner, so full of vitality and humor. We looked
through a window to the intensive care room. Quite swollen by the
invasive manipulation she slept with a grimace of pain. Nightmares for
sure. Nightmares and no ability nor did she want to wake up.
In half an hour I was free again. A drunk spewed curses on the
government over the curb (from what I saw, I knew this detail would not
be tellable: too literary, too much allegory of a good final contrast
for a chronicle, but there you are). He said he himself had lived in
capitalism and so he knew what it was to live. I don't think so. You
could tell he was still young amid the stinking filth in the faded
light. Cuban capitalism day by day leaves too much in the past. I don't
believe him. Too much repetition of the words life and living. At best
someone will die in there and no one would dare to pass. We're trapped.
The teams looked so neat. The floor of some synthetic material, gleaming
under the neon lights. An air conditioner on full blast. And yes a
certain overwhelming sense of loneliness. Dying would be easiest.
Outside on 23rd street definitely no one's missing. They're all there,
including me. Those who are in bed at 8:00 at night have nothing to do
here. It's as if they never existed. As if we had never existed. Nausea.
I remember my studies in Biochemistry in the last century not far from
there: at about 25th and K. We read about the thousand and one molecular
mechanisms of cancer (I have classmates who got doctorates in the
subject). Almost beautiful. An out of control clock. A mischief of
evolution, viruses included. But there are a thousand and one
developable strategies to make fun of cancer tomorrow. Man has a pretty
good idea of what to do about it. We just lack time and money. And the
planet will not give us the mercy of such an opportunity. Nor will
history, with its crises and perennial revolutions. For now, we cut
little pieces of meat. Inject this or that monoclonal antibody or
radioactive serum. And derive encouraging statistics, as we impose a
priori the mausoleum that welcomes you to this hospital resuscitated
from among its ruins, at 29th and F.
I a couple of hours the sun will come out. I'm not afraid. I'm
terrified. Without the arm waving panic. With cynical equanimity. I
thought I would be a child. I was wrong. I grew up some time ago. I'm
more adult than anyone. I have no references to continue forward.
Please. Now.
February 16 2012
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