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LA
JIRIBILLA On the same bank, on one side of the Carreras brothers’ pier, was Agustín’s tavern; and on the other side, leeward, a kind of inn and canteen, with corridors, terraces, and balconies, run by a woman that everyone knew as La Colombiana. Then came a stone street and the colonial buildings, constructed with limestone and coral and covered with a tile roof. Then the little city stretched up the hill, with its cobblestone streets and its red roofs, against the greenery of the vegetation, up to where the park began, with its old yellow church. The church had two towers, constructed by a Catalonian master who added one room after another, where the priest of the day used to offer refuge to strangers for four pesos a month. Facing the park was the sturdy municipal building, seat of the town government. In the back streets were the fishermen’s and laborers’ quarters; and at the edge of town by the thicket were huts and homes on dirt streets that stayed full of dust or mud all year, according to the season. The bay was the site of many other installations. There was Puerto Tarafa, with three modern piers and sixteen enormous warehouses that could store sixty million sacks of sugar destined for the international market. Besides an efficient railroad center, to the north of the peninsula, the place had a hotel for visitors, coconut trees, arbors, benches, and a row of large houses of wood and tin in which the officials of the American company lived, not far from a beach that summer vacationers used to visit. On the seashore above the low hills were several tanks for oil and honey; and further to the east, at the end of a point, they had built a large deep water pier. That is where the seaport of Pastelillo was located. It was linked to the installations on shore to receive oil and gasoline for a base that had half a dozen large tanks on a big hill. These tanks supplied a large part of the region. The old wooden pier at Pastelillo, on the other hand, was below the oil base. There boats pulled in to unload a wide variety of commerce. Hemingway never used any of those installations. The normal thing for him was to leave the tortuous channel that provided entrance to the bay, and within view of the small keys he would continue sailing until the piers and the petroleum base were at his stern, and with the bow toward the south he would sail along the coastal hills that rise near the seashore, parallel to a railroad that zigzags along. When at last the Pilar sailed past the point of El Guincho, its motors purred slowly and the boat made a maneuver to avoid the shoal and entered the wide cove where the pier of San Fernando de Nuevitas was located. This was (and is) my village, my port, my archipelago. The area where I was born and where I have memories of my childhood, adolescence, and youth. I was born in a fishermen’s quarter. I knew old Fals and the Montenegro family, and Antoñico the Canary Islander; and the stories of Hemingway preserved by old Antonio, and a legendary hunter that everyone knew as Caciano, and a certain Spanish immigrant known only as José, who wound up raising goats and sheep on abandoned land and all those stories of the fishermen and turtle hunters, sailors and adventurers, and the immigrants who joined the life of that pier. Agustín himself, in his tavern, had a peculiar way of speaking about that matter, in the disputes that he sustained for years with the inn of La Colombiana. One could hear these and other rumors in the barber shop of Felo Centellas or among the clients that used to visit the hotel that belonged to the Prada family, where the railroad line reached the edge of town. The pier that Hemingway knew was located in a cove where sailboats, schooners, and smaller boats came, with sailors and adventurers going from island to island, across the Caribbean, from the coasts of Panama, from little Colombian ports, blacks from Jamaica, swindlers from New Orleans, gamblers and bandits, at times with a famous woman of the world from Aruba, Martinique, or La Guaira. Characters who, after spending a night in the Pasaje Hotel or in the Gran Vía, disappeared on the dawn train, while scows and boats crossed the bay with birds, pigs, and vegetables. Boats from the Bahamas crossed the Channel to stay a couple of days in the port, maybe a week, perhaps a month, and then they disappeared, leaving behind sometimes a story, a legend, that was condemned to disappear with time. Ernest Hemingway began to visit this place of experienced fishermen, turtle hunters, and sailors in a port where, as soon as the World War began, it was common to see numerous cargo ships, navy ships, tall sailboats, gunboats, schooners, and brigs. It was the war years, and it was customary in the taverns, or in the hotel of the Filgueras family, or in the splendid El Gato Negro restaurant, to find the captains of merchant ships, sailors from the navy, gamblers, merchants, businessmen, and officials of international companies, FBI agents, Mafiosos and scoundrels, customs agents, bank representatives, Germans from Palm City, adventurers and sailors, professional swindlers, officials from of insurance companies, local businessmen, estate owners, landowners and tenant farmers, illustrious people of Camagüey, old sailors from every corner of the world, and a lot of travelers: Europeans and Americans from the cities that they had founded in the valley of Cubitas; landowners, ranchers, and sugar producers, who had arrived on the train at sunrise, and would go back to the city of Camagüey on the evening express. As Hemingway would say years later in one of his famous chronicles, in reference to his favorite places in Havana, here one could meet by chance some enigmatic character whose destiny it was to die the next day or a year later. Of all the testimonies about Ernest Hemingway offered at the pier of San Fernando de Nuevitas, the one with the greatest sense of admiration was the one always told by Agustín el Tuerto (One-Eyed Agustín). His tavern, as mentioned, was windward of that enormous wooden pier, site of former splendors. On the other side, leeward, was the inn of La Colombiana. And that was all. They were almost twin buildings, which extended toward the sea on tree stumps, with a canteen, a restaurant, and an inn, each one with a wide terrace made of rough lumber facing the sea. La Colombiana’s inn was of the greatest splendor and was always for me the most interesting. That silent, hermetic woman ruled a building constructed with oak, cedar, and mahogany, with a great salon and bar, and eight or ten tables with chairs, nets and an anchor attached to the wall, among other spoils of the sea. There were thirty spacious rooms, with highly polished floors and great windows which opened to the forces of the breeze, the salt, and the rain. The place had great charm. It also had a touch of mystery because of those celebrated parties that La Colombiana used to hold in the years of the World War and because the establishment was visited on various occasions by the writer Hemingway. Nevertheless, I had to wait some time to be able to ascertain the truth about certain events. I had to wait until all that began to fall into decay and until La Colombiana began to demonstrate a growing indolence. She began by getting fat beyond belief. She spent the mornings and evenings in a big chair, on the eastern side of the terrace, watching the sea as though she were not there. Talking to that woman was really a great challenge. Her responses (responses veiled by her imagination) confirmed with certainty that she had never had any past. It was difficult to bring her out of her denial, as though she had forgotten everything except for her stay on continental territory in one of those little towns on the banks of the Magdalena, close to Barranquilla. At first, I could only get one sentence out of La Colombiana, but that was enough. It was a single sentence, with which she meant to conclude the interview: “In business, you should know, young man,” she said, with a gesture almost of anger, “I am not in the habit of talking about my clients.” Then, perhaps by mere chance, La Colombiana began to intermingle her stories. It took a long time before the arrival of the yacht began to glimmer in her memory again. “You know,” she told me then, dominated by amazement, “every time Hemingway came he went to Agustín’s tavern,” and she mentioned the names of the fishermen who were there the afternoon that the writer brought his boat to the pier of the Carreras brothers. “It did not appear that he was armed,’’ and she sighed and ran her hands across her face. I had not visited her for several months; and now we were conversing calmly sitting on the wide, dilapidated terrace of what had been her inn, at sunset. Then she added: “Hemingway always gave the impression of being a solitary sailor, dressed like a sailor, like on that first occasion when he came into the port to get drunk in Agustín’s tavern. Although there were, of course, many other occasions. Some years later he made a very special visit. He approached the counter of the inn and requested the best room, with wide windows, facing the sea breeze.” La Colombiana remembered how that night, in the days of World War II, Hemingway waited endlessly, and it was not until the next day that the movie star Hemingway was waiting for appeared. She came very early. She arrived in a rented car from the Camagüey airport. The description (both that of La Colombiana, as well as that of some fishermen later) was of “a tall woman, blonde, splendid, with a very pretty face and large breasts.” The chauffeur who brought her to the pier ate a breakfast of caviar, fried filets of salmon, and a cup of tea; and the employee who attended him tried to find out more, at the request of La Colombiana: “Go and see, Pedrín, what you can find out!” And the employee did not stop in his determined effort until he succeeded in getting the chauffeur to tell him how he had picked the woman up at dawn, after she had arrived on one of those special flights, one of those that used to land daily on the runway of the airport in Camagüey, on the way to the south of the continent, as the military transport planes always used to do on their way to the American air bases in Panama. Nobody expected (and in this both La Colombiana and Agustín agreed) that the American would stay inside his room in the inn for two days. He requested rum and ice, and on several occasions he also requested clean sheets and pillowcases. He ordered plenty of food, in the morning and in the evening, and more rum and bottles of wine, always with the windows of the room open to the sea breeze, after the first day had gone by. It was the following night that they went out on the terrace. They left the inn and walked toward the restaurant El Gato Negro, the most exquisite place of all the region. El Gato Negro was located in a little bend of the shore, not far from La Colombian’s inn. To go into that spacious salon with its wooden floors, open to all the sounds of the sea, one had to cross a kind of short pier that was connected to the street. But it was not the beautiful bar, nor the large windows, nor the grace and elegance of that great restaurant that captivated Hemingway. The most fascinating thing about it, what most attracted and excited him about El Gato Negro, according to Agustín, was the irresistible aroma that always emanated from the kitchen. The splendor of El Gato Negro was in its famous kitchen, attended by a man from Grand Canary Island. The Canary Islander was capable of offering all the delicacies that a table could demand. Hemingway used to request oysters prepared in a magnificent way. He also ordered mussels, of the sort found off the southern bank of Los Ballenatos. He requested Moorish crabs, of the kind captured nearby; and large orders of salmon, octopus, and shrimp. He ordered turtle stew, wahoo filets in sauce, and pickled fish that had been seasoned for three months in a large earthen jar, with oil, garlic, onion, peppers, and bay leaf. On other occasions, Hemingway ordered a great paella, cooked over a slow fire in the enormous oven of El Gato Negro. The aroma it gave off reached the high banks where the houses of the village began. Paella with shrimp and lobsters and juicy pieces of salmon caught in the region of the Bahamas and brought to the port in the boats of old Vidal, whose crews, as soon as they landed, went to get drunk in the taverns on the bank alongside the railroad. The paella might have oysters, crab, clusters of crab eggs, chicken, pork, meat from the deer that the hunters shot in the savanna of Sabinal, olives, and capers. On special occasions, the Canary Islander dropped into the pan little pieces of manatee meat (sought after and prized because of its flavor of beef, pork, and fish) and many other delicacies for the most demanding diners and drinkers in the region. But what most pleased Hemingway every time he visited El Gato Negro were the lobsters that the Canary Islander took great pains to prepare. The chef was owner of a thousand and one recipes for creatures from the coast and from the depths of the sea. He did wonders with flamingo breast, with the ducks that migrated from Florida, with the black meat of cormorants (seasoned with red wine and seven-year-old rum), and crocodile tails that were sold by the hunters from the rivers and lakes near Gloria City. Every time he entered the big door of El Gato Negro, Hemingway raised his voice and demanded the chef appear before him immediately, the chef who officiated over all the miracles in the place. “Prepare lobster buccaneer-style or pirate-style, or however it suits you,” said Hemingway. And the Canary Islander would retire, without so much as a courteous gesture. He would go sit on a high stool in the kitchen and begin to give instructions to his Chinese assistant to bring six, nine, twelve, or more lobsters! From then on, everything that happened in the kitchen was like a ritual. From the street one could smell the aroma that came out of the big windows. The fishermen who crossed in their boats knew what was going on. The story circulated uphill, where the wood and tile buildings began that the Canary Islander with his assistants was performing a kind of magic that he undertook on special occasions. The first thing he did was boil the lobsters briefly. Then he would remove their shells. With a sharp knife he cut them length-wise to remove the insides. It was then, only then, that he began that masterful project with lobsters. They were spread on a board, and the Canary Islander grabbed a wedge and against the grain along the length of their bodies he cut them into tiny pieces while one of his assistants took charge of preparing the enigmatic sauce. Set over a low flame, the pot contained garlic, onion, tomato, and chili pepper. There was a little cumin, some saffron, grains of pepper, half a liter of the best Spanish olive oil, a touch of dry wine, a bottle of white wine, the juice of two oranges and one grapefruit, three Hatuey beers, two leaves of sage, oregano, a sprig of sweet basil, parsley, baby onions, three cloves, a pinch of curry, and a few dry coco plums. And when at last it all began to foam and to combine into a single aromatic, penetrating, smoky sauce, it was the Canary Islander who deposited the dozen or so lobsters into the magic pot. That was when the third operation began, stirring everything with a big wooden paddle as the sauce started to penetrate the lobster. The Canary Islander kept stirring over a slow fire until the sauce disappeared. It was then, in a precious instant, that the great miracle or great surprise occurred. The lobster began to open and bloom like a flower, or rather like thousands of flowers. They were slim, long, steaming, aromatic, with not even a drop of sauce left in the pot, absorbed by that swarm of fibers that earlier had been the bodies of lobsters. An instant later the Canary Islander appeared in the great salon carrying the great serving dish, aromatic, dry, smoking, carried on high. Behind him were the two assistants, with two other trays one for bread and the other with two or three bottles of the best wine. Lobsters prepared in a mysterious way, to be eaten with bread and wine. Perhaps because of this Hemingway returned time and again. They knew him from the 1930s, and he came on many other occasions during his stays in Camagüey. He would return also during the months when he was hunting German submarines. And the fishermen and turtle hunters always remembered him from the time when that girl left the room and went out on the terrace. They saw her defiant. They watched her walk along the high covered porch, which extended over tree stumps to the pier of the Carreras brothers, before the pier fell into decay. It is said that the girl stayed there, leaning against the railing, on the side where the schooners pulled up, observing the schools of fish that used to appear in the cove in the morning. Later Hemingway approached her and gave the impression that they were exchanging words, maybe arguing, until the chauffeur appeared who two days earlier had brought her from the airport. Then she left the terrace quickly and got in the car without saying goodbye, while Hemingway went to the bar, paid the bill leaving a good tip, headed toward the pier to untie his yacht, and disappeared quickly. What happened those days, according to the commentaries that circulated soon thereafter, was the definitive break between Agustín el Tuerto and La Colombiana. It was a brusque separation, silent, passionate, and that furious love they had sustained turned into a rancor that fueled gossip around the pier for years. On other occasions Ernest Hemingway entered the port to avoid the bad weather. He went in to get fuel, to get some provisions, and he spent two or three days resting when he wanted to avoid the stiff east wind or the rigors imposed by the northern winds far out at sea. Agustín used to say that he had known “that American” since 1930. He remembered him because two years later a great hurricane whipped the coast. He also affirmed that he was a man who was almost always upset, at times in a very bad mood, often with a strong will to drink. As soon as he had docked, he went to the tavern. He approached the counter, barefoot, shirtless, with an old cap, and asked for a bottle of Matusalen. The clientele of Agustín’s tavern were avid sailors. They came anxious to mail a letter, get a shave and haircut, buy something, or find a woman. That was the case of the Spaniards who had come to Cayo Sabinal. They were very strange. Agustín at times remembered the heated arguments and serious words that the Galician, José, sometimes exchanged with the American from the yacht. According to Agustín, the Galician was a man who always showed his bad side. He was somewhat cultured, but the hard life in the keys had affected him. José kept looking gradually older. He came every Sunday to the tavern. Each time he looked rougher and more slovenly. Whether because of their drinking or because of the bad weather in the Channel; when the American and José got together they began to argue about anything and everything: politics, or the way a certain woman walked. They argued about the arts and stratagems of fishing and, above all, about struggles with sharks. They talked of the spawning season of the river fish and the crossing of the mountain, of fishing with spinning tackle and a little piece of cotton with iodine near the hook,in order to get the most furious strikes. With his sun visor, his shorts, and an old colored shirt, Hemingway would walk all over town, from the pier of El Guincho to the area of El Puente. Right at that spot, between the activity of the port and the red light district, the barber shop of Felo Centellas was built years later, not far from Sloppy Joe’s of Perecito (where El Dongo used to sing with his hoarse voice on nights of endless revelry) and close to where the Prada Hotel and the noisy Green Light were located. Around the corner was the main street, with the Gran Vía, the Comercio Hotel, the inn owned by the Chinese (a few steps from the Chorrito Bar), the Niza Cinema, the billiard parlor, and the shop windows with perfume bottles. On the other corner was the El Faro café. This whole area was full of diligent chauffeurs with their rental cars competing with the bus to Puerto Tarafa driven by Herminia. There was continuous traffic to the piers where the great ocean liners and, every now and then, some warship docked. In Felo Centellas’ barber shop all sorts of rumors from the port were exchanged. Felo Centellas himself, the most celebrated character of the boisterous area of El Puente, was tall, elegant, refined, with a white complexion and blonde hair, measured in his speech and very courteous with the ladies, capable of drinking a good beer while leaning on the bar any place in the world, with the elegance of a Russian prince on the French Riviera. Hemingway learned everything to be known about that town. He arrived unknown, silent, like any other foreigner, one of the many who passed through the port. He came like many of the European immigrants fleeing the war. Like many of the Americans who came from Gloria City, from Garden City, in search of lodging, for a room in one of the hotels. Like many of the Germans who appeared on the evening train, before they began to be persecuted. Like the English, Italians, and French, and other crew members from the furthest corners of the earth. On one or two occasions Hemingway also stayed in the Miramar Hotel. This hotel was situated on the street that ran from south to north along the whole cove of El Guincho. Nine blocks of tree lined avenue, two lanes, with almond and poinciana trees, poplars, and coconut trees, and a beautiful promenade in the center of the road, with benches and places for people to rest. There, at dusk, almost on the seashore, the people out for a stroll would exchange smiles and greetings. The Miramar Hotel was located at the very edge of the high bank, and below the sea lapped against the foundation of the hotel. From the terrace one could contemplate the horizon, in the wide bay, with a view of the two large wooden piers that stuck out into the wide cove, and the taverns and canteens, and the famous inns of the village, with their loud nights of song, boleros, waltzes and foxtrots, after the open-air concerts that were organized on the hilltop, near the church and the Municipal Palace, had already ended. They were fun festivals, but the most dazzling celebrations were on the weekends under the awnings of the Filgueras Hotel (a little more than one hundred meters from Agustín’s tavern) where the Alda orchestra played. It was beautiful to hear the charming voice of Andresito el Habanero, singing boleros and other songs. My cousin Perico, the oldest of the Cruz family, sang to the tangos in his clear, captivating voice before he was captured by love and decided to move into the mountains with the intention of farming a small parcel of land thirty miles from the pier. The finest parties, nevertheless, always took place in a precious little salon in the Miramar Hotel. It was the favorite place of Prince Rispoli, of poets, and of illustrious travelers who passed through the town. There were parties with piano and violin music, parties that turned into great adventures.
Such was
the town, the pier, with its hotels and taverns, in the
last splendor of the 1930s. Then the World War would
come, leaving a pile of ruins, many stories, and wild
women. There were also the old legends of pirates and
buccaneers who devastated those places; and there was
Pueblo Viejo in a tiny valley, between two hills, on the
seashore half a mile from the pier. It was a town
attacked and destroyed by the fury of an English pirate.
And toward the south of the bay, beyond the river, one
could find the remains of what had been the landing of
El Bagá. Among the sands and weeds was the rusty
railroad, a stump from the pier, and the remains of
construction that disappeared during the anti-colonial
wars, when nobody knew that that bay, with the World
War, would be converted into a military base. The planes
landed on the water on the other side of the peninsula
and docked at the pier of Las Antillas, in the days when
it was rumored that German submarines had penetrated the
waters of the Caribbean. |
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