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Comment 4

I agree with you, but i don’t worked out your last words. Might you expand it, please?

UN CUENTO O CRÓNICA CUBANESCO:

—Yuma, si me das un fula te enseño mis cicatrices para que las retrates —dijo un hombre con un muñón en una pierna y úlceras en la otra.
—Sí, ellos solo vienen a retratar la miseria —contestó una señora que hacía buen rato se había parado a mirar al fotógrafo.
Yo ya estaba nerviosa. Como una chiquita mala, yo le había pedido al desconocido que encontré con una cámara una foto de mi casa.
—¿Puedes tomar una foto de esa casa para mí?
El muchacho me sonrió amablemente.
—No puedo, querida, estoy advertido por la policía cubana. Precisamente por hacer fotos de esquinas y casas de La Habana —me dijo con un acento lejano que no reconocí.
—Es mi casa y la veo todos los días —le dije con los ojitos llenos de agua—, pero anoche soñé que yo era grande y ya no estaba en Cuba —y me corrieron dos lagrimones grises hasta la punta del mentón.
Él miró al hombre que se acercaba en silla de ruedas a proponer nuevamente sus úlceras y a la mujer que con una mueca de asco descolgaba un teléfono quizás con intenciones de llamar a la policía. Me cogió una mano y la enganchó en su pulóver y me dijo que lo halara para avisarle cuando estuvieran cerca. Entonces tomó la cámara con las dos manos, era grande, y empezó a disparar. Al frente, al costado, arrastrándome con él colgada a la espalda de su pulóver.
Las sirenas comenzaron a escucharse.
La señora mostraba su boca desdentada imitando una risa.
El muchacho se agachó.
Yo milagrosamente quedé más alta que él. Ahora parecía una princesita churrosa y asustada en medio del asfalto blanco-sol con su lente a mis pies.
Las sirenas doblaron la esquina. Me había entretenido en mi cuento de hadas cubano. Lo halé con toda mi desesperación, pero ya era tarde.
—¡Suelte el arma! —gritó ridículamente la Policía Nacional Revolucionaria.
Él, de espaldas a ellos, levantó un brazo con la cámara y la colocó suavemente en el polvo.
No dejábamos de mirarnos. Los dos sabíamos que había sido una aventura suicida.
Con la otra mano, subió suavemente su pulóver y, sin que nadie más que yo lo notara, me dejó ver una Polaroid colgada a su cuello.
No dejábamos de mirarnos. Este era el fin de la historia y a pesar de eso apuntó con la nueva cámara a la casa y, suavemente, zigzagueando como una hoja, cayó al polvo nuestra última foto.
—¡Vírese, ciudadano! Ponga las manos en la cabeza y aléjese de la chica —gritaban ridículamente por un altoparlante a menos de tres metros.
Dos guardias se acercaron. Lo tiraron fuertemente al piso. Lo esposaron y lo condujeron dentro del carro.
Yo, inmóvil.
Arrancaron.
Yo, inmóvil.
Comenzó a alejarse para siempre sin parar de mirarme, con el rostro sucio y dañado por el golpe y una sonrisa cómplice que nunca olvidaré.
Al regresar por mi tesoro, la señora le pegaba con la cámara en la cabeza al inválido, hasta quitársela, y salir corriendo con La Habana del muchacho perdida entre sus manos de delatora.
El inválido se lamentaba y trataba de alcanzarla desde su silla de ruedas.
Yo me agaché, hundí los dedos en el polvo de Cuba y salvé de allí nuestra foto: mi casa, inmortalizada por aquel ojo extraño de muchacho deportado al otro lado del mundo.

_______________
Fransis Frans,
3 de junio 2009.
P.D.: Quiero mi foto de La Virgen del Camino que tú todavía no has hecho. Este cuento no relata ninguna de tus fotos del blog, pero es parte de mis imágenes sobre ti retratando nuestra ciudad perdida. Ojalá sirva para el concurso.