Charles

Degelman

Periodo Especial

1993

The green room, like the rest of the Cabildo Theater, like the rest of Cuba, suffers from deprivation. The embargo has been relentless and now the Soviet Union is gone. Fidel calls it a special period, the Periodo Especial and assures his people that they will survive. Water stains soak the ceiling where a single bulb glows in the brown-out of the Cuban night. The women whisper to me that there is no toilet paper in the bathroom.

We have been traveling since the night before when we left Miami for Havana. Now, in Santiago de Cuba, the ancient city at the other end of the island, it is midnight. Our musicians don’t have the drums or amplifiers we asked for, the technical director for the theater is not present, and our hosts are both drunk.

Eduardo Uribazo, the artistic director of the Cabildo, is a frail, handsome man of sixty-five years with narrow Spanish features and thin hair slicked straight back. He is flanked by a hawk of a man with a bushy crewcut. The hawkish man sits erect in a straight-backed chair, hands on his skinny thighs, a cigar burning between his fingers. He has not been introduced to us.

“Bienvenidos al Santiago de Cuba,” Uribazo begins. I catch snatches, a word in the phrasing, something about the Cabildo Teater, the festival, and our “espiritu, valor, y corazon…” something, something “…contra el bloqueo,” which I translate to mean our courage to defy the bloqueo, or blockade, the word the Cubans use to refer to the embargo placed around Cuba by Eisenhower after Cuba nationalized the oil refineries.

“Gracias, gracias,” I reply. Of all the cast, I am the only one willing to try speaking Spanish. Sonia, our haughty Puerto Rican conguera decided, fifteen minutes after she landed in Havana, that we were an embarrassment to her Latinisma and she has distanced herself from the entourage, sitting on the floor in the corner, arms folded across her sweat-stained blouse. All this, despite the fact that we are traveling with Shishir, a dark East Indian from Madagascar, Paige, a svelte but distinctly Chinese-American actress, and Gus, our African-American director. The Cubans have welcomed us all with equally with open arms, but Sonia refuses to participate, leaving me in this embarrassing position of ignorant leadership.

I struggle on. “Pero, es necesario a preparer,” I continue. “Uh, we would like to know…a dondé estan…the drums. Para tocar la musica.” I stop fumbling and mime the playing of a guitar. “You said they would be here.”

My friends, my colleagues, my wife, thirteen actors and musicians, all cross-eyed with fatigue, turn their glances to our Cuban hosts.

The Hawk leans over and speaks rapidly to Uribazo. Nobody speaks Spanish as fast as the Cubans.

Uribazo nods curtly. He refuses to look at his compatriot.

The room is spiked with cigar smoke.

Uribazo smiles at me and closes his eyes. “Yes, yes, yes,” he says and nods his head.

I catch something about a music school.

“Escuela de musica,” I mimic. “Is that where the instruments will come from? I wonder why the equipment we requested so far in advance is not already at the theater. My collar is soaked with sweat.

“Cuando?” I repeat, turning to address the Hawk. “Es necesario a rehearsar. Uh…You know, to rehearse. Es possiblé, en la mañana?”

An actor sneezes, startling us all.

“Fuck you Sonia,” I whisper in an aside.

“What the fuck do you want me to do, hijo,” she hisses. “I can’t even understand them they talk so fucking fast. How am I supposed to talk to them?”

A second weary trouper laughs and shakes his head at the absurdity. The company needs to meet with the theater’s tech director. We need to rig the drops, set up the instruments, rehearse some specials, and hopefully do a sound check and a run-through before show time, less than twenty-four hours in the future.

The Hawk pokes Uribazo and fires off another verbal burst. It sounds as if he is asking and answering his own questions. Uribazo glares at the Hawk, spits back a reply and turns to include us all. He smiles warmly but adrenaline spritzes into my bloodstream.

“Una pregunta, por favor,” Uribazo says, holding up a single, thin finger. “A question,” he enunciates in careful English.

A ripple passes around the circle of tired performers. Confusion, aggravation, despair register one, two, three across tired faces. They are sweating like pigs in the low-ceilinged room.

“Here it comes,” says the actress to my right.

My wife, the playwright, looks down at the back of her hands and places them in her lap. She says nothing.

“Yes?” I reply.

“Tiene usted una precisa?” Uribazo motions vaguely with his hand, a listless, resigned gesture. His eyes go back in his head for a moment and I realize how drunk he is.

“Una precisa?” I ask. “No comprendo.”

“Una historia corta, una synopsis dramatica,” the Hawk explains. It is the first time he has spoken. His voice sounds like gravel. “Una chica. Para la commission.”

“Ahhhh,” I utter aloud. Of course. Now I understand. Uribazo has been unable to persuade his colleague that we are not the enemy. Who is to say that we are not propagandists, sent here by our state department to demoralize the Cuban people?

I imagine these two men, arguing, trying to settle the matter before we arrive. Hopefully, Uribazo has defended our right to let the work speak for itself. The Hawkish man has clearly kept his guard up. Now he is scrutinizing our appearance and behavior for any signs of counterrevolutionary intent.

“Of course,” I say. “Es posible. Una historica dramatica. No problema.” I turn to the Hawkish man. “I hope you understand,” I say. “No one sent us.” I have given up trying to speak in Spanish. “Our government is useless in situations like this. We came here of our own free will. We admire and respect your revolution and look forward to sharing our work with you.”

The Hawk stares straight at me, eyes, bright, unwavering. Americans have strafed their fishing boats, poisoned their livestock, bombed the national telephone exchange, withheld medicine from children.

“And the instruments?” I ask. “Our rehearsal schedule?”

“Quién sabe,” says Commissioner Hawk. He stands. The ash falls from the end of his cigar. It does not disintegrate on impact but lies on the frayed carpet, a tiny gray barrel of integrity.

I nod and we all rise. We step out into the narrow street. Night walkers pass us like ghosts in the gentle darkness. We have come all this way with the best of intentions, thirteen performers, costumes, instruments, makeup, and a stage set stuffed into two trunks and a duffel bag. Now we float unannounced through the eerie, unlit streets of Santiago de Cuba. Sometimes there’s really nothing you can do.

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