Havana Cuba. — The sun has set on a city that, they say, is celebrating its 503rd anniversary. The Villa de San Cristóbal de La Habana, which has accumulated many wounds in recent years, is once again the target of tributes that she stoically accepts ; maybe not to be rude, maybe because she already doesn’t care.
Havana knows that it has aged in the worst possible way. In this quiet hour, after the official act has already taken place, the rally in El Templete, the three laps of ceiba and the tossing of coins, if there are any coins left in the pockets of any Cuban, the formerly beautiful town discreetly withdraws and flees a bit from itself. Flee the stage with huge amplifiers on Galiano street and the light show announced by the electricity company to rest, even if only for today, from the perpetual darkness thanks —who knows— to the Turkish floating thermoelectric that someone hastily diverted from Dominican Republic to the waters of its bay.
Havana flees from abundant charities. In silence she has allowed praise because in her infinite patience she is moved by those who insist on seeing in her something that ceased to be a long time ago.
He wants to think that the newly arrived Turkish power station was not a favor from Erdogan to Díaz-Canel to be able to carry out these unnecessary celebrations without the hassle of blackouts. The day before, when he saw the ship with the half moon, he was immediately alarmed. There have been so many humiliations and begging in his name, that he would not be surprised if his name day was also celebrated thanks to the generosity of someone else.
From whatever heights and doorposts, Havana watches its natural children leave and allows itself to be invaded, hospitable, by other adoptive ones, endowed with the ability to multiply partitions and barbecues. She picks up her skirts and crosses lightly over the endless streams of sewage. It crosses neighborhoods, neighborhoods, makeshift communities, residential areas and stops at the bridge over the Almendares River.
There, in his solitude, he remembers the crystalline waters that gave him the status of “villa”. Impossible to recognize in the ugly odors that today emanate from the banks, the paradisiacal aroma of that water path five hundred years ago.
His soul searches for the current of the Gulf that led Captain Antón de Alaminos from Mexico to the peninsula, so fast that that accident of nature earned him the title of capital city, an obligatory destination of the fleet system; always open to trade, to humanity passing through, to hard cash.
“From the common to the shipyards,” he recalls. Six months of hard work for six months of traffic and light life, with the occasional pirate attack interspersed. She got used to living intensely, to recognizing herself in the deserted fortresses, in the grid of squares and on that blessed coastline that does not allow her to go against herself.
It has been so long. The destruction has been so absolute that it is filled with shame to think that six years ago someone dared to name it “Wonder City”, when there was very little that was wonderful left in it. He wonders what that imbecile would say now that the olive plague has swept through everything.
A group of young people cross the bridge. They talk about Havana being too hot to be celebrating anything. “It’s falling,” they say and laugh out loud. She hurts and pulls away from her. She looks at herself pityingly. She thinks of other cities that have aged well. She suffers.
Almost at the corner of 23 and 26, two ladies remember other times with nostalgia. Republic Times. Times when she walked round, with the arrogance of a little Vienna, as the poetess described her.
Five hundred and three years is a long time. A lot of. Only sixty were enough to destroy his beauty and almost bend his spirit; but somehow he has managed to survive in the character, heart and memory of his most loyal children; those that keep invaders, propaganda, oblivion at bay. Children who grieve for her to see her plunged into so much disgrace, but who love her unconditionally from the center of pain, or from the horizon. Children who think of it with a shuddering soul and call it inconsolably: Havana, my Havana.
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