"Don't try to understand me too quickly."

-André Gide

Many things don't work here, but they don't seem to work the other way either.

In Old Havana the street names before the revolution give a glimpse into Havana's state of mind. You might have known someone who lived on the corner of Soul and Bitterness, Solitude and Hope, or Light and Avocado. They changed the names and put up new signs, but if you asked directions from a local today you'd get the old names. They all meant something personal to the people who lived on those streets. That avocado grew in the garden of a convent. That hope was for a door in the city wall before it was torn down. That soul refers to the loneliness of the street's position in the city. Sometimes these streets lead you to dead ends and other times you stumble onto cathedrals that were built with the intention of music made into stone.

The sore heart Havana offers as the only one she has never makes you choose between the kind of beauty that gives rather than takes something from you. Foreigners tell you in the guidebooks that time collapsed here like wreckage, but another theory says that in Latin America all ages of history co-exist at once. When Castro was put on trial and asked who was intellectually responsible for his first attack against the government he dropped the name of a poet.

I hitched a ride most of the way to the boxing gym with a black Cuban who gave me the dime tour of the greatest potholes in Havana. He was serenading the potholes before we could even see them. Out my window some lineups and police. The driver tells the old joke about stopping anywhere in Havana for five seconds and you'll start your own lineup. I look up at washing lines strung up between columns.  Women in curlers standing on their balconies. I see tourists snapping photos of the architecture of a building I visited a friend in once. We had coffee while his family complained incessantly about the broken stairwell and leaky roof. Finally the harbor comes into view with the waters that in the early 20th century were banned to fishermen because of all the bodies being thrown from the Morro. Trumpet player on the Malecón blowing at sea-puddles on the pavement. A policeman checking a man's identification while he stares at a cruise ship coming in from the horizon. The whole colonial theme park off in the distance.

The driver lights a cigarette and reaches back to press play on a little broken down ghetto blaster in the back seat and we have Nat King Cole over-enunciating Spanish in the vehicle. The driver imitates it and grins wide, "Pen-sannn-doh. I luuuv it."

"My girl does too."

"My friend, did you know they needed three tries to find Havana before they got it right?" he asks me.

I look at his face and ask him for one of his cigarettes.

"Did you know that originally Cuba was named Juana after Juana La Loca, the insane daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella? They were Columbus's patrons. All that little girl's relatives have been screwing with our lives ever since. We can stop for a beer and I could tell you more."

"I'm training at the gym very soon."

"But you're smoking."

"I'm a very complicated man."

We share an uneasy silence for a moment or two.

"I could pick you up after your training. My friend, I know some great girls I could introduce you to. Any color you like. I have a business card."

He conducts a frantic search of the vehicle before he can produce the business card, but he's very proud of it after he straightens out the wrinkles with the side of his hand against the dash.

"Thank you."

"My friend, I like to drink Hatuey beer. I once drank a beer with Ernest Hemingway in San Francisco de Paula when I was a boy. Do you like our beer?"

"I don't drink beer."

"Let me tell you a story about my favorite beer. When the Spanish first came here an Indian chief named Hatuey sailed from Hispaniola to warn the people. The resistance was brave but wasn't much. Hatuey was burned at the stake. Just before they burned him they offered him a last-minute conversion so he could enter heaven. Hatuey asked whether there were any Christians in heaven. After they assured him that there certainly were, he told them he'd rather go to hell than anywhere where there were people as cruel as the Spaniards."

"They named your beer after this person?"

"Can you imagine a greater honor to bestow?"

The silence goes by a little smoother this time.

"My friend, I can introduce you to some very nice, clean girls."

"My schedule is a little booked. I have a backlog of about 4500 'very nice, clean girls' I already have to meet."

"You haven't seen my girls. You have my business card."

My boxing gym is located in what was once the cheapest red light district in the city. These days most of the prostitution is run by cab drivers. Right after the revolution they reformed most of the prostitutes into cab drivers. Job re-orientation.

Somebody once said that at the end of the world there’s always a tourist and a whore fucking in a cheap hotel. If it's here, that whore’s mother probably made the bed and had coffee ready for them after. Girls still stand in the same doorways staring at passersby and the men still strut down the same narrow streets, but they have different intentions and reasons now.

I like the intensity of this area. I used to like the deliberateness of my not belonging here and being a recognized presence. Initially there were a lot of mixed looks. About the only thing you can trust in this neighborhood is that nothing is trustworthy to an outsider. If I had my gloves out hanging off my bag some of the small kids joyously raised their fists at me while their older siblings eyed my belongings. When I first came into this area at 20 and saw how closely it was monitored by thieves, knowing I'd pass through it on a daily basis at the same time for appointments at the gym, I made a decision to accept that I'd be robbed soon enough and probably with the use of a blade of some kind. I didn't want to enter this place with suspicion or even caution, so I gave into whatever toll the neighborhood expected from me and just said hello to anyone who looked me in the eyes no matter who they were. While I've never enjoyed being played for a sucker, I also can't remember anything worthwhile you can get without trusting regardless of how trustworthy it was. The alternative leaves you with nothing anyway.

Rigondeaux showed up at the gym again. Something was different. Something had changed from the last time I'd seen him. "El Chacal" never bothered to speak with anyone and people seemed hesitant to acknowledge him. I couldn't pick up any cues why this was. He stayed under the shade of the bleachers and watched the children laughing and shouting as they kicked a soccer ball around before their training got rolling. I couldn't make out Rigondeaux's expression, but one of the kids felt the stare and went over to see what was wrong, tugging at his shirt. Rigondeaux slid his hand over the boy's head.

Brea paused when he noticed this. When I dropped my hands thinking we'd go over to say hello, Brea swung at my cheek and growled, "Looka for me! Looka for me! Remember, leedle-by-leedle. He won't stay long."

This was nearly as confusing as it was ominous to say. Neither quality really my coach's style.

Another coach blew the whistle hanging off his neck and the kids found their own spots to begin shadow boxing. Hector came out of the bathroom with a sledgehammer in one hand and lit a cigarette with the other.

Some more tourists came in to take photos not even noticing Rigondeaux. One of them bumped his shoulder by accident. Before the tourist could apologize, Rigondeaux patted him on the shoulder affectionately and left.

I could never really get my head back into training after I'd seen him.

Brea walked me part of the way home through the baking maze of Old Havana streets. He told me that all of Rigondeaux's former teammates on the Cuban National Team were forbidden from consorting with him. There were penalties. His close friends had been avoiding his home. The state took away the car they gave him. Brea talked about how much Rigondeaux had loved and cherished that little car. It was his favorite possession in the world. Even among Olympic champions, a car was a rare gift from the government. "But with every traitor," Brea added, "the government must worry about those that follow after them."

Someone on a roof passing a bottle around with a group of friends called out Brea's name and Brea held up his fist and winked.

"So many distractions in my life, Brinicito. Where were we?"

"Do you think he's a traitor or just the government?"

Brea smiled. The last few days lessons had focused on the art of cutting off the ring on your opponents. Cornering them. Boxing them in.

"Have you been in this area at night?" he asked me.

"Only a few times. I was told not to because of the power outages. There's never any police anyway but I was told it could be very dangerous."

"It is dangerous," Brea agreed. "It's dangerous for me and you see how many people know me. But maybe you can understand how my answering some of your questions about this subject is like walking around a similar neighborhood at night wearing a Rolex watch."

"Sorry."

"Just speak more softly. Leedle by leedle. El Jefe has said he may deny Cubans from participating in other championships as punishment for Rigondeaux's selfishness. In Brazil during the PanAm games Rigondeaux and his teammate were found with prostitutes when he was arrested. Officially I don't think that information is being released. Teofilo Stevenson has publicly asked that Rigondeaux be excused. This will of course not happen, but these are interesting developments. Speaking of developments, look at that Niña leaning against the church! Dios mio. What do you think of Cuban papaya? I prefer it to that of the tourist."

I'm guessing if Brea ever worked in a bar and mixed drinks as well as he mixes subjects he might've become the worst bartender in the world.

"Brinicito, I prefer my women like my coffee---black and bitter."

As much as I like Cuban women, I haven't seen all that many that compare with Brea's response to them. His mustache moves like a drunken seagull flying into a horizon when he tries to make sexy facial expressions to accompany his hideously obscene flattery. Half the women give him a suspicious look but the other half breakdown laughing.

While I'm trying to steer the conversation back to Rigondeaux, two more women - mother and daughter most likely - stroll past. Brea hisses at them until they look back.

A fruit seller with a cart across the street follows Brea's attempts at seduction and snaps his wrist in praise.

"Okay, it's out of my system for another few blocks."

"Will Rigondeaux ever fight again?" I ask.

"Quizas. Not here. And when he leaves he leaves behind a wife and child with a troubled, difficult situation. Anyone associated with his reputation will suffer. The government likes to settle scores. They have eyes everywhere. Police, spies, neighbors. Employment opportunities. Everything can be driven into the ground. Plus the home of Rigondeaux's family can be taken. So he will have to watch his mouth if he makes it to La Yuma successfully. All Cubans are cursed from birth. Cursed if you stay, cursed if you leave."

"I think I need a drink, Brea. Can I buy you one?"

"Pobrecito. We need a bottle, not a drink. This situation is no more sad than behind any other door we have walked past from Trejo until now. We're all born into struggle in this place. It's normal. Suffering is a way of life. There is nothing special in Rigondeaux's tragedy except that he can escape it and create a new tragedy with fame and fortune but without his home, without his family and friends to share it with."

"You're still here. You stayed. Do you see him as a traitor?"

"As a traitor to what? To who? The greatest pride for a Cuban is being a father and a Cuban's biggest disappointment is not having any ability to provide for his children. What important principle is this Cuban boy betraying? Who turned his back on who? You explain to me how I should be able to keep a straight face defending the country I love against Rigondeaux's legacy? We can have a drink in Chinatown and you can buy us some fortune cookies to answer all of your questions."

TAGS: Andre Gide, Boxing, brin friesen, cuba, Ernest Hemingway, Hatuey, havana, Malecon, music in stone, pot holes

Brin Friesen used to hustle speed chess here and there before his first novel, Sic, was published by And/Or Press in 2006. He's spent as much time as he could in Spain and Cuba since he was a teenager sniffing around an amateur boxing career. His work has been published in Korea, the UK, Canada and the US. Brin is currently finishing a memoir about boxing's role in Cuba called, The Domino Diaries. Contact him at brinfriesen@gmail.com

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This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 10th, 2010 at 2:15 pm and is filed under Memoir, Nonfiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.