Читать книгу No Way Home: A Cuban Dancer’s Story - Carlos Acosta - Страница 9
ОглавлениеI was always called Yuli in the neighbourhood, a name my sister Berta had given me. My father, however, had a different story.
‘Yuli is the spirit of an Indian brave from the tribe of the Sioux Indians in North America, who is with you all the time and whom I talk to every day. That’s how you got your nickname and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
My mother would sigh heavily and roll her eyes up to the ceiling but she would not say anything.
By the age of seven I was already known on my block as a fruit thief. My scheme was simple and executed with precision. Our building stood on a corner where four streets intersected. Directly opposite was Rene’s house, diagonally opposite was Zoilita’s house and on the other corner there was a wall that was used as a meeting place by the local kids. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I would steal Rene’s mangos, and at weekends I would steal Zoilita’s. Tuesdays and Thursdays were reserved for Yolanda, the neighbour who lived two doors away from my building. We took our operation very seriously because it was only by selling fruit that we could afford the entrance fee to the local cinema or pay for a ride round the block in a horse-drawn carriage. Pedro Julio would ring the doorbell, Tonito would keep lookout to make sure no one was coming from the other direction, and as soon as Rene had gone to open the door, I would squeeze carefully through a hole in the barbed wire fence that surrounded his back yard and throw all the mangos, plums and guavas I could lay my hands on into a sack.
The plan worked like a charm until, one day, Rene nearly caught me.
I was happily stuffing fruit into my sack when I heard Pedro Julio and Tonito shout from the street: ‘Run Yuli! Rene’s coming!’
I quickly threw the sack of fruit into the empty overgrown plot of land on the other side and started to scale the fence, when, to my horror, Rene seized me by one leg.
‘I’ve got you, you little rat, just you wait and see what I’m going to do with you!’
‘Let me go, let me go!’ I shouted kicking my legs.
Rene had never come close to catching me before and I was terrified. Thank God, it had rained the day before and, as a result, I was completely covered in mud from Rene’s waterlogged garden. I slipped from his clutches with one mighty tug of my leg.
‘Listen you little bandit, when I catch you I’ll kill you! I’m going to tell your father.’
He never did manage to catch me though, because nobody knew his garden better than I did.
Having made good our escape, all three of us ambled towards the forest.
‘That was a bit close, Yuli, he almost got you. I think we ought to rob some other people and leave Rene alone,’ said Pedro Julio as we passed the lorry repair shop.
‘You always say that, Pedro Julio! Rene’s too slow, he couldn’t even catch a tortoise,’ I replied.
Tonito stopped in the middle of the street to count how many mangos were in the bag.
‘I think there’s enough here to get all three of us into the cinema. Why don’t we try to sell them to Cundo?’
‘Good idea!’ I said slapping my partner’s hand and we walked towards the salesman’s wooden house.
We opened the gate and shooed away the goats that were blocking our path. Cundo hurried out to meet us immediately.
‘I don’t want to buy anything, go, get out of here!’ said the old man grouchily. It was his usual ruse. As soon as anyone tried to sell him anything, he would grumble and say he was not interested so that he could get a lower price for the goods.
‘Hey Cundo, don’t start that again, it was the same last time with the avocados. If you don’t want the mangos we’ll sell them to Alfredo,’ said Tonito throwing the sack over his shoulder.
‘Take them to Alfredo then, what do I care? Take them and see what he gives you. You lot aren’t the only ones, you know, I’ve got plenty of other people bringing me stuff.’
‘This is your last chance!’ the three of us chorused in unison, and Cundo’s face started to turn red.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll give you a peso for the sack.’
‘No way! Anyone’d give you at least five pesos for that sack, so two pesos or nothing,’ I said holding the sack up in my hands.
‘There’s no doing business with you lot,’ muttered Cundo as he finally agreed to the price.
We took the money, gave him the sack of fruit and continued on towards the pool.
‘Get me some avocados, or plums, anything, whatever you like and bring them here, don’t let Alfredo have them,’ we heard him say as he closed the gate.
On the way to the pool, we passed the fibreboard caves.
‘Hey, Yuli, listen, sounds like there’s someone in there,’ said Tonito.
We took a few tentative steps towards the caves.
‘Tonito, Yuli, keep away! My mother says it’s rude to go near the caves when there are people in them.’
‘What are you talking about, Pedro Julio? Stop bugging us.’
Tonito climbed up onto one of the fibreboard sheets and gave me a hand-up. Pedro Julio lagged behind. Just as we were at the cave entrance, a woman started to scream.
‘Oh, oh, what’s this? Oh, oh I’m dying!’
‘They’re killing her, we’ve got to help! Call someone!’ shouted Pedro Julio and ran off, but Tonito and I peered inside, imagining that we would find the screaming woman with a knife to her throat. What we saw totally confused us. There was a naked man on top of her, thrusting his pelvis backwards and forwards. She was moaning and sweating and with every thrust she let out a scream.
‘I’m dying, I’m dying!’
But there was not any blood.
We whistled to let Pedro Julio know that it was not necessary to call anyone.
‘Why was she screaming?’ asked my friend.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied scratching my head.
In the end we concluded that the man must have had a knife hidden between his legs and, shrugging our shoulders in confusion, we continued on our way to the pool.
As soon as we arrived Tonito and I jumped straight into the water, but Pedro Julio hung back looking nervously at the trees.
‘Pedro Julio, what are you waiting for?’ I asked him.
‘My mother says I’m not to swim here. Remember what happened to Pichon.’
‘Pichon said it was the pool, but the thing is he actually already had worms before he swam here,’ said Tonito and the three of us laughed.
Pedro Julio could not be convinced, however, so Tonito and I left him standing on the edge while we played ‘touched’. One of us would dive under water and the other one had to stay on the surface and try to tap him on the head. Time and time again we dived down into the dark and filthy channels of the pool, sometimes swallowing the sludgy water. The wind rocked the trees and their trunks creaked. The owls hooted as always. There were more frogs than ever, which jumped into the water with us.
‘Careful a frog doesn’t pee on you or you’ll go blind,’ said Pedro Julio, then we heard another voice.
‘Blind! I’ll leave you blind with the beating I’m going to give you!’
I stuck my head out of the pool and saw the imposing and unmistakable figure of my father.
‘You little bastard, how many times have I told you I don’t want to see you swimming in that disgusting water?’
My father pulled me out of the pool by my ear and threw me onto the rocks.
‘Wait, Papito, let me explain!’
My father was not in the mood for explanations.
‘Walk before I crack your head open,’ he said as he dragged me through the undergrowth and rocks.
‘Didn’t I tell you to wait in the house? Have you forgotten that today is the day of the photo? I’m going to kill you!
Shit, I thought as I scrambled along, colliding with the branches and sharp twigs sticking out of the bushes and trees, I had forgotten the photo.
We passed the caves and Cundo’s house and started down the hill. The people came out of their houses when they heard my father shouting. My stormy relationship with my father was a source of entertainment in the neighbourhood.
‘Hey Peeeedro … leeeave the boooyyy alooone!’ said Juanito, the drunk, as my father shook and slapped me about.
‘Out of my way Juanito!’ My old man pushed him roughly.
‘Heeeey, dooon’t you staaart picking on meeee. I’m Juaaaanito the druuuunk!’
We left Juanito with his bottle and continued on down the hill. When we arrived at my building, Zoilita, Rene, Yolanda, Candida, all the neighbours were waiting.
‘Finally you’re going to make him pay,’ they all cheered, as if a runaway criminal had just been captured. Rene was looking very satisfied with himself – he had obviously told my parents where to find me. My father walked me straight past them and up the stairs to our apartment. My mother sluiced me down to get the mud off, dressed me in my only pair of trousers, the better of my two pairs of shoes and my one school shirt. My father insisted that I wear a tie.
‘No, Mami, not the tie!’
‘You, shut your mouth!’ said my old man angrily.
‘There’s no need to yell, Pedro, we’ll make it in time,’ my mother said soothingly.
We went down the stairs once more and the neighbours started to applaud again.
‘Finally, they’re going to turn you into a respectable human being,’ said Rene smiling from his doorway.
No sooner were we inside the big wooden house of the neighbourhood photographer, than he got out a device as old as Methuselah, set it up on the cool, tiled floor and told me to sit still. Then he put his head under a cloth attached to the back of the antique apparatus and pressed a button with his right hand.
A week later my mother collected the photo, framed it and placed it in a corner of the sitting room. That was the first photo ever taken of me and it is the only image that exists of me before ballet entered my life.
