Chapter One

Calle Amargura," he told the cabdriver, and then hesitated for a moment: Amargura 73 ... Amargura 78 ... ? He looked for the paper in his pocket: "Calle Amargura 75," he added. Street of Bitterness, he said to himself, and with the bitter thought came the premonition that perhaps the old woman had died.

"Suppose she's dead?" he murmured, clutching at the packet of photographs. The driver looked at him in the rearview mirror.

"What did you say?"

He shook his head and was careful not to speak again. He felt ill at ease whenever he was in this section of Old Havana--repelled by the stench of black water mixed with the stink of spent diesel fuel, appalled by the balconies propped up by rotting timbers propped up in turn by other timbers on the verge of rotting. Occasionally a balcony collapsed, leaving behind blank windows and the raw-looking spine of a staircase.

"This is it. Amargura 75," said the driver.

When he got out, he searched the door for a clue: black crepe, a sealed lock, a sign saying the house was for sale. Then he remembered that in Havana nobody put up crepe or For Sale signs anymore, and not even the houses of people who died without heirs were sold. In any case, another family, maybe two, would soon occupy it. The house could easily be divided in three, he thought, and he knocked at the door.

A minute, a minute and a half, went by. A woman crossed the street, stared at him and then glanced at the closed door. He was tempted to ask if she knew whether Senora Enriqueta was at home. For a moment he imagined her reply: "Didn't anyone tell you? The old lady died a month ago."

"She's dead," he whispered, and then he heard the sound of footsteps. The door opened; he felt dark air on his face, and a shadow said:

"Welcome."

"A promise is a promise, he exclaimed, holding the packet up for the old woman to see.

She moved aside. A smell reached him from the interior of the house, the stink of damp rags, cat urine, and rotting potatoes. Once, in one of the rooms, he had seen a heap of potatoes piled against the wall; some were inedible, sprouting long tentacles that twined along the caned back of a sofa.

"When did you arrive?" she asked.

"Yesterday," he said, "but since I can't call you . .

She sighed. "Four years, two months, twenty-something days I've been without a phone. Why can't they fix a phone?"

They walked down the unlit hallway toward the dining room. She led the way, dragging her feet and giving off her own distinctive smell: menthol, dissolved pills, a mix of perpetual sweat and rancid vanilla. As they passed the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of the cat.

"Canio, she called, and patted it on the head. "He's sick," said the old woman. "He hardly eats."

They sat at the table; he opened the packet and took out some photographs. He also brought out a second package wrapped in gift paper.

"You didn't ask me for this, but I know you'll like it."

She put it to one side, not looking at it, and held out her hand for the photographs.

"On the back of each one," he said, giving her the first picture, "I've written the date and the place where I took it. This, for example, is Via San Giovannello. San Giovannello 7--that's where he was born."

She adjusted her glasses, looked at the photo briefly, then read the line on the back.

"Via San Giovannello. . . " she repeated.

"This is the hotel," he said, handing her another photograph. "Look at the name, Vesuvio, and the comer I marked in red ink. That's where the room is. That's where he died."

She placed this photograph on top of the first and took the third one.

"His grave," he murmured. "I have two others, but this is the best shot. Do you see the stone? ... August 2, 1921. Those are the flowers I brought him in your name."

He thought she turned pale, or perhaps she had been pale from the beginning, from the moment she opened the door and realized he had come to claim his part of the bargain. When she finished with the third photograph, he showed her a small album.

"The pictures from La Galleria are all here: a total of fiftytwo. I took pictures of the buildings, the shops.... This one, for instance, is a record store. And the roof is there too: you wanted to see that roof, didn't you? And these are of the pavement; it's still the original one, the same one where he walked."

They were silent as she looked through the album. He felt that he ought to leave her alone, and he got up without making noise, walked down the hall, and stopped at the kitchen. He called Canio two or three times, but the cat had disappeared. When he went back to the dining room, the old woman had closed the album and was slowly opening the package wrapped in gift paper.

"It's just a memento of La Scala," he said quickly.

She took out what seemed to be a small picture, ran her finger around the frame, and then gently touched the engraved metal plate gleaming in the center.

"If you'd like, I'll hang it for you. just tell me where."

The old woman did not answer. She collected the photographs, stood up from the table, and walked slowly toward the sideboard.

"I'll look at them later, when I can take my time. Would you like some water?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he said. "You already know what I'd like."

He was prepared for the worst. For her to say that she thought he wasn't coming back and had sold it; or that it had been stolen one night-recently there had been a lot of stealing in the city; or that she had thought it over and changed her mind. Nobody could force her to part with her only treasure.

"I'd just like to know," the old woman said, "if you're going to keep it."

He shook his head...
 

Excerpted from The Messenger © Copyright 2002 by Mayra Montero. Reprinted with permission by Perrenial. All rights reserved.