domenica 6 luglio 2025

La desheredada - Prólogo

 



Empezaba a amanecer, el mar estaba en calma y soplaba una ligera brisa de tierra. En el embarcadero de la playa, los pescadores tiraban las cuerdas, empujando las barcas mar adentro. Manuela Llopis Hernández oyó a lo lejos los gritos de los hombres que se hacían a la mar. Se paró delante de la ventana, miró el mar y esperó a que la playa estuviera desierta del todo para cruzar la puerta. Antes de hacerlo, tuvo un momento de lucidez y cogió del armario la caja de latón donde guardaba las fotografías. Se sentó en una silla cerca de la ventana y las fue mirando una por una. Separó dos: un retrato suyo en sepia de cuando llegó a España y otro donde posaba orgullosa con sus dos hijas pequeñas, una a cada lado. Dejó su retrato en el cajón del escritorio que había sido de Narciso, su esposo. Luego besó la otra fotografía y la guardó de nuevo en la caja. Con aquel gesto se estaba desprendiendo de la mujer que había sido durante los últimos años. Sin embargo, la culpable de la fuga no era ella, sino la muchacha cubana que todavía albergaba en su corazón.

Al levantarse de la cama, se puso un mantón de lana gris sobre los hombros y se calzó con unas zapatillas de esparto. Llevaba un largo camisón blanco de media manga, bordado a mano. En una cama al lado de la suya, Caridad, su criada cubana, dormía profundamente y, para que no se despertara, Manuela se movió sigilosamente por el cuarto. Luego entró en el dormitorio de su hija Amelia y observó detenidamente la cabeza que sobresalía de la colcha: los párpados cerrados, la nariz chata, las arrugas del rostro, los labios un poco abiertos y el pelo grisáceo. Al notar que respiraba plácidamente, se tranquilizó. Dejó sobre la mesita de noche el retrato que había escogido para ella. En una alcoba que comunicaba con la de Amelia descansaban sus dos bisnietas, a quienes les acarició delicadamente los cabellos. La mayor era morena, tenía tres años y la pequeña, que había recién cumplido uno, era rubia. Luego se dirigió al dormitorio del fondo, donde vio a una mujer acurrucada en un rincón de una cama grande. No se acordaba de quién era. Se quedó mucho rato mirándola, hasta que oyó las campanas que anunciaban la primera misa, cogió su sombrero y salió de casa.

Con la caja de fotografías agarrada en el pecho, se acercó a la playa y se sentó en la arena. Sacó de nuevo los retratos, que en su mayor parte eran de la época cubana. Acarició la imagen de sus padres y la besó varias veces. El sol iba levantándose poco a poco y la brisa cesó. Miró de nuevo el mar y recordó el largo viaje de La Habana a Barcelona que hizo con Narciso, Caridad y las niñas.

Ahora lo único que tenía que hacer era meterse en el agua y dejar que las corrientes marinas la llevaran a su tierra. Volteó la cabeza hacia atrás y divisó por última vez la magnífica casa de estilo colonial, rodeada por un frondoso jardín. Sin embargo, no se acordaba de que era ella la dueña y de que allí había vivido cincuenta años. En su cabeza existía sólo la casa de la finca de Entre Ríos en Consolación del Sur, donde anhelaba volver.

Se levantó y se encaminó hacia la orilla y poco a poco entró en el mar. Sus pies iban andando sobre el fondo arenoso y sus piernas sumergiéndose cada vez más bajo el mar; cuando el agua le llegó a la cintura, el camisón se quedó empapado y se hinchó como una vela de un barco.

Las campanas despertaron a Caridad y, al ver la cama vacía, corrió hacia la ventana. Vio que el cuerpo de su ama iba sumergiéndose y gritó:

¡Señora Manuela, recule! ¡Señora!

La mujer que había perdido la cabeza se iba hundiendo hacia los abismos y la caja de latón con ella.









domenica 29 giugno 2025

Zenobia

 

Cuando se despertó, le dolía un poco la cabeza. Durante la cena, además de varias copas de cava, Marina tomó un poco de vino tinto de una de las botellas que le habían traído sus amigas. Ella tenía cuidado en no mezclar bebidas alcohólicas, pero, aquella noche especial, no lo tuvo. Se tomó una aspirina y se quedó un rato más en la cama. Era una mañana suave de mayo y, mientras se desperezaba, estuvo pensando en los muchachos de El Maresme, los que a mediados del siglo XIX se fueron a Cuba; no todos tuvieron suerte; sin embargo, algunos afortunados, quizás los más listos y ambiciosos o los que tenían menos escrúpulos, regresaron cargados de riqueza y construyeron casas lujosas, como la de su bisabuelo. Abrió el portátil y buscó noticias de las mansiones de los indianos, pero no se quedó satisfecha y se fue a la biblioteca. Dobló la esquina y cogió la calle principal donde había la casa más hermosa del pueblo; se quedó pasmada al ver que ya no quedaba casi nada del palacete de antaño. Recordó que cuando vivía en el pueblo, a menudo se paraba a contemplar, desde la verja del jardín frondoso, la espléndida mansión de estilo colonial rodeada por una escalinata de mármol y una galería con arcos, de donde destacaba una torre central.

El vigilante le contó que en 1979 los dueños la vendieron a una promotora y cuando las excavadoras estaban derrumbando la casa, los habitantes del pueblo protestaron e hicieron cesar las obras. Salvaron poca cosa: algunos árboles, el molino que servía para suministrar agua y los dos pequeños estanques, pero consiguieron que dos años más tarde el ayuntamiento comprara la finca, edificara un centro social para jubilados y convirtiera el jardín en un lugar público.

Marina entró en el parque cabizbaja y se sentó en un banco. Al cabo de unos minutos se puso a su lado una mujer con un sombrero de ala corta. De su rostro destacaban unos ojos verdes intensos. Llevaba un collar de perlas, una blusa blanca y un traje de chaqueta gris, sencillo, pero elegante; aparentaba unos sesenta años.

¿Sabía usted que fue construida en 1873 por el indiano Mariano Alsina Robert? El jardín era fabuloso, con palmeras, pinos, moreras, sauces llorones, cedros, magnolios y muchas variedades de rosales. Pero quizás usted no sepa que desde el año 1884 hasta 1891 la familia Camprobí alquiló la quinta para pasar allí los veranos. Y que en 1887, en el dormitorio más lindo, desde donde se veía el mar, nació Zenobia.

Marina se animó y le contestó:

Ah, sí, Zenobia Camprobí, la que se casó con Juan Ramón Jiménez.

Vaya, todo el mundo la conoce por su esposo. Ella también era escritora, periodista y traductora.

Sí, tiene razón. Vivió en una época en que las mujeres contaban bien poco, pero he leído que fue una mujer valiente, capaz y talentosa.

Isabel Aymar, su madre la llamaba caballota, que reúne los tres adjetivos que usted acaba de mencionar.

Tiene usted acento caribeño.

Viví muchos años en Puerto Rico; mi abuela era de allá; bueno, era criolla, medio catalana y medio corsa. —Bajó un poco la cabeza, se tocó el collar de perlas y dejó de hablar unos segundos. —Zenobia transcurrió los veranos más felices de su infancia en este pueblo y siempre siguió añorándolo. En 1905 se fue a vivir a Nueva York con su madre y allí empezó los estudios universitarios. Cuando, al cabo de cinco años, volvió a España, todos la llamaban la americanita. Antes de regresar a Nueva York, quiso ir a visitar su casa natal en busca de su niñez… pero le pareció triste y oscura; en cambio, el jardín seguía siendo un esplendor. ¡Qué bonitas eran las rosas!

La mujer se levantó y desapareció en el parque, antes de que Marina tuviera tiempo de preguntarle más cosas.

¿Quién era aquella mujer misteriosa?

En la biblioteca buscó noticias de Zenobia. Dio con una biografía y se retiró a la sala de lectura para darle una ojeada. Descubrió que su vida fue singular: fue hija de dos continentes, una mujer moderna, brillante, inquieta y luchadora, escritora y traductora, empresaria visionaria y activista feminista, profesora universitaria y pedagoga entregada a la infancia. Marina pensó que era una pena que una mujer con tanto talento hubiera sido la sombra de su esposo. Antes de salir, le preguntó a la bibliotecaria si tenían más libros de Zenobia.

Tenemos el diario de juventud.

Marina se llevó a casa el dietario y se pasó toda la noche leyéndolo.

De madrugada, durmió algunas horas y se levantó más tarde que de costumbre. Mientras desayunaba, se propuso dejar de pensar en la mansión y concentrarse en otras cosas, pero no lo consiguió. Aquella mujer misteriosa le estimuló la curiosidad y se fue de nuevo a la biblioteca para investigar sobre los indianos, los catalanes de El Maresme que regresaron de Cuba con una gran fortuna. En un libro encontró varias cosas que desconocía y las apuntó en su libreta:

Los indianos generalmente ordenaban construir la casa antes de volver a Cataluña. Lo primero que hacían era ponerse en contacto con algún familiar o amigo de confianza para que contratara los servicios de un arquitecto o de un maestro de obras, que dirigía la construcción de una mansión. Desde América enviaban las instrucciones y el dinero necesario para iniciar las obras y, una vez en casa, solo tenían que ocuparse de los últimos detalles.

Se imaginó a su bisabuelo Narciso escribiendo a uno de sus primos, para que se encargara de las obras de la mansión que quería construir.

Por las mañanas estaba muy concurrida la biblioteca y Marina tuvo que sentarse en una butaca de la sala de lectura de la prensa y esperar a que quedara libre una mesa. Al cabo de poco tiempo se trasladó a una mesa de la sala general de lectura, donde había varios muchachos que estudiaban delante de la pantalla de un portátil. Era época de exámenes y recordó que jamás había disfrutado los meses de mayo y de junio, primero como alumna y después como profesora. ¡Qué pena, son los meses más lindos del año! Suspiró y siguió escribiendo en su libreta.

Las casas indianas solían estar formadas por un sótano, una planta baja, uno o dos pisos y un desván. La fachada a menudo estaba decorada y destacaba por su simetría. Todas las ventanas eran regulares y de dimensiones similares. La parte posterior de la casa daba al patio y estaba formada por galerías con pilares y arcos; en su interior se podían ver pinturas murales de jardines y plantas exóticas. Las casas solían tener también una torre, cuadrada o circular, desde donde se podía ver el mar. En la planta baja de la casa estaban el vestíbulo, los inmensos y altos salones y la cocina. A través de unas escaleras anchas, hechas con los materiales de mejor calidad, se accedía a los pisos superiores y a los dormitorios. Las habitaciones más lujosas solían estar decoradas con pinturas murales y disponían, como los salones de la primera planta, de una gran chimenea. Los muebles de las casas destacaban por su gran calidad. Para fabricarlos, los indianos llevaron de América la madera de la jacaranda y de la caoba. La mayor parte de los muebles era de caoba, pero también utilizaron la caña de bambú para hacer mesas y sillas.

Mientras tomaba apuntes, pensó que Narciso Pons Garriga, su bisabuelo, era un indiano austero, pues la fachada de la mansión estaba decorada con sencillez y ni en el interior de la galería ni en los dormitorios había pinturas murales. Él también quería ver el mar y construyó una torre. De los muebles antiguos ya quedaba poca cosa; muchos estaban arrinconados en el desván. Marina se quedó quieta, recordando con añoranza los muebles de caoba que su abuela y Caridad frotaban cada día para que brillaran.

Dejó el libro y el cuaderno en la mesa, la chaqueta colgada detrás de la silla y puso su portátil dentro de la mochila. Salió de la biblioteca y fue a sentarse en la terraza del bar de la plaza de al lado. Se puso las gafas de sol, pues todavía no quería ser reconocida. No había casi nadie; el camarero le contó que muchos establecimientos comerciales del centro iban cerrando. En aquella plaza antiguamente hacían mercado y Marina se imaginó a las criadas mulatas de los indianos, que iban a comprar plátanos, arroz, frijoles negros y carne picada para preparar un manjar llamado moros y cristianos, típico del Caribe. Recordó a su abuela Amelia, que le encantaba cocinar el arroz con salsa de tomate y huevo frito, plato que más tarde fue llamado arroz a la cubana. Con aquel recuerdo sintió hambre y miró el reloj. Era casi la una. Llamó al camarero y pidió un bocadillo de queso. Mientras tomaba el sol, se quedó un rato ensimismada mirando a las personas que entraban y salían del establecimiento para tomar un café o comer algo. Se imaginó que las mujeres que llevaban una bolsa de deporte salían del gimnasio que estaba a dos pasos, que las que llevaban un carrito eran amas de casa que volvían de la compra, y que los que no tenían prisa eran jubilados. Después de comer se puso a leer. La plaza empezó a despoblarse y hacia las dos empezaron a llegar los empleados que iban a almorzar.

Volvió a la biblioteca y se puso a leer los periódicos del día. Las salas de lectura estaban bastante vacías. Marina se sentó en la mesa donde había dejado sus cosas y siguió tomando apuntes:

Los patios de las casas se cerraban con rejas de hierro y se accedía por un portal bastante alto que estaba decorado con motivos coloniales. A través de sus jardines, los indianos querían volver a contemplar el paisaje tropical de Cuba y por eso no faltaba el agua ni la vegetación, que era muy abundante. Había fuentes, estanques, caminos y todo tipo de plantas exóticas, las mismas que se cultivaban en los patios cubanos. Los indianos más adinerados encargaban el diseño de sus terrenos con plantas ornamentales a arquitectos renombrados, como Eusebi Güell, que encomendó al arquitecto Antoni Gaudí el proyecto del Parque Güell de Barcelona.

Lo que más le gustaba a Marina de la mansión de su bisabuelo era el jardín. Pero quedaba bien poco del que fue antaño, pues su padre, en los años ochenta, vendió una parte de la finca y en ella se edificaron viviendas. Solo había sobrevivido una palmera real, originaria de Cuba. Sin darse cuenta, se le pasó el tiempo volando. Buscó y rebuscó más noticias sobre los indianos de El Maresme, pero no encontró nada más. Al salir, se lo comentó a la bibliotecaria, quien le aconsejó que buscara noticias de la familia Cardona, pues había un tal Félix Cardona Puig, hijo de un indiano de Malgrat, que fue famoso por sus descubrimientos geográficos en Venezuela.

En la biblioteca tenemos algunos libros, pero en Internet también va a encontrar su biografía.

¡Quién iba a decirme que este pueblo era cuna de viajeros y aventureros!

Cogió prestado el libro La conquista del Orinoco, del periodista catalán Eugeni Casanovas, con las hazañas de Félix Cardona, para leerlo en casa con tranquilidad.

Volvió a la terraza del mismo bar, se sentó en la única mesa libre y pidió al camarero una cerveza sin alcohol y unas aceitunas rellenas. Las calles empezaban a animarse; al atardecer los niños salían de las actividades extraescolares, las parejas iban a pasear y los rezagados compraban las últimas cosas para la cena. Abrió el portátil y se puso a buscar noticias de Félix Cardona Puig. Encontró que fue un explorador de la Guayana, donde realizó varias expediciones y vivió mucho tiempo con los indígenas. Se volvió famoso tras descubrir la cascada más alta del mundo en Venezuela, El Salto Ángel. Félix Cardona estudió en un internado y en la Escuela Náutica de Barcelona y viajó a lo largo y ancho de América Central gracias a la riqueza de su padre. A finales del siglo XIX, el padre de Félix se fue a Cuba con su hermano, donde hicieron fortuna. Los hermanos Cardona a principios del siglo XX volvieron ricos a su tierra natal y cada uno se hizo construir una casa en la calle que de la plaza de la iglesia llegaba al mar. No eran mansiones espléndidas como la de los indianos del siglo anterior, pero eran palacios hermosos, comparados con las humildes casas donde vivía la mayor parte de la gente. Marina recordaba vagamente aquellas dos casas señoriales, una en frente de otra. Cerró el portátil y se fue andando despacio por la calle del Mar hacia su nueva morada.

Se paró delante de las casas de los hermanos Cardona. Primero miró la de la izquierda. Un señor con un bastón, al verla tan concentrada, mirando las decoraciones modernistas de la fachada, le dijo:

Esta casa todavía es de la familia Cardona, pero hace años que no vive nadie. La alquilan en verano. Todavía luce, a pesar de que, en los años sesenta, con la fiebre del turismo, abrieron una tienda y destruyeron un poco la fachada. Por suerte, en la entrada está la verja original de hierro forjado y el mirador de arriba se conserva bien, con los vidrios amarillos y verdes.

Sí, es preciosa. Las tres ventanas rectangulares sobre el mirador son muy originales. También la casa del frente es de estilo modernista, pero es más sencilla.

Esa ya no pertenece a la familia Cardona. La compró una modista y la reformó, convirtiéndola en una tienda de ropa, la mejor del pueblo. Sin embargo, hace cinco años que se trasladaron a Blanes. ¡Qué desastre que hayan cerrado todos los comercios del barrio antiguo!

Cuando Marina llegó a casa cogió el libro de la biblioteca para leerlo; sin embargo antes de abrirlo sonó el móvil. Era una videollamada de sus hijos. Marina estuvo contenta de escuchar su voz melosa. Maribel y Roberto no le paraban de contar noticias de Buenos Aires. Cuando colgó, dejó el libro que tenía en las manos sobre la mesa y fue a buscar una novela del escritor argentino Manuel Puig, necesitaba volver a la tierra donde había vivido tantos años.








domenica 8 giugno 2025

El llavero

 



El día que se marchó a Argentina, hizo la maleta a escondidas. Metió ropa de abrigar, zapatos de recambio, un collar de nácar, dos libros, un cuaderno, algunas fotografías, dos casetes de un cantautor catalán y un neceser repleto de jabones y cosméticos. Colocó en el forro de la mochila el billetero, el pasaporte y el llavero. Antonio guardó los pasajes y demás papeles para viajar.

Cuarenta años después, en Buenos Aires, mientras preparaba el equipaje para el viaje de vuelta a Barcelona, le preguntó a su hija, Maribel:

¿Has visto mi llavero redondo? El plateado, el que me regaló tu padre.

¡Mamá, tenés que estar tranquila! Quizás esté en el macuto, aquel que no quisiste tirar.

¡Qué boluda que soy! Tienes razón.

¿Te acordás? Lo guardaste en el trastero, le contestó Maribel.

¡Qué suerte que durante la mudanza no se haya perdido! Exclamó, más tarde, con el llavero en la mano.

Llegó a España con la obsesión por introducirse en la casa de sus antepasados.

El segundo día, se armó de valor y, después de cenar, salió del hotel y se dirigió a la mansión que había construido su bisabuelo, el que se fue a Cuba. Por suerte no había ninguna farola cerca de la puerta, tampoco se veía luz en las ventanas de la casa de enfrente y pasó desapercibida. La llave entró bien en la cerradura y abrió el portalón. Su corazón le latió fuerte cuando le llegó el olor a humedad. Encendió la linterna del móvil e iluminó la cómoda del zaguán. Era un mueble antiguo, con dos cajones y armarios, que su abuela, Amelia, hizo restaurar a Joanet, el ebanista. Encima había un platillo con un llavero de plata, de forma de estrella. Marina lo reconoció: era el juego de llaves de su madre y le temblaron las piernas. Se repuso y entró en el salón. Se impresionó al ver las siluetas de los muebles cubiertos por sábanas polvorientas, las marcas de los cuadros que faltaban en las paredes y la tapicería deslucida.

¿Por qué Mercedes ha descolgado los cuadros?

Levantó la sábana de la vitrina y descubrió el marco de una fotografía bocabajo; al darle la vuelta, apareció el retrato de su madre y se sintió desfallecer. No llegó a entrar en el cuarto de estar; cerró la puerta y volvió al hotel.








giovedì 5 giugno 2025

Il portachiavi

 


Il giorno della partenza per l'Argentina preparò il bagaglio di nascosto. Mise in valigia alcuni capi invernali, un paio di scarpe di ricambio, una collana di madreperla, due libri, un taccuino, alcune fotografie, due cassette di un cantautore catalano e una borsetta piena di saponi e cosmetici. Nella tasca interna dello zaino mise il passaporto, i soldi risparmiati e il portachiavi rotondo d’argento. Antonio aveva con sé i biglietti e i visti.

Quarant'anni dopo, a Buenos Aires, mentre preparava i bagagli per il viaggio di ritorno a Barcellona, chiese Maribel, la figlia:
Hai il mio mio portachiavi? Quello d'argento che mi regalò tuo padre quando eravamo giovani.
Mamma, tranquilla! Verrai che sarà in quel vecchio zaino che non hai voluto buttare.
Hai ragione. Non ho più memoria!
Ti ricordi? Credo di averlo intravisto nel ripostiglio, rispose Maribel.
È una fortuna che non sia andato perso durante il trasloco! Esclamò Marina, poco dopo con il mazzo di chiavi in mano.
Marina arrivò in Spagna con l'ossessione di introdursi nella casa dei suoi antenati.
Il secondo giorno dopo il suo arrivo si fece coraggio e, dopo cena, lasciò l'albergo e si recò alla villa, costruita dal suo bisnonno, Narciso Pons Garriga, che si era arricchito andando a Cuba. Per fortuna non c'erano lampioni vicino alla porta, né luci alle finestre della casa di fronte, e Marina passò inosservata. La chiave entrò nella serratura e aprì la porta. Il cuore gli batteva forte quando un leggero odore di muffa la raggiunse. Accese la torcia del cellulare e illuminò la cassettiera nel corridoio. Era un mobile antico, con cassetti e sportelli, che Amelia Pons i Llopis, sua nonna, aveva fatto restaurare dall'ebanista del paese. Vide un piattino con un mazzo di chiavi, riconobbe subito la stella d'argento del portachiavi di sua madre e gli tremarono le gambe. Si ricompose e si diresse verso il salone. Rimase male vedendo le sagome dei mobili coperte da lenzuola polverose e i segni dei quadri mancanti sulle pareti.
Perché hanno tolto i quadri? Si domandò.

Sollevò il lenzuolo che copriva la vetrina e scoprì una cornice capovolta; quando la girò, apparve il ritratto di sua madre e si sentì svenire. Non riuscì a entrare nel salottino della nonna Amelia; chiuse la porta e tornò velocemente in albergo.









mercoledì 30 aprile 2025

Lo svenimento

 



Marina si recò alla villa con l'agente immobiliare. Il portone era scrostato ma conservava ancora tracce del colore verde di un tempo, l’agente introdusse la chiave nella toppa, il portone si aprì e i due entrarono.

Percorsero il corridoio e aprirono le finestre del salone, poi entrarono in sala da pranzo e nella attigua cucina, poi salirono al piano superiore, dove si trovavano le camere da letto, il bagno e la terrazza. Mentre scendevano al piano terra, l’agente parlava dello splendore della casa. Quando entrarono nel salottino Marina ebbe la sensazione che l’anima le stesse fuggendo dal corpo. Si vide nuotare nel mare della sua infanzia. Una forte corrente la risucchiò sul fondo, dove vide la madre seduta su uno scoglio, circondata da alghe e pesci. Marina le si avvicinò e disse:

Mamma, sono tornata.
Marina, sei tu? Mi sei mancata tanto. Ma non ti vedo, fatti toccare!

La madre la sfiorò delicatamente con la mano e le domandò:

Cosa è successo alla villa?

Marina sentì che il suo corpo era diventato la casa, e rispose:
La mia pelle, piena di rughe, è l'intonaco della facciata, vecchio e scolorito dal tempo. I miei organi invecchiati sono le stanze della casa, ma, nonostante il tempo, sono ancora belle. Il cuore, invece, è sempre limpido. Le mie viscere immerse nell’oscurità sono i corridoi che nessuno percorre. Ma adesso voglio spalancare porte e balconi e far fluire liberamente i miei pensieri.

Signora Pons! Che spavento! Le porto un bicchiere d'acqua?
Credo di essere svenuta.
Si sieda sulla poltrona. Torno subito.

Marina si avvicinò alla vetrata per accertarsi che l’agente fosse ancora in cucina. Andò verso l’armadio, lo aprì e premette il pulsante in basso, come le aveva insegnato la nonna. Tirò fuori dalla cassetta di legno alcuni documenti e li mise in borsa. Si sedette e chiuse gli occhi.







martedì 29 aprile 2025

El desmayo

 


Marina se dirigió a la mansión con el empleado de la inmobiliaria. La puerta desvencijada todavía conservaba rastros del color verde de antaño. El agente puso la llave en la cerradura y la puerta se abrió. Se adentraron por el pasillo y visitaron el salón, el comedor y la cocina; luego subieron al piso de arriba para ver los dormitorios, el cuarto de baño, el desván y la terraza. Bajaron comentando que la casa todavía conservaba el esplendor de antes. Entraron en la sala de estar y de golpe Marina percibió como si su alma huyera del cuerpo. Se vio nadando en el mar de su infancia. Una corriente fuerte la arrastró hacia el fondo, donde su madre estaba sentada en una roca, rodeada de algas y peces. Su rostro era plácido. Finalmente estaba sola. Ya no tenía que soportar las órdenes y los malhumores de su esposo. Marina se acercó y le dijo:

Mare, ja he tornat.

Marina, t’he trobat a faltar.

Jo també t’he enyorat.

No et veig! Deixem tocar-te!

La madre la tocó delicadamente con la mano y le preguntó:

I que se n’ha fet de la mansió?

Marina sintió que su cuerpo era la casa y le contestó:

La meva pell, plena de taques i arrugues, és l’arrebossat de la façana, que s’ha tornat vell i ha perdut color. Els meus òrgans enrevellits són les cambres, que malgrat la pols encara són boniques, però tinc el cor pulit. Els passadissos  foscos i tristos són els meus budells. Però ara vull obrir de bat a bat les portes i les finestres per rebre visitants i deixar fluir els meus pensaments.

Señora Pons, señora Pons!¡Qué susto! ¿Le traigo un vaso de agua?

Creo que me he desmayado. Me sentará bien un poco de agua fría.

Siéntese en la butaca. Vuelo enseguida.

Marina se repuso, se arregló el peinado con las manos y se levantó. Luego se acercó a la puerta acristalada para cerciorarse de que el agente todavía estaba en la cocina.

Se acercó al armario, lo abrió y apretó el botón del fondo, como le había enseñado la abuela. Sacó de la pequeña caja secreta unos papeles y se los metió en el bolso. Se volvió a sentar y cerró los ojos.






giovedì 3 aprile 2025

Chapter 22 Wisdom comes ith age and Epilogue

 



Felipe had always been an active man. Despite his age, every day he walked a good distance. When he lived in Havana, he would walk to the port with his box of watercolors to paint. He also took a book and a notebook to read and write. However, as the years went by, he started to cut out moments of domestic stillness. After his morning walk, he would sit in the garden where he felt at ease, sometimes reading and other times contemplating the plants and trees.


One morning, he closed his eyes and remembered the day he and Olivia went to the Bonanza estate for the first time. The two stood paralyzed looking at the façade of what was going to be their house. The iron gate was dilapidated, the garden destroyed and full of weeds. The road that led to the door of the house was completely muddy and covered with fallen trees which they had to move aside to get through. Some woody stems were rotten, others dry, and the few that remained standing were smothered by the vigorous vines that climbed around the bark, fighting to gain the upper hand. Only crumbled walls remained of the stables and corrals. It was difficult for them to open the door of the house that had been dislocated by the blows of the Spanish soldiers looking for independentists. The hallway smelled of humidity and when they entered the living room and the rooms on the ground floor, they realized that everything was in ruins: the window glass was broken, the door hinges were creaking, the walls were chipped and stained with moisture, the furniture piled up, the upholstery dingy and the fireplaces blackened by countless layers of soot. The stairs were missing steps, the roof of the bedrooms had collapsed in some places and the few pieces of furniture that remained were damaged. 


When Felipe opened his eyes again that day, after contemplating the bushes and trees that Olivia and the gardener had planted, he got up to hug the walnut tree. Then he picked up a sprig of rosemary, put it to his nose and smelling it he said to himself, “Why are humans so distracted and we don’t stop to look, smell, and touch the good things we have?” Closing his eyes and hugging the trees was a game he played as a child with his father.  Sometimes one of the farm's cats would come up to him and he would pet it. The first time Mariano saw him with a cat on his lap, he told him, “I can't believe it. You never petted the cats, you kicked them out!’


"Wisdom comes with age,” Felipe commented smiling.


Olivia also enjoyed her home, but she had been strange for several months. She was losing her memory of the recent past. She started forgetting chores in the kitchen and the names of things. She no longer knew the name of the postman, the shopkeeper or who the town doctor was. When she realized her mistakes, she became angry with herself. Her sweet character turned sour. One day she begged Felipe, “Help me get out of here, I want to go home.”


Olivia, this is your home! Where do you want to go?”


They're spying on me.”


Come here, by my side, I will protect you. You have created this garden from scratch. Those trees are ours, hug them.”


Olivia wrapped her arms around a tree and little by little she calmed down. 


I was planning to go to the Esperanza farm to bring them bananas and avocados. Will you come with me?”


Yes, I want to get out of here,” she told him.


Let's walk, if you feel like it. Or maybe you prefer to go by car?”


Better walking. Wait for me, I'm going to look for my straw hat.”


Since the first symptoms of Olivia's illness, Felipe tried to take her for a walk every morning and in the evening he dictated pieces of a story for her to write. Every night, he also read aloud to her a chapter from one of her favorite novels. Often in the afternoons, after a nap, when Olivia opened the sewing box and sat on the patio to mend socks and tights, Felipe would leave the house again. He left his wife with Fausta, an old mulatto woman, a war widow, whom they had given shelter in their house in Havana. She was very affectionate with Olivia and got along well with the other workers on the farm. They had never had servants, but since they lived in the country, they hired a gardener and a cook who also took care of the cleaning.


Felipe would have liked Mariano to go out more. Since he turned eighty, he noticed that he was a little sad, he had lost his enthusiasm for the Catalan social gatherings, and had less interest in politics which is why he was going to pick him up by car. He would take him for a ride and on the way back he would invite him to have a snack at the Bonanza estate, so that Olivia would see him more often and not forget about him.


Mariano let his friend take him for a walk, and enjoyed the relaxed sitting on the patio of the Bonanza estate. The cook always served them a cup of coffee with pastries and a tray of fruit, but he preferred lemonade with sugar. 


Come on, Olivia. Go get Mariano some lemonade.”


Olivia brought them a pitcher of lemonade and sat down with them again. 


What are you telling me today, Olivia?” Mariano asked her.


She began to ramble on about very distant events, carefully remembering anecdotes from her childhood in the plantation barracks. However, she often repeated the same things.

One afternoon when Olivia was busy collecting the clothes hanging in the sun, she said to the two men, “My Aunt Paca told me that there is a curse on the women.”


What women?”


The owner of the mill and her three daughters.”


What curse are you talking about?”


Their cruelty and meanness towards the black slaves will make their hair fall out and they will go bald,” Olivia said.


Your Aunt Paca was right - they were evil women. Your aunt sang very well, right? Come on Olivia, tell us about your aunt,” said Felipe.


I want to go to the barracks!”


Olivia, your aunt is no longer at the sugar mill. Now we all live here, this is our house. Do you want me to help you fold the clothes?”


No, I'm done, now I'm going to give it to . . .”  She stayed silent for a few seconds, searching for Fausta's name in her head. “. . . to that woman, so she can help me iron it.” 


After a few minutes, they heard Olivia singing and they looked at each other, happy that she was humming a song from her childhood.


Then the two friends heard Fausta's loving voice saying to Olivia, “My Olivia, let's finish the clothes and put them in their place. Can you help me?” 


Felipe turned on the radio and the news began reporting on the combat of the first bloody battle of the Spanish Civil War, the Battle of Irun. The two remained silent for a long time, paying attention to the radio and thinking about how terrible the fights were from house to house, killing brothers and neighbors. At the end of the news, Felipe turned off the radio and said, “The Popular Front is a very heterogeneous left-wing coalition, as it brings together parties with very different approaches: Republicans, social democrats, liberals, socialists, communists and anarchists. They all share the anti-fascist spirit, but you see, the most radical parties and the conservatives are starting to throw plates at each other's heads, like in a marriage.”


The only thing missing would be if, due to the disagreements between the parties on the Red side, the Nationals won the war. It would be a disaster,” Mariano answered worriedly.


You already know that I like to joke. However, speaking seriously, I have to tell you that I fear for the disagreements of the Reds, but now what worries me most is the support that Germany and Italy are giving to the Nationals.”


Don't say that Felipe. I hope the aid that the Reds receive from the Soviet Union and Mexico is enough. Furthermore, I have heard that many units of foreign volunteers are arriving, right?”


Yes, the international brigades and civil militias help a lot and their courage is to be admired, but poor people fight with obsolete weapons. I just hope that together they manage to save Spain from fascism,” Felipe answered.


The Second Spanish Republic was an illusory attempt to overcome the delay of two centuries in record time. The initial good intentions ran into the intransigence of some and the impatience of others. Catalonia, a stronghold of the new regime, suffered harshly from the consequences of its failure. I already saw myself with a Spanish federal state and within a Catalan Republic,” said Mariano.


Yes, you are right, Catalonia has suffered a double failure, but don't think about it. There will come a day when your beloved land will once again achieve the autonomy it had: elections, its own government, a President of the Generalitat, the police officers, and Catalan will be taught again in schools.”


Let's hope,” Mariano said sadly.


Hopefully!  Wars are long, I don't know if we will be able to see how this all ends.”


In this world or in the next world, I hope with all my soul to celebrate with you the victory of democracy," Felipe told him, smiling.


Another afternoon, while they were having a drink under the vine on the Esperanza farm, Mariano began to complain about his ailments.


I won't come to see you again if you complain so much," Felipe scolded.


Do you mean I'm complaining too much?”


Yes, especially when we are at your house, instead of Olivia's yard. I know that your back hurts and that you walk slowly, but you have to remember that you and I are still alive and we stand on our own, while there are people who at our age lie still in a bed or in the cemetery.”


You are always so optimistic," Mariano replied.


Mariano, do you remember my philosophy of life?” Felipe asked him.


Yes, one of the first days we met, you told me about the fundamental points of your good life. Let's see if I remember!”


Come on, your brain still works well!”


One: we must appreciate what we have been given, without feeling unhappy when comparing ourselves with those who are richer or with those who have been luckier than us.” He thought for a moment and returned to the list - “Two: we have to fight for peaceful ways so that there are not so many inequalities in our land . . . and three . . . .”


I'll help you, three: we must surround ourselves with good people, like you, and stay away from those who are selfish or evil," Felipe exclaimed.


I don't know if I have been that good, but I haven't been evil,” Mariano answered.


For me, you have been the best friend I have ever had. You have always been and continue to be an admirable person.”


Don't be so serious man, I'm not as good as you say!Mariano answered him, blushing a little. 

I would add point number four: we must be humble, learning from others, both directly and through books. Books have saved my life. Without them, I would already be dead or a jaded old man. Reading makes us overcome jealousy, envy, hatred, heartbreak, failures, selfishness, misfortunes, wars, inequalities, injustices, mourning, illnesses . . . and above all the fear of death.”

How you exaggerate!” - and after a minute of silence Mariano asked him, “Are you afraid of death, Felipe?”


Yes, like all people, but more than fear, I am curious to know what the other world will be like.”


I'm really scared. Every time I go to Las Ovas or Pinar del Río, when I hear the bells ringing for a death as I’m passing near the church, I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking that fortunately they don't ring for me,” Mariano exclaimed.


Don't be pessimistic. Why don't we do something?”


Let's see what you have in store this time?”


Let us leave it in writing that, when we die, we want to be buried without ceremonies, that the bells not ring to death and that we would like the people who have loved us to gather on our farm, to celebrate what we did together, all in the outdoors, with music and good food and drink.”


You surprise me, but as always I agree with you. It would be a good farewell. I'm going to think about it,” Mariano told him, smiling.


Neither Mariano nor Felipe managed to see the political events that took place in Spain and Cuba during the following years. In 1939, the defeat of the Red Army was colossal, the last Spanish cities that supported the Republic fell one after another. Francisco Franco took power, a dictatorship was established, and a large part of the Republicans and their families had to flee to the south of France or Mexico. Repression, the repeal of rights and the lack of freedom in all fields, censorship, the abolition of political parties, the deprivation of free elections, and the prohibition of Catalan, Basque and Galician languages. This lasted until the death of the dictator, on November 20, 1975. 


In Cuba, in 1940, Batista was elected president in relatively free and fair elections. During his official mandate, he approved various social reforms and began drafting Cuba's most liberal and democratic Constitution to date. But neither the liberal reforms nor Batista's optimism lasted long. He resigned after the 1944 elections and handed power to Ramón Grau San Martín. However, corruption and incompetence soon triumphed. Batista, aware of his former popularity, probably made a deal with the American mafia, promising to give them carte blanche in Cuba in exchange for a percentage of what they won from gambling, and prepared to return. On March 10, 1952, three months before the elections that Batista seemed likely to lose, he carried out a military coup. Harshly condemned by opposition politicians within Cuba, but recognized by the United States, Batista soon made it clear that his second foray into politics was not going to be as progressive as the first. He suspended several constitutional guarantees, including the right to strike.


After Batista's coup, a revolutionary circle was formed in Havana around the charismatic figure of Fidel Castro, a lawyer by profession and an excellent orator, who was going to run in the canceled 1952 elections. With the support of his younger brother Raúl and his faithful lieutenant Abel Santamaría, Fidel saw no alternative but to use force to free Cuba from its dictator and on January 1, 1959, he overthrew the Batista dictatorship. Cuba became a socialist state and nationalizations and expropriations were carried out. In the sixties, the Esperanza and Bonanza farms, like most of the properties on the island, were expropriated.


Gabriel, Mariano and Olivia's faithful servant, was a long-lived man. After the death of his masters, he left the little white house and went to live in Las Ovas after buying a home with the money that Mariano had left him as an inheritance. At seventy-five years old, Gabriel settled outside the farm for the first time and started a new life. He married María del Rosario, a mulatto woman from Pinar del Rio. One day, Gabriel timidly proposed to her and she jumped on his neck and covered him with kisses. María del Rosario was fifteen years younger than Gabriel, she was a plump and smiling woman. They had known each other for many years because every month, since she had become a widow, she brought a cart full of firewood to the farm. He lived peacefully with María del Rosario until he was ninety years old. He died at home a few years before Batista's military coup and Fidel Castro's Revolution. Leaning on a cane, he used to go to the Esperanza farm to visit the children and grandchildren of his masters, whom he loved as if they were his own.




EPILOGUE


Following the wishes of Mariano, who enjoyed music and dancing, Felipe hired a trio of musicians and sent a card to all of Mariano's family, friends, and acquaintances informing them of his friend's death and inviting them to a snack in the garden of the Esperanza farm on the following Saturday. Gabriel and Lucas placed several tables under the vine where the bunches of grapes hung ripe, ready to be picked. Gabriel cut some of them and left them on the white tablecloths of the tables that Lucas was setting.


Felipe, Olivia, and Nieves dressed up in their best clothes and went up to the stage, where the musicians were preparing the instruments. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have had the luck and honor of meeting Mariano Defaus Moragas. Now together we are going to say goodbye to him,” Felipe said. 


We will talk about him, but not with sadness,” said Olivia, reading the text from a folded paper that she took out of her pocket.’


We will talk about what he enjoyed, about the people he loved, those he didn't love, what he did and what he felt, but never with sadness,” Nieves added.


And little by little Mariano will be so much ours that it will not be necessary for us to talk about him to remember him. He will be a gesture, a word, a taste, a flowing look,” Felipe exclaimed.


At that moment, the fireworks exploded and the musicians with their guitars, maracas, and percussions began to play music - the popular Cuban music that Mariano liked the most.

Gabriel and the cook served good food and drinks for everyone. Lucas helped them as he laughed and cried at the same time. Mariano's grandchildren ran around the patio, while Nieves, Felipe, and Olivia talked about him with each of the guests.


That party was remembered for a long time, because those who attended said goodbye to the deceased in an unusual way - instead of grieving, they sang and danced to say goodbye, between smiles and tears. 


















Author's Note

The Cuban Cousins


Mariano's name had been dancing through my head since I was a child. In the summer, in the afternoons while everyone was taking a nap, I used to search the dresser drawers in the bedroom of Francisco Defaus Marés, my maternal grandfather. The drawer that stimulated my most curiosity was the first one, where there were notarial documents, which were mostly wills. I would get on a chair and take out the papers.


I was excited to read stories and those documents contained many. Of the oldest ones, from the 18th century, I understood almost nothing because the ink was faded and the handwriting was twisted and indecipherable; however, those from the 19th century were written with clearer handwriting and were easier to read. In one from the beginning of the 19th century, a certain Mariano Defaus Segarra appeared. But the one that caught my attention the most was a will from 1887 in which my great-grandfather Francisco and his siblings, Mariano, María, and Isidro Defaus Moragas, were mentioned. Everything went to the universal heir and the other children were left with very little. Teresa Moragas, the wife, was left with nothing. In other notarial papers from 1898, the year José Defaus Ballesté died, Mariano's name and that of his brothers also appeared.


At the beginning of the sixties, when I was five or six years old, I got sick every now and then with angina and had to stay in bed for several days, so I made up extraordinary stories. My favorites were trips across the seas; my bed was my ship. When I rowed my boat with a mast, I couldn't have imagined that in the last century a brother of my great-grandfather had gone to sea. 


In my immediate family, there were neither travelers nor adventurers. We had all been, and continue to be, quiet and sedentary people. For centuries, from what I have been able to find out, most of my ancestors were born and died in the town of Malgrat. Until a few months ago, no one suspected that one of them embarked and went overseas. However, in the Defaus house there was no document that attested to this. Nobody told us about the relative  who went to Cuba.


At eighteen, I left the town to study at the University in Barcelona, and at twenty-one I moved to Italy. For a long time I forgot about my ancestors, until one day, when I was about fifty years old and still living abroad, I wrote a story about an episode that my father, who at that time was a widower and over ninety years old, told me about my mother's grandparents. 


At the end of February 2023, I received a message from María Rosa Comas Defaus, one of my cousins, who lives in Malgrat, telling me that she had met Jordi Defaus, another cousin of ours, on the street. Jordi told M. Rosa that a Cuban girl had written him a message on her social networks, telling him that we had common ancestors. I wrote impatiently to Jordi.


My cousin told me that the Cuban girl, Lilién Catalá Defaus, was the great-great-granddaughter of our great-grandfather's brother and that she was moving the matter of her ancestor from Malgrat, to obtain papers for the expatriation of her mother Lidia and her sisters Elena, Nelida, and Felicita. I immediately wrote to her through her social networks:


Hello, I am Josefina Privat Defaus, a cousin of Jordi Defaus. I was born in Malgrat, but I have lived in Italy for many years. Through Jordi I have learned that we have common ancestors. I am very excited that Mariano Defaus Moragas, your mother's great-grandfather, was the brother of Francisco Defaus Moragas, my great-grandfather (also Jordi's). I didn't know that a member of our family had gone to Cuba.”


Hello, I'm happy to meet you. Oh! It must be late in Italy, there is a time difference.”


Don't worry, it's not late, it's ten at night, plus I'm on permanent vacation, I retired a year ago.”


How nice that you wrote to me! Here it is five in the afternoon. Jordi has been special to me. I was very excited to meet you and now the same thing happens to me with you.”


Yes, Jordi is very kind, he told me something about your great-great-grandfather Mariano, but I would like to know more.”


Well, you are going to love the story, I am going to tell it to you: Mariano Defaus arrived in Cuba at the age of 17 in 1873 and… when Fidel Castro's revolution triumphed, Mariano's family lost the mansion and the lands, when they were expropriated by the new government's law.”


Are there many descendants of Mariano in Cuba?”


The Defaus family is large, but the Defaus surname is unique in Cuba. All the Defaus in the country are family…”


I can't believe it and we don't know anything.”


I can't wait to tell my mother and my aunts, who are Mariano's great-granddaughters, about you.”


I'm also dying to talk to my brothers about you.”


I have learned from Jordi that the house where Mariano was born still exists.”


Yes, but many renovations have been made, I think the façade is from the first years of the twentieth century.”


I am glad that the house remains in the family because it has a very great sentimental value.”


We still have a very old wooden virgin, I will send you a photo.”


I would love to see it. Always keep it. Memories are invaluable.”


Mariano was very brave, walking away from his family at the age of seventeen.”


I imagine how much he must have missed his mother's hug, the company of his brothers and sisters. The sea that he loved so much . . . ”


Do you know why he left Malgrat?”


Mariano told his children that he came to Cuba because he did not want to enlist in the army. I suppose that in a certain way he did it to preserve his life.”


Perhaps there is another reason, it seems strange to me that Mariano, the first-born and heir to the Defaus family properties, went to Cuba.”


I don't know . . . we'll try to find out together. This search began because I wanted my mother to recover her Spanish nationality, which corresponds to her by blood, so that she can travel and visit her sister Nélida and the family that resides in the United States . . . And it turns out that I ended up finding something more valuable.”


I'm going to ask my brothers and cousins, see if they know anything else. I'll write to you if something comes up.”


Thank you. I have managed to connect with the family in the past and I think we will be able to maintain communication and get to know each other. That makes me very happy.”


Me too.”


I have contacted the Malgrat archive, with María Teresa Gibert, a woman who has helped me a lot to obtain the certificates that attest to Mariano's Catalan origin.”


I think my sister knows Maria Teresa, she is a cousin of her daughter-in-law. I'm going to ask her since I have lived in Italy for more than forty-five years, but every summer I return to Malgrat. In July I will go to see M.Teresa, I want to meet her.” 


Very good. For now a big hug.”


Yes, we'll continue talking, another hug from me.”


That same night I went to look at my social media and found a message from Lidia, Lilién's mother. She also told me that she was looking for members of her great-grandfather's Catalan family and that she was sending messages to everyone with the last name Defaus. 


All my life I have been complaining that my family has been monotonous, in terms of genealogy. On both my father's and mother's sides, all my ancestors came from the same town - Malgrat. For centuries, they intermarried and never left the region. That's why it was exciting for me to discover that we had family in Cuba. 


I have Cuban cousins ​​and no one told me about it!” I said happily to my husband that night before we went to bed.


The next day, I called my sister. Upon the death of my parents, she inherited the mansion and all the papers of the Defaus family. 


María Carmen, as far as you know, do we have a Defaus family in Cuba?”’


I don't think so, our mother would have told us.”


Well, a Cuban girl wrote to me, telling me that she descends from the brother of our great-grandfather Francisco,” I told her.


I can't believe it! Are you sure that girl isn't confused?”


The girl has evidence that Mariano Defaus Moragas arrived in Havana in 1873 and that he came from Malgrat.”


This sounds fishy! If everything is true, Mariano's story could be a secret that our family has hidden well and didn't want to reveal to anyone,” my sister said.


We have to find out!”


That same day, María Carmen went to our childhood house, which had been closed for several years, to see if she could find any clue to solve this enigma. Her son and daughter-in-law helped her. At the bottom of a brass box on a shelf in the dining room display case they found a photograph of a man of about thirty years old, with deep eyes, light eyes, a beard and mustache, short and wavy hair, perhaps reddish, with a dark jacket, a white shirt and bowtie. That sepia-colored portrait had been taken by a photographer from Havana, in a photography studio called J. A. Suarez and company, at 64 O'Reilly Street. There was no date on the photo. She and I deduced that it was Mariano Defaus Moragas. Who else could it be?


Why didn't anyone realize that the photograph came from Havana?” I asked my sister.


They had not noticed it because it was hidden at the bottom of the box where our grandparents kept the photos and over the years those who knew Mariano's story died,” my sister said.


She also found the will from 1887 in which José Defaus Ballesté left his assets to his children. It was the same will that I had leafed through as a child.


I wrote to Lilién again telling her about our findings and she told me that her research had also obtained good results, thanks to María Teresa Gibert, a volunteer from the group Friends of the Malgrat archive.


I did not know María Teresa; however, it did not take long for me to meet her through the messages she sent me on my social networks:


Hello, I'm María Teresa, you don't know me but I'm from Malgrat and I know your sister and your sister-in-law. I am a volunteer at the town Archive and I love genealogical studies. We have a common bond: your Cuban cousins. Lilién wrote to me asking for information about Mariano Defaus Moragas, her mother's great-grandfather. I could have given her instructions on how to move, as I always do, but she was so kind and so polite that I had to say: I'll take care of it. I learned from Lilién that you are writing to each other.”


Hello, nice to meet you. Yes, I'm writing to Lilién. And she told me that you found what you were looking for.”


It was difficult for me because when Mariano was born (1856) there was no civil registry and I had to consult the parish books, but unfortunately many were burned during the Civil War.”


What bad luck! And what did you do?”


Mossen Salvador de Malgrat, helped me, telling me, “consult the archives of the diocese of Girona. If Mariano was baptized, he should also be confirmed and that is done by the bishop.’”


What a good idea! And you got it?”


Yes, Mariano was confirmed by the bishop of Girona, I also found him in the census of January 1873, the last year in which he lived with his family in Malgrat. In the following years he no longer appears.”


I'm glad you found it.”


But the cousins also asked for something else, which was the most difficult to obtain: a certificate from the court declaring that in those years Spain did not have a civil registry. In Malgrat they didn't want to do it for me, I had to ask Madrid for it.”


Oh my God, so much paperwork!”


Luckily, now they have everything. They can now apply for Spanish nationality.”


You have done a great job. The Cuban cousins ​​will be grateful to you all their lives.”


I don't know why I embarked on that matter, something inside me told me that they needed my help.”


You did very well. I also believe that we have to follow our instincts and help others.”


I met María Teresa personally in the summer of 2023 and she told me that she really put great effort into requesting and achieving what seemed impossible. Once the four copies of the confirmation certificate were obtained, they were sent to Lidia, one of Mariano's great-granddaughters, not by mail but through a Cuban person who was in Madrid at that time, since the cousins ​​were afraid that the documents would get lost in the meanderings of the Cuban post offices. The cousins ​​submitted the request to the Spanish consulate in Havana, but are still waiting for a response. 


Lilién is a thirty-something Cuban woman full of enthusiasm. It was she who created a WhatsApp group, to bring together all the Defaus scattered around the world. First there were six of us, Lilién's three aunts, her mother, her and me, then the Catalan cousins, Jordi, M.Rosa, Teresa and Montse and other Cuban cousins, Mariela, Idania, Dinorah, Drialis, Nydia, Amy, joined us. Wendy, Adilen . . . and some cousins: Emilio, Osvaldo, Juan and Gilberto. Now there are twenty-five of us in the group, all descendants of the spouses Teresa Moragas Gibert and José Defaus Ballesté, married in the seventies of the nineteenth century. Most of them live in Cuba; however, there are also family members who live in the United States and Catalonia. Sometimes it is a bit complicated to talk to so many people. At first it was dizzying when we all wrote at the same time, but now we have learned and we are more organized. María Teresa Gibert is also part of our group, and after several genealogical studies she discovered that she is also a distant cousin of ours.


The day I wrote to Lilién I knew that there was a story to tell in my life. Each of the Cuban cousins ​​have been giving me stories and anecdotes that their ancestors passed from mouth to mouth. María Teresa, consulting the archive for hours and hours, has helped me reconstruct the life, customs and most important events of some inhabitants of Malgrat at the end of the 19th century.


In the WhatsApp group, in addition to the stories of our parents and grandparents (Cubans and Catalans), old photographs of Malgrat, Las Ovas, Pinar del Río and the Sarrá pharmacy in Havana, we have shared videos of the area where the Esperanza estate stood (today only the mansion's large water tank remains) and images of the Las Ovas station where Mariano took the train, which unfortunately a few years ago was destroyed by a tornado, songs by the Cuban singer Rigo Duarte describing the town of Las Ovas, old postcards, municipal documents, funeral reminders, etc. 


I don't know how to tell you why I started writing Mariano's story; however, I know that something inside me prompted me to do it. The reason may be contained in the words of a character in a book by Care Santos, a contemporary Catalan writer: Novels serve to bring back the dead, to reunite us with everything we lost. 


You may wonder why I wrote the story in Spanish and not in Catalan.  Here are some reasons: not everyone to whom I dedicated the story understands Catalan, and Mariano, from the age of seventeen, without forgetting his mother tongue, adopted Spanish as his own language and in my imagination I heard him pronounce the sweet Cuban Spanish.  All my primary and higher studies were done during the time of the Franco dictatorship. That is why it is easier for me to write in Spanish, which is the official language. Catalan was never taught to us at school. In any case, Catalan is my native language and I will continue to love it all my life; You have to know that as soon as I finish the translation of this story into Italian, I will start the Catalan version. 


For several months, every morning I have woken up early thinking about Mariano, his parents, brothers, wife, friends, etc., and after breakfast I have sat down at my desk to write down his exploits. Once a chapter was finished, I sent it to the Defaus cousins' WhatsApp group, about one every two weeks.  


Mariano and the characters around him (some real and others from my fantasy) have returned, they have accompanied me week after week. I hope that you, those of you who have finished reading this story, have also been captivated.