By René del Risco Bermúdez
You were truly picturesque, Ton; with that Licey Tigers cap that was no longer blue but patched and faded, and the khaki pants you used to press carefully on Saturday afternoons to come meet us at the gazebo in Salvador Park, to watch the Boy Scouts parades along the avenue and run around joking until night suddenly fell over the place and our voices faded into the streets of the neighborhood.
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I remember you, because today I have learned to care about boys like you, and I try to recall that tired, timid voice of yours and that persistent limp that made you hop with every step, yet never stopped you from running from home to first when Juan leaned over and whispered, “let’s surprise them, Ton; bunt to third and run fast.”
You played with the boys from the Aurora cinema, and many times you shared with us the joy of forming that boxing circle, shouting “rosi, rosi, sin bomba – Aurora – ra – ra – ra!” Even though you couldn’t play every inning, we always waited until we were well ahead of Miramar or La Barca to give you a chance. “Don’t worry, Ton, you’ll go in as a substitute soon.”
How did you arrive in the neighborhood? When? Who brought you into the gang? What story about Pedro Animal did Toñín tell that night? Would you remember how, every night at nine, on the radio at Candelario’s house, “Mejoral, the unmatched pain reliever, presents: Women’s Prison,” and someone would clap from a doorway, signaling it was time to go to bed?
I don’t know if you, with that squint you used when the sun bothered your eyes, would recognize me now. The pipe between my teeth probably gives me a strange appearance to you, or this weight that has rounded my face and the receding hairline that has erased what once was that boy who parted his hair to the side and sometimes went with you to watch the training sessions of Kid Barquerito and 22-22 at the court.
Back then, when they said “Barquero is going to Havana to fight Acevedo,” and Efraín, the trainer with a mustache like Joaquín Pardavé, shouted “Up, up, that’s it, the left, now the jab,” you would later lean on your raised foot, punching the air, and we would walk down Sánchez Street, you jumping rope against the wall, always hopping because of your limp while I told you to stop, but you never did.
By the time we reached the neighborhood, I would snatch your cap, revealing that large oval head, and the skinny Pérez would mock you chanting “Ton, Melitón, lame and big-headed,” until you chased him furiously. We would run until we reached my house, and you would fix your cap and say, “Don’t talk to me.”
Back then the neighborhood was not so sad, Ton. The light was not this faded, dusty glow over the houses, nor did that depressing smell of old wood cling to the skin. I miss the narrow eyes of Pujols, the charcoal cans by the yellow house, the black-and-white dog of the Pascual family, the laughter at Pin Báez’s birthday parties where his father drank beer with his friends while we ran around the well, shouting and laughing.
It was something to laugh about, Ton, to get your shoes muddy, to lean over the well and see your reflection, distorted, ridiculous. We were all the same then, “friar and convent,” life was the same for everyone. Of course, it is not the same now. Years have passed.
They began to pass the day we left. I remember looking at the greenish water in the ditch while my father locked the gate and my mother looked back at the house through the car window. I waved at you, Fremio, Juan, Toñín, standing on the corner. You stayed there forever, against the gray wall of Ulises’s shop.
Life changed, Ton. I turned toward books, entered another world, studied, traveled, met new people. I forgot to speak of you. Maybe there was no time, or maybe I did not want to remember.
Years later I became a doctor. My life filled with new names, new places, new conversations. You were not there. Nor did I try to bring you back.
And now, Ton, I see you again. With the same limp, the same look, the same head. You have not changed. You remained untouched by everything that altered me.
That is why I do not know whether to tell you who I am… or simply let you finish shining my shoes and walk away forever.
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