lunes, 4 de mayo de 2015


        Leyendo Waiting for Snow in Havana de Carlos Eire, llego hasta aquí, y coño, ese también es mi viejo, pensé, y ese muchacho fui yo, fuimos todos, y por qué y cómo fue que un ególatra de mierda nos arrebató un país que nunca aspiró a ser otra cosa que un papalote casero.   

My father made the niftiest kites out of brightly colored tissue paper. Papel de China, it was called. And balsa wood frames. My dad would slice the balsa wood with a special knife he saved in a special box, cut the paper into all sorts of shapes, arrange the colors in wild patterns, apply glue, tie some string, and presto, a kite would appear. A tail made of thin strips of cloth, tied together in a chain of knots, was the finishing touch. (…)
I especially liked the fighting kites, which had double-edged razor blades embedded in their tails. We would hoist our kites high, far from one another, and then bring them closer and closer and try to cut each others’ strings with the razor blades. Sometimes it worked, but most of the time the kites simply got tangled up and plummeted to the ground. But when a kite actually had its string cut, it was beautiful. It would sort of hang there in the air for an instant, confused by its freedom, and then fly off wherever the wind wanted to take it. Sometimes they landed on the roofs of houses. Sometimes they landed blocks away, or plunged into the turquoise sea. We would cheer and shout, unless of course the damaged kite happened to be our own. I hated to have mine cut, and the sad truth is that I never got to cut anyone else’s. My father didn’t seem to mind this wreckage of his handiwork at all. He seemed to enjoy it.

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