Writer Kebir Mustafa Ammi made a trip to Cuba, where he found an old sewing machine in a hotel that immersed him in his childhood and reminded him of his father's trade, which he did not know well. This machine, which he has not mourned, is the ability to knit a mobile network.
In April of last year, I had a disturbing story in Santa Clara, about three hundred kilometers southwest of Havana. I wanted to visit Cuba for a long time. I wasn't there for Guevara. But for the country – the music, Hemingway …
I picked up an old taxi, which Buick blew up by its owner, in red paint, leather interior, as in old Capra or Hawks movies. It should have been in the arteries of not less than a million kilometers, but its chassis was strong, promising to walk the meter for the second time. I stopped in Santa Clara before ordering any further. I was thinking of Hamza, who devoted his youth to Trotskinism before finally turning the page of politics, becoming a wise businessman, and sitting on a golden mattress somewhere between Miami and Vancouver. He kept saying that I understand nothing about politics.
I arrived in Santa Clara on April 23, around 2 pm There were masters in the sky. Not the city. It is not difficult to think of that day, October 67, when we learned about death commander“We were fourteen or fifteen. Guevara's death still inspired us a lot. We didn't know he had blood on his hands. He had the purity of a saint in our eyes. A pig episode, the ancestors remember it in Taza. The Cubans who are returning to the Americans made us happy.
The end of Guevara was the end of something, but it undeniably added to this young leader's aura. When Richard Fleischer's film with Omar Sharif was shown in the Colosseum, Hamza beat up a call with the troops to explain that this day was historic, and that we had to unite, by all means, 1DH 15 pennies, hurry to the big hall and see work. The film didn't leave me with lasting memories. But this is a different story.
Fifty years later in Santa Clara, I thought about it. I intended to visit a friend's Guevara dedicated museum, which I owed as a tribute to our young years. One young student wanted to know if I liked Cuba and what it means to be a friend of the Guevara of Morocco. I started to get in, skillfully so as not to hurt him. He didn't let go, and he asked me directly about my interest in the Castro revolution. I don't remember how I came to talk to him about the rich and the poor. I had no intention of lecturing him, presenting Marx's mind. But I, as Hamza would say, probably chose my example wrong. The young student was mistaken. He warned me with an arsenal of shocking resolutions, before abruptly interrupting me by saying that he had not come there to hear me nonsense. He thought why I didn't know I wanted to encourage him to be deported. What made him think about it? If he read my thoughts and heard me repeat the words of Bethelair, Go, if you must go; stay where necessary, It must have hurt him deeply. No word could I apologize for. He was furious. I was confused. I wondered what my friend Hamza would say to this young man. But Hamza today has a gold watch and little time to waste. He was sending the young man his favorite studies to learn how to have long teeth and become a dragon.
After that I took a tour of the city. I returned to my hotel. I was staying at another hotel in a hotel on the narrow Maestra Nicolosa Street. Everything was from another era. The furniture, the items, the smallest details … It was an old colonial house ruled by a fifty-something, very welcoming. He was a former doctor. He was smiling, but a deep wound was hiding. He wanted to write and paint. But all this, he told me, could not find the path that took to transform art. He also traveled a lot. He inherited this Moorish-style house in a backyard where beautiful lush plants grew, and lupins, azaleas, clematis, hortensia … It was a little corner of paradise with red, green and blue birds in the trees. There were old carved oak tables, objects, cars, radios from other times, pickups, jokes …
We talked for a long time. The owner told me about his life. It was his wife who decided to make this beautiful building a guest house. He showed me two black and white photos of this woman. He was sweet. He was tall, elegant and dark, had great eyes for the world, and at the same time kept him at a distance. I thought about Ava Gardner Bobik CountyHe died in 1993. Loyal to this woman, whom she passionately loved, the owner continued to receive visitors from all over the world.
In the room where I occupied this magnificent hotel, the old Singer machine caught my attention, I thought for a moment that none of them were real, real, and that the tiredness made me see things that didn't exist. At his workshop in Taza, my father had Singer brand sewing machines that looked like the ones displayed there. I accompanied him once to Chez to buy one of those cars. Both of us were driving on a black Citroën. I should have been eight.
This machine in Santa Clara was the perfect duplicate for the people my dad had in his workshop, and it had the serial number in two letters that matched the initials of his name. Was it possible who decided to pay tribute to him? I thought back to my father. As if it were a cruel institution. That's how I remember him. She wore dark blue suits, often with yellow or white stripes. He was still sewing. He lived in Paris for a while. In the late 20's. He received his diploma in "Wald Vandem" in 1931. October 8, before opening his sewing workshop in Taza. He knew Bel Epoch in Paris. I like to think that he has met authors I love, like Alejo Carpentier, who came to Cuba with traces of his ancestors. Paris shook with all its fires. The capital of France was creative, bright …
I don't know what my father thought about it, and if he knew he was living in Paris at a crucial moment. I didn't know him well, I often tried to rebuild it after the fact. It is also – and above all, for this reason – a rebuild of this novel that we become a writer. We use the smallest thread and do not let anything slip. He had small turtle glass, which made him look serious. He didn't laugh much. It was from my mother that I inherited the taste of anecdotes. He had a lot of humor. This is what allowed us to go through difficult times when my father died suddenly, suffering from a debilitating illness in 1962. I was going on for ten years, the day it was raining, I remember we were disturbed. He had to sell his sewing workshop and his cars as quickly as possible. He had nine, but I was mostly attached to one of them. He was near the entrance to the workshop. He gave me a piece of thread, a piece of thread, and I got ready to work, wanting to believe that the art of sewing was no secret to me. It is a special noise made by a car, like no one else.
I remember a face I will never forget – the man who bought the car and carried it in a hand cart that he had to rent on that occasion. He was faking, he was like a general on the battlefield, whom nothing could resist, he was vindictive and conqueror, with a rabbit beam casting a shadow on his glory. I was watching him pressing his fists and not allow any tears to appear. I memorized his face. I wanted to find him someday. I saw the car leaving my father in severe sadness, in mute pain. He suddenly disappeared at the end of the street, which ends on a slope, where his childhood horizon began to break.
I really wanted my dad to be a fashion designer. I felt that I was being deprived of something essential, my profession, and that I could never be the person I dreamed of. That is why I have an unparalleled passion for clothes. I like to write clothes in the smallest detail down to… thunder.
I've never lamented this car. I grew up and kept thinking about this car. I no longer know why I convinced myself that I will find her someday. I was there, in my thoughts, in my room, in Santa Clara, when the master knocked on my door to tell me that there was someone out there asking to see me. It was the young student I volunteered at the Guevara Museum. He was looking for me all over town and found me in a hostel.
He was giving a stamp. There was joy in his face. He had changed. It was for the occasion. She wore a white shirt, and she wore shiny old leather shoes to give it a little style. He hinted at me as if to send me to graze, but very kindly, that his favorite was to go and live in an imperialist state. I didn't tell her that she was completely free to do what she wanted and that she didn't need my blessing.
He left as if he had won a cup he had long wanted. He thought that he had knocked me out, and that made him very happy. He quietly closed the door.
I heard his footsteps die.
A light step, like the move of exiles.
All this really shocked me.
The owner came to see if everything was OK. He gave me a bottle of water for the night. He left. I didn't lock the door of the room. I went to bed: There was music everywhere in the city. Shadows, like the unscrupulous soldiers, ran to the ceiling and the walls until dawn. Leaving Santa Claus, I had a hard time. I wanted to believe that I had found my father's machine, which we had sold with his shop to bake bread.
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