Post by Blithian on Feb 27, 2011 22:37:19 GMT -5
They called him Juanito. He used to sell postcards along the hotel strip in the old days of Havana. His cards ranged from scenic views of the island to the kind the touristas could not send home. But Juanito was completely disinterested in which kind they bought. The coins in his pockets meant more money for the slow season, when the touristas did not come and even he could find a woman. With a belly filled with warm rum and the puta beside him, he could almost forget that he was Juanito.
Maria was to be married to Paulo, Juanito’s cousin, in the spring. For three years Paulo had worked hard in Tampa for the money to send for the girl, and before he left, he had jokingly asked Juanito to look after her. Juanito missed the joke and came to her each day, singing for her, laughing with her, eagerly listening as she read each new letter from Paulo to him.
In the streets, Juanito heard talk of a new revolution, but he just kept selling his postcards from hotel to hotel. They began to speak of secret arrests in the night. More and more policia were seen patrolling the streets and Juanito saw many people arrested in that year.
When they arrested Maria’s brother, he came to her and she wept. He cursed the policia and went down by the waterfront to find Luis. Luis owned a fishing boat and would, for money, take Maria to Tampa. By the time Juanito had collected all his savings and returned for Maria it was too late. Maria was gone, taken in for questioning by the dreaded policia.
Four days later, they left her on the street in front of her apartment building. Juanito came as soon as he heard, but she would not open the door. She spoke strangely and he tried to break the door, but could not. Juanito screamed for help and Maria both laughed and sobbed hysterically from behind the oak door. He found the woman with the key a block away coming back from the market, but by the time they had climbed the stairs and unlocked the door, she was dead by her own hand.
It was then that Juanito became a companiero of the revolution. At first, they laughed at him, but he served them well. He knew the city and could go where other men could not. He ran messages and distributed leaflets. He learned to work with explosives, to make them and to deliver them, but his real mission was his own idea and of this he told no one.
One early morning, he slipped over to the roof of the headquarters of the policia with a large sack on his back. He lowered himself and the sack down into the ventilating ducts of the building and placed several small packages in special places throughout the structure. He returned to the roof just as the first explosion sounded. The others followed in quick succession and the street was glazed over with broken glass from many windows and fires raged out of control on three floors below him. But Juanito had more work to do.
Even before the first panic-stricken policia had found the doors, Juanito had begun dropping grenades, running back the forth across the roof. He kept running and dropping the grenades until they were gone and then he began shooting down from the edge with a small revolver. He was still shooting when the building collapsed and even today they speak of him in whispers, in awe.
Juanito was a big man for a dwarf.
Copyright (C) 1955 and 2011 by John Bliven Morin
Maria was to be married to Paulo, Juanito’s cousin, in the spring. For three years Paulo had worked hard in Tampa for the money to send for the girl, and before he left, he had jokingly asked Juanito to look after her. Juanito missed the joke and came to her each day, singing for her, laughing with her, eagerly listening as she read each new letter from Paulo to him.
In the streets, Juanito heard talk of a new revolution, but he just kept selling his postcards from hotel to hotel. They began to speak of secret arrests in the night. More and more policia were seen patrolling the streets and Juanito saw many people arrested in that year.
When they arrested Maria’s brother, he came to her and she wept. He cursed the policia and went down by the waterfront to find Luis. Luis owned a fishing boat and would, for money, take Maria to Tampa. By the time Juanito had collected all his savings and returned for Maria it was too late. Maria was gone, taken in for questioning by the dreaded policia.
Four days later, they left her on the street in front of her apartment building. Juanito came as soon as he heard, but she would not open the door. She spoke strangely and he tried to break the door, but could not. Juanito screamed for help and Maria both laughed and sobbed hysterically from behind the oak door. He found the woman with the key a block away coming back from the market, but by the time they had climbed the stairs and unlocked the door, she was dead by her own hand.
It was then that Juanito became a companiero of the revolution. At first, they laughed at him, but he served them well. He knew the city and could go where other men could not. He ran messages and distributed leaflets. He learned to work with explosives, to make them and to deliver them, but his real mission was his own idea and of this he told no one.
One early morning, he slipped over to the roof of the headquarters of the policia with a large sack on his back. He lowered himself and the sack down into the ventilating ducts of the building and placed several small packages in special places throughout the structure. He returned to the roof just as the first explosion sounded. The others followed in quick succession and the street was glazed over with broken glass from many windows and fires raged out of control on three floors below him. But Juanito had more work to do.
Even before the first panic-stricken policia had found the doors, Juanito had begun dropping grenades, running back the forth across the roof. He kept running and dropping the grenades until they were gone and then he began shooting down from the edge with a small revolver. He was still shooting when the building collapsed and even today they speak of him in whispers, in awe.
Juanito was a big man for a dwarf.
Copyright (C) 1955 and 2011 by John Bliven Morin
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
