Every now and then (1966).
Martinez, Elizabeth "Betita" Sutherland
Every now and then in my life, I would have a taste in my mouth
that signaled, "This is the country. I am home." One time I
was in Cuba, two years after the revolution. I was on a bus with a load
of lefties from many countries, nostalgically singing Spanish Civil War
songs and lumbering off the bus to look at some fishing cooperative or
to be herded into our hotel for the night, courtesy of the government.
It was about the fifth night of the tour, the bus was headed for
that night's sleeping place. Nobody was singing the songs, it was
dark inside the bus except for little lights at some seats. The feeling
came again like a flood: the unity, the god. I waited for it to recede,
not trusting it, but time passed and nothing changed. It wasn't
unity with the brothers on the bus. If it could be defined, it was unity
with the Cuban night: the hard bright stars and the softness were the
revolution. I told my lover about it, but he wasn't impressed. A
few days later, I told a Spanish communist about it and he could hear
only Church talk. It seems those things are not to be shared.
* Unpublished "notes for a book," originally written in
the third person.
