Victoria. (Two Poems).

Fernandez Retamar, Roberto ; Clark, David Draper

Victoria

   I saw her again at the hospital for cancer patients
   Where my father was dying.
   I asked her to take care of him for me
   And she told me she tended to all the men,
   To all the women.
   Upon my return, she was
   On her knees scrubbing the floor, her face bathed in light.
   I brought her a red rose, and she told me
   She would accept it that one time,
   For clearly I ignored the fact that they
   Were not able (nor did they want) to accept any gifts.
   Not even a book? Wasn't there at least some book she might
   need?
   Not even a book.

   When I was a timid, solitary young man, the kind whom
   she perhaps did not greet,
   She was among the oldest in the College of Humanities.
   A woman of unforgettable dark beauty,
   An intelligent, serious, bold woman.
   We wanted to make a better world
   Than this cruel, ugly, yet strangely cherished one
   In which we were chosen to be born
   And we searched for answers to our questions in books,
   Books filled with questions that often led us elsewhere.

   She went away to France before the rest of us, to continue
   searching.
   Ricardo, with his impassioned and foggy voice,
   Spoke to me of her later, of what was going on inside her.
   She studied with a great teacher, whom we very much
   admired
   For what he knew and suffered.
   The teacher was aware of who she was and asked that she
   remain at his side
   But she could no longer do so.
   She could not stay together with anyone, in any place.
   Someone else (so she believed) had captured her heart.
   No one could possess her beauty.
   No one could possess her hunger to learn, her need for justice.
   Or everyone could.

   They tell me she was in Asia quietly serving others, as she
   always did wherever they sent her.
   In 1959, I found her in Santiago de Cuba.
   Her clothes were gray and her smile illuminating.
   She died not long ago while traversing the island on a modest
   train
   In which she traveled with other nuns like herself.
   Feeling ill, she excused herself, never to return alive.
   It was her heart.

   Now you can no longer prevent me from placing a flower
   upon your shadow,
   Victoria. Victory?

Havana, 19 November 1995

Victoria

   Volvi a verla en el hospital de cancerosos
   Donde mi padre se moria.
   Le pedi que me lo cuidara
   Y me respondio que ella lo hacia con todos,
   Con todas.
   Al regresar yo, ella estaba
   Fregando de rodillas el piso con luz en el rostro.
   Le llevaba una rosa roja, y me dijo
   Que la aceptaria esa unica vez,
   Porque seguramente yo ignoraba que ellas
   No podian (ni querian) recibir ningun regalo.
   !Ni siquiera un libro? !No habia al menos un libro que
   necesitara?
   Ni siquiera un libro.

   Cuando yo era un muchacho timido y solitario al que quiza
   no llego a saludar,
   Ella era de los mayores en la Facultad de Filosofia y Letras,
   La de la inolvidable belleza morena,
   La inteligente, la grave, la audaz.
   Queriamos hacer un mundo mejor
   Que ese cruel y feo y sin embargo extranamente amado
   En que nos habia tocado nacer,
   Y buscabamos en libros respuestas a nuestras preguntas,
   En libros atestados de preguntas que a menudo nos
   distraian.

   Se fue a Francia, antes que nosotros, para seguir buscando.
   Ricardo, con su fervida voz neblinosa,
   Me hablo luego de ella, de lo que estaba ocurriendo en ella.
   Estudiaba con un gran maestro, a quien tanto admirabamos
   Por lo que conocia y por lo que padecia.
   El maestro se dio cuenta de quien era y le pidio que quedara
   a su lado.
   Pero ella ya no podia hacerlo.
   No podia quedar junto a nadie, en ningun lugar.
   Otro (asi creia ella) la habia conquistado.
   Para nadie seria su belleza.
   Para nadie su avidez de saber, su necesidad de justicia.
   O para todos.

   Me dicen que estuvo en Asia sirviendo oscuramente, como
   hizo siempre adonde la enviaran.
   La habia encontrado en Santiago de Cuba, en 1959.
   Gris era su ropa, y alumbrada su sonrisa.
   Ha muerto no hace mucho, atravesando la Isla en un
   humilde tren
   En que viajaba con otras monjas como ella.
   Se sintio mal. Fue al bano, de donde no salio viva.
   El corazon.

   Ahora no puedes impedirme que ponga una flor sobre tu
   sombra,
   Victoria. !Victoria?

La Habana, 19 de noviembre de 1995