Mariceu Erthal

www.mariceuerthal.com

Iriana

“Welcome, you are our daughter for a week!”

Two strangers receive me; they make me coffee and breakfast. When I wake up, they are already there, cleaning the kitchen and dusting the curtains; it feels like a normal home.

I take over Iriana’s blue room; her belongings are still there. I look at her hairbrush, pick it up, and examine it along with the other objects. There is a sense of emptiness in the air. I ask about her; they fill me with anecdotes, drawings, and photographs of her.

When Estrellita comes to do the cleaning, she tells me everything: “She got married and left for Madrid. She divorced after a few months, but she never came back.” Outside of Cuba, children send money to their parents, and the families who stay live better. Estrellita did it too; she even has dual nationality, but she felt alien to that other life and returned. She tells me that everything there is very big, but even so she didn’t feel happy; she missed her home. Here, life for her is simpler and lighter—during the day she cleans houses, and in the afternoons she spends quiet time with her daughter.

She and Ana, Iriana’s mother, join in my game and laugh at “the Mexican.” They decide that, for the improvised dress made from a bedsheet, a flower crown would suit it, and they weave one for me. Estrellita takes the photographs following my instructions; she has always liked photography and cinema. She tells me that once she posed nude for a photographer. I notice her sweetness and the openness of her mind.

In the afternoons I wander around Cuba; it’s the first time I’ve traveled alone to a country. I make a couple of foreign friends; however, in the mornings I like to stay home for breakfast, talk with Ana, and watch them water the garden.

Enzo, Iriana’s father, accompanies me to the beach. He prepares everything and takes me to the Bolos of Varadero. He tells me he always used to go there with his daughter. It occurs to me to call her, taking advantage of the luck of being somewhere with internet—there it is still scarce. Enzo shouts, and despite his personality always having seemed extroverted to me, I have never heard him so excited: “Iriana! Iriana! We’re here at the Bolos! The Mexican is usurping your place!” The three of us laugh.

On the last day I leave at dawn. Enzo goes to bed early, but Ana excuses herself, saying she has some things to do on her computer, and although I try to convince her to sleep, she plays cards and waits until I leave. We say goodbye with a tight embrace, and somehow I know that she feels sad too.

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