Havana Year Zero Read online

  WINNER

  Carbet de la Caraïbe et du Tout-monde Prize (2012)

  WINNER

  Insular Book Award (France, 2012)

  ‘Suárez applies chaos theory to Cuba, starting with the events of 1959 and expanding to take in ideas about the relationship between science and literature, in the vein of Queneau and Sábato, Calvino and the Oulipo group.’

  Le Temps (Switzerland)

  ‘A brilliant, joyful and beautiful novel that unfolds to the precise, musical and harmonic rhythm of finely chiselled chapters that betray the author’s training as an engineer.’

  Leer (Spain)

  ‘Equal parts historical novel, comedy of errors and detective story, Suárez portrays with extraordinary voluptuousity and suggestiveness one of the toughest periods of this Caribbean island whose future still hangs in the balance.’

  El Mundo (Spain)

  ‘The characters move between romantic relationships and simulations, in search of a chimera that perhaps is nothing more than an attempt to prove that life in Havana has not come to a complete halt.’

  Telérama (France)

  ‘The original plot, narrated like a mathematical conundrum, and the apocalyptic portrait of Havana in 1993 are two of the great attractions of this novel.’

  La Libre Belgique (Belgium)

  ‘With incisive and restrained language, Suárez portrays a country ravaged by the economic crisis, where Cubans must struggle and dream every day to make life a little more bearable.’

  Le Matin d’Algérie (Algeria)

  ‘Her writing is rich in the ingredients typical of the best literature: a good story, with rhythm and flow, but also sensibility, elegance, intelligence and a sense of humour.’

  Duas margens (Portugal)

  HAVANA YEAR ZERO

  Karla Suárez

  HAVANA YEAR ZERO

  Translated by

  Christina MacSweeney

  For Alexander León

  Some people pay no attention to a speaker

  unless he offers mathematical proof.

  Aristotle

  It’s not you, it’s screwed-up everyday luck,

  the door to delirium, murky reality,

  the narcos, inflation, the odd solution,

  the switched-off gods, disabled fantasy,

  Berlin, Fidel, the Pope, Gorbachev and Allah.

  It’s not you, my love... it’s everyone else.

  Santiago Feliú

  Margarita, I am going to tell you a story.

  Rubén Darío

  1

  It all happened in 1993, Year Zero in Cuba. The year of interminable power cuts, when bicycles filled the streets of Havana and the shops were empty. There was nothing of anything. Zero transport. Zero meat. Zero hope. I was thirty and had thousands of problems. That’s why I got involved, although in the beginning I didn’t even suspect that for the others things had started much earlier, in April 1989, when the newspaper Granma published an article about an Italian man called Antonio Meucci under the headline ‘The Telephone Was Invented in Cuba’. That story had gradually faded from most people’s minds; they, however, had cut out the piece and kept it. I didn’t read it at the time, which is why, in 1993, I knew nothing of the whole affair until I somehow became one of them. It was inevitable. I’m a mathematician; method and logical reasoning are part and parcel of my profession. I know that certain phenomena can only manifest themselves when a given number of factors come into play, and we were so fucked in 1993 that we were converging on a single point. We were variables in the same equation. An equation that wouldn’t be solved for many years, without our help, naturally.

  For me, it all began in a friend’s apartment. Let’s call him... Euclid. Yes, if it’s all right with you, I’d prefer not to use the real names of the people involved. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. So Euclid is the first variable in that damned equation.

  I remember that when we arrived at his place, his mum greeted us with the news that the pump had broken down again and we’d have to fill the storage drums using buckets of water. My friend scowled, I offered to help. So that’s what we were doing when I recalled a conversation that had taken place during a dinner a few days before, and I asked him if he’d ever heard of someone called Meucci. Euclid put down his bucket, looked at me and asked if I meant Antonio Meucci. Yes, of course he knew the name. He grabbed my bucket, poured the water into the drum and informed his mother that he was tired and would finish the task later. She protested, but Euclid turned a deaf ear. He took my arm, led me to his room, switched on the radio – his usual practice when he didn’t want to be overheard – and tuned in to CMBF, the classical music station. Then he asked for the full story. I told him what little I knew, and added that it had all started because the author was writing a book about Meucci. An author? What author? he asked gravely, and that irritated me because I didn’t see the need for so many questions. Euclid got to his feet, went over to the wardrobe and returned with a folder. He sat down next to me on the bed and said: I’ve been interested in this story for years.

  And then he began to explain. I learned that Antonio Meucci was an Italian, born in Florence in the nineteenth century, who had sailed to Havana in 1835 to work as the chief engineer in the Teatro Tacón, the largest and most beautiful theatre in the Americas at the time. Meucci was a scientist with a passion for invention who, among other things, had become interested in the study of electrical phenomena – it was known as galvanism in those days – and their application in a variety of fields, particularly medicine. He’d already invented a number of devices and was in the middle of one of his experiments in electrotherapy when he claimed to have heard the voice of another person through an apparatus he’d created. That’s the telephone, right? Transmitting a voice by means of electricity.

  Well, he took this thing he called the ‘talking telegraph’ to New York, where he continued to perfect his invention. Some time later he managed to get a kind of provisional patent that had to be renewed annually. But Meucci had no money, he was flat broke, so the years passed and one fine day in 1876 Alexander Graham Bell, who did have cash, turned up to register the full patent for the telephone. In the end it was Bell who went down in the history books as the great inventor, and Meucci died in poverty, his name forgotten everywhere except in his native land, where his work was always recognised.

  But they lie, the history books lie, said Euclid, opening the folder to show me its contents. There was a photocopy of an article, published in 1941 by the Cuban anthropologist Fernando Ortiz, which mentioned Meucci and the possibility that the telephone had been invented in Havana. In addition, there were several sheets of paper covered in notes, a few old articles from Bohemia and Juventud Rebelde, plus a copy of Granma from 1989 with that article I just mentioned.

  I was fascinated. In spite of the fact that, so long after the events recounted in the documents, I was still unable to enjoy the advantages of a functioning telephone at home, I felt proud just knowing that there was a remote possibility that it had been invented in Cuba. Incredible, right? The telephone, invented in this city where telephones hardly ever work! It’s as if someone had come up with the idea of the electric light, satellite dishes or the Internet here. The ironies of science and circumstance. A dirty trick, like the one played on Meucci, who, over a century after his death, was still a forgotten figure because no one had managed to prove that his invention had preceded Bell’s.

  A dreadful historical injustice, or something like that, was what I exclaimed the moment Euclid finished his exposition. That was when I learned the other thing. Euclid rose, stepped back a few paces, looked me
in the eyes and said: Yes, an injustice, but one that can be righted. I didn’t understand. He sat down again, clasped my hands and, lowering his voice, added: What can’t be demonstrated doesn’t exist, but the proof of Meucci’s precedence and, ergo, its demonstration, does exist, and I know because I’ve seen it. I can’t even imagine the expression on my face; I only remember that I made no reply. He freed my hands, never taking his eyes from mine. I guess he was expecting a different reaction, waiting for me to jump up, perhaps, cry out in surprise or something, but my only feeling was curiosity, and that’s why, in the end, I simply asked: The proof?

  My friend sighed, stood up and began to pace the room. Years ago, he told me, he’d met a marvellous woman whose family had once been wealthy, and so she still possessed items that the ignorant might consider old junk, but which intelligent beings would appreciate for their artistic or historical value. In addition to those items, many of them real heirlooms, the woman had old documents, ancient birth certificates and property titles that would make any historian’s or collector’s mouth water; and among that bundle of papers, Euclid had one day discovered an original document in Antonio Meucci’s handwriting.

  I thought he must be kidding, but you should have seen Euclid’s face. He was euphoric. Some ancestor of the woman had lived here in Havana at the same time as Meucci and had kept a sheet of paper with diagrams of his experimental device. It all still seemed a bit weird to me, too much of a coincidence, but Euclid swore that he’d held that document and was absolutely certain of its authenticity. Can you imagine it, an original scientific document? That’s what he said, opening his eyes wide. I tried to imagine it. Making such a discovery public would undoubtedly raise the prestige of any scientist. And, naturally, he’d done everything in his power to persuade the woman to give it to him, but she’d refused. Apparently it was the sentimental value of the document that mattered to her, not its content.

  In principle, Euclid could understand this; she had no desire to part with things that had been in the hands of her family and, in some way, retained their fingerprints. She’d even carefully taped some of the documents, including Meucci’s diagrams, onto sheets of white paper to prevent them from getting creased, torn or dog-eared, or just disintegrating from sheer old age. What began to torture Euclid was that, despite the strength of her desire to hold on to all her belongings, she’d been obliged to sell some of them – a silver dish, a gold crucifix, things like that – at the time when the government launched a campaign to recover precious metals and gems, which could be exchanged for the right to buy a colour television or designer clothes from what were known as the ‘Gold and Silver Houses’. Euclid understood the heartache of a woman who had no other option but to use her heritage to survive. What he didn’t get was that she was capable of swapping her grandfather’s silver ashtray for a stereo tape deck, but couldn’t see that the Meucci document rightfully belonged to international science. That was why, in a moment of desperation, he even offered her money. It made no difference, she stood her ground: her grandfather’s ashtray could go to hell, but not Meucci’s manuscript. What really did it for Euclid was that, after so much discussion about that damned sheet of paper, and even though she was aware of his interest in it, she decided to give it to someone else. But he was determined. Years later, he was still on the trail of the document. That was why, when he saw the piece in Granma in 1989 about the invention of the telephone in Cuba, he began to feel uneasy; the article might stir the waters or set alarm bells ringing. And now that I’d told him other people were talking about Meucci, he heard those alarm bells getting louder. If the person in possession of the document understood its importance, it would be extremely difficult to get his hands on it. But the greatest problem was that he didn’t know who that person was.

  As I watched him pacing back and forth across the room, his excitement began to infect me and I felt that something needed to be done. We had to do something. The time had come to work together again and make our voices heard; they had been silent for too long.

  Euclid, like me, was a mathematician. Our friendship was based on a passion for science and on the deep affection that comes from having shared so many things over the years. We’d met in the eighties, when I was studying at the university. First he taught me and then became my supervisor. In those days all the female students were half in love with him because he spoke slowly, in a quiet voice, and so sweetly that it aroused instant attraction. I wasn’t immune to that attraction. There’s no getting away from it: I really like older men. Our affair began in a seminar room one wet day. We were alone. It was late. My thesis topic was complex and the rain was pouring down outside. We found the solution to those problems on top of a table. And that was the beginning of something that lasted for the rest of the year. He was married with three children, but we never mentioned that. What would have been the point? We were lovers and my thesis was beginning to take shape. Everything was fine until, following the theory of errors, he committed one that could be defined as ‘random’. One evening he announced that it was his fiftieth birthday and he wanted to celebrate it with me at Las Cañitas, the bar of the Hotel Habana Libre. What a surprise! Thrilled, I accepted his invitation and we had a wonderful evening. The difficulty arose later. I wasn’t able to see him during the following weeks and when we did finally meet, he was in the midst of a full-blown family crisis. Someone had seen us together and had told his wife. Disaster. We decided to limit our meetings to professional encounters. I was due to defend my thesis in July and I heard no more from him until I returned to the university in September. By then our affair had gone off the boil but, thanks to the amazing success of my thesis, I got a job in the Maths faculty. We became colleagues and then friends.

  The opportunity to work with Euclid was a great piece of luck. He was at the peak of his career; everything about him was science, passion and method. I was his apprentice. It was a very intense period. A shame that when my two years of social service came to an end, there were no vacancies at the university and I had to wave goodbye to the faculty. That’s when things started to go downhill for us.

  I began teaching at the CUJAE polytechnic, but got into the habit of visiting my friend at the university. One day I noticed that he was behaving strangely. He said he needed some fresh air. We went to the Malecón and there, sitting on the wall, he explained that his wife wanted a divorce and he didn’t know what to do: he felt old, was afraid of how their children would react, was at the end of his tether. The following month he had no choice but to accept the separation and move back in with his mother. What else could he do? There have always been housing problems here; you can’t just up sticks and change your address. Euclid’s options were close to zero. He didn’t say much about the reason for the divorce and I preferred not to ask. I was afraid that the crisis provoked by our affair might have influenced his wife’s decision, and when the reasons behind things are murky, it’s almost better to know as little as possible. That’s what I think, anyway. As for their children, the eldest ones took their mother’s side. According to Euclid, it was just a matter of initial reactions that time would smooth out. But in fact, after a few months, only the youngest showed the least interest in him; the others didn’t even phone.

  And then the year 1989 rolled around. Granma published the article on Meucci that, like I said, I didn’t read and Euclid never mentioned. The truth is that we both had much more concrete issues to deal with than the invention of the telephone. Do you remember when the Berlin Wall came down? Well, it wasn’t the only thing to collapse that year; we were buried in the rubble. Cuba was dependent on aid from the Soviet Bloc, so the economy did a nosedive, taking everything down with it. The last thing Euclid needed during his inner crisis was an external one, but that was inevitable, given the state of the country. We didn’t meet for a while and the next time I visited the university, my friend was so thin that I hardly recognised him. As public transport was in such a mess, he had to walk
from the university to his mother’s place at the other end of the Malecón tunnel. I decided to accompany him. After a while, he stopped, hugged me and began to cry. Right there, in the middle of the street. I was at a loss for what to do until I finally grabbed his hand and led him to a park, where he told me that, in the intervening three months, his eldest children had left the country. Logically, this had nothing to do with him; it was the result of the impending collapse, the profound economic crisis that was expected in Cuba and the prevailing sense of hopelessness. Despite the fact that his youngest had decided to stay, the departure of the others hit him like a bomb, and Euclid refused to accept the consequences of that impact. It was so devastating that he developed clinical depression and had to resign from his job at the end of the academic year. He spent a lot of time undergoing treatment and taking pills. And that was how I gradually lost my tutor.

  When Euclid told me about Meucci in 1993, the worst of his depression had passed, but I can honestly say that I hadn’t seen such a glint in his eyes for a long time. That might be why I allowed myself to be carried away by his enthusiasm.

  As for me – I’m not going to tell you my real name either, so let’s say it’s Julia, like the French mathematician Gaston Julia – my fall from grace was simpler. From my very first weeks at the CUJAE, I knew something wasn’t right. I wasn’t easy in my skin. My dream had always been to do research; becoming a lecturer was something I found hard to accept because I hated teaching. See the problem? I was meant to be a great scientist, receive invitations to international conferences, publish my discoveries in prestigious journals, but all I’ve managed to do is endlessly repeat the same old formulas. I know that in the early days I put all my energy into doing something great, but little by little that energy was transformed into a sense of dissatisfaction I was unwilling to define. It was Euclid who found the words for it: What’s happening is that you feel frustrated, he told me one day. And he was right.