who came for the last farewell and because of the lunch and since a dead man cannot protest, always at the funeral some sneaking unknown, who not being particularly pained, at a certain moment, perhaps helped by the wine, began to let rhythm go out of the table and glasses. Everyone began to fidget on the chairs, other hands began to follow the cadence, after a while the music became decisive and irrepressible and, considering that after all even the deceased had loved to dance, we ended up remembering it by dancing.
From the elegant neighborhood of Vedado to the negro neighborhood of Guanabacoa, music was everywhere, penetrating everywhere.
The first time we went to mass was at the San Francisco de Paula pueblo. The church was a simple construction placed on an open clearing, slightly high. My mother and I left in a great hurry and when it was time to enter we realized we hadn't brought anything to cover our heads. We ended up putting our handkerchiefs on our hair.
On the sides of the church there were many windows in a row, open because of the hot day, which let in scents and sounds, and a glimpse of the greenery around. At the Introibo Altare Dei I saw a rooster go by chasing a hen. At the Confiteor a little bird alights on the windowsill, it looked at me, then with a cheerful flicker plunged into the church and went out on the opposite side. At the Gospel I ran into a little boy wearing only a guayabera, chased by a woman shouting: "Te mato! Te mato!*"
The sermon began but I was distracted because the woman, after having zigzagged between the palms, had finally grabbed the little boy who, however, she didn't kill at all: she just gave him a spanking and dragged him away grumbling.
Meanwhile, in the pulpit, the priest seemed angry. All of a sudden threatening pointed a finger towards the back of the church and everyone turned and my mother and I turned too,...
* "I'll kill you!" in Spanish.
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