A novel of George Orwell in 1920s BURMA
‘Under the Bronze Lion’ by Teresa Dovalpage
20th December 2023
Teresa and her dog, La Niña
If I could go back in time, like opening a door and falling headlong into a perfect past, I would choose the millennium night. Most of my friends were worried about Y2K, but software issues were the last thing on my mind. I had returned to Cuba, after twenty years of absence, in search of lost love.
Only ten minutes left until midnight, and I am sitting under a bronze lion at the Paseo del Prado in Old Havana. On the bench closest to the sea, on the right. This was our bench.
Dark waves break against the Malecón seawall. Fireworks explode, getting ready to welcome the new century. A shower of yellow and red sparks envelops El Morro lighthouse. I wonder, once again, what I’m doing here. Because it’s hard to believe that Ponciano—whom I haven’t seen since we were both fourteen, and we’re now thirty-four—will show up, keeping a promise made twenty years ago.
El Prado
In March 1980, Ponciano and I were students in a middle school located across from Parque Central, in Old Havana. From the classroom windows on the second floor, one could see the José Martí statue in the park and the twenty-four palm trees that surround it. One could also see the beginning of Paseo del Prado, an avenue lined with trees and marble benches, guarded by eight bronze lions.
Every day after classes, Ponciano and I would sit on our favorite bench, so close to the Malecón seawall that a salty scent permeated the air.
“In twenty years, we’ll meet again here,” Ponciano said once.
“In twenty years,” I repeated, dreamily. “That would be—2000!”
“Yes, we’ll wait together for the twenty-first century,” Ponciano concluded.
I tried in vain to imagine myself at thirty-four. Ponciano leaned in and kissed me on the lips. His tasted like mint candy. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the lion guarding our bench gave me a conspiratorial wink.
“I’ll be here,” I promised, not sure if addressing Ponciano or the lion.
But our romance was short-lived. On April 15, 1980, in an unprecedented speech, Fidel Castro allowed Cubans to leave the country through the Mariel Port. My paternal uncle, who lived in California, came for my family right away, before El Comandante changed his mind. I left with my parents in late April, having no time or permission to say goodbye to Ponciano, or anybody else. (Fearing the “acts of repudiations” against those fleeing the island, my parents kept our plans secret until the last minute.)
For twenty years, I thought many times about my first boyfriend. I even wrote him a few letters, but since I didn’t know his exact address, they likely got lost.
A marriage, a divorce, and several casual relationships later, Ponciano still held a special place in my thoughts. I rationalized it—he was a symbol of my lost country and the uprooting that I hadn’t been able to process yet.
After leaving Havana, my parents settled in Los Angeles, where I still live. But last week, in preparation for this crazy trip to Cuba, I spent two weeks in Miami. During those fifteen days, I thought I saw Ponciano at least five times. The last one was in a Publix store, when I had gone to buy Café La Llave. The cashier stared at me, and I found a young Ponciano at the bottom of his brown eyes. But the people in line started grumbling, and the man quickly rang my purchases…
El Prado Lion
A guy wearing a blue Florida Marlins baseball cap walks up Paseo del Prado, towards Parque Central. Again, I recognize Ponciano. But of course it’s not him! If Ponciano still lives in Cuba, he’s probably married, and the last of his worries is a date set two decades ago. And if he has left the country, like so many others, he won’t even remember my name.
The only person who would think of keeping this ridiculous rendezvous is—me.
The guy with the Marlins cap comes back. He now walks towards me. But it can’t be Ponciano. (And there are barely fifty seconds left until the new millennium.) It can’t be him who stops in front of me and takes off his cap. It can’t be him.
But it is.
The last second of the twenty century slips away. A cascade of lights falls on the Morro Lighthouse as we stare at each other, discovering under the masks of our thirty-four-year-old selves the teenagers who saw each other for the last time in 1980. And finally, the explanations, hurried and confused. He has been living in Miami for three years and works at a Publix store on Calle Ocho. Oh, yes, he thought he saw me at the cash register but didn’t have time to say anything…
“If I had stayed longer in Miami, we would have eventually met there,” I say.
“Maybe,” he replies. “But it wouldn’t have been the same without El Prado lions.”
The Cuban night, lost and regained, envelops us as our hearts beat at the rhythmic pulsing of the fireworks. The bronze lion, our lion, smiles and shimmers against the dark sky
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After this years Christmas and New Year wipe-out, for both my husband and myself, due to sickness, this lovely coffee break romance was just what I needed to try and muster some enthusiasm for the reading year ahead!
And I have also discovered another lovely new to me author for my wish list!
Thank you Teresa and may 2024 be a successful year for you 🙂