Chrysalis

The metal box sat in the back of the closet. Unassuming, 8 inches long by four wide and not much deeper. I pressed the small lever and it sprung open. Carefully wrapped in a faded red ribbon were a dozen letters, paper thin and brittle. As I lifted them out of the box I noticed the little black notebook tucked underneath. Carefully, I brought the metal box out of the closet and placed it on my bed. The black notebook had a faded date on the cover, 1957, in gold leaf, suggesting a different time. As I opened it, my eyes fell on Alfredo's handwriting--ornamental and fluid. The notes of the artist lay in front of me, hidden from view for all these years. I put the notebook back in the box and turned to the bundle of missives. Carefully, I freed them from the ribbon and started at the top. "I look around me", it said, "and I recognize nothing. There is no brilliant sun, no colorful malecón, no Cafetín del Muelle. Miramar is not El Vedado. My studio--a small garage on a main road in a house once owned by my family, was left behind. Marble and clay broken and crushed, dreams of liberation that were nothing more than that. I boarded the freedom flight and realized that freedom was and is no longer. The easy collaboration, the afternoons of tertulia and cafecito, the quest to create art that was authentically Cuban--all broken promises and political propaganda. To start over, to surrender my identity and replace it with a shiny gold eagle. Peace to work, that is the price of peace. To lose yourself in your work, each new piece an effort to bind you to this new reality. Exilado. Denaturalizado. Desterrado. The choice impossible. To die at home or be reborn in foreign soil. I struggle. I carve a piece, unyielding marble. Each drop of the hammer a reminder." Twelve letters in all, twelve pages filled with ennui and regret and loneliness. Hundreds of words spilled from a soul lost to its identity. All addressed to Sara, of the clear green eyes and long red hair. Sara, tamer of lost souls and curator of memories.

I open the black book next. It is full of old friends, now long gone. Fellow painters, sculptors, the second Vanguardia at my fingertips. Amelia--stained glass brilliance in the absence of pigment. Mariano, Judas who sold his soul to Castro for some tarnished medals and mediocre recognition. Padre Angel, Lezama, Cundo-- solace and strength, the golden age. Creation and Supression, the evidence in my hand, in a little black book, keeper of utopian dreams.