CALLÉ CERO
by
Lorenzo DeStefano
Even on the move like this I feel the heat that is Havana in
early June. Fresh from a cold shower at the once grand Hotel Presidenté, I
travel by taxi along the vast and crumbling Malecon, arrive at the northern edge
of the Miramar district just before one. The address I’m looking for, Numero
110, Callé Cero, is actually a vacant lot behind the shuttered mass of the
empty Sierra Maestra Hotel. Planted haphazardly with maize and dehydrated
squash, it’s not what I expected after speaking with Tomás Gutiérrez Alea
two days ago from Santiago. Once again I show the driver the address I wrote
down at the time.He repeats his initial take on the situation. "Si,
unocientodiez es aqui." The scarred white box I’ve hauled from California to Miami
to Havana to Santiago and back to Havana digs deep into my shoulder as I step
from the cab. I’m thinking this could be the end of my hopes for meeting the
most internationally celebrated of Cuba’s film directors.
I try recalling the tone of
Alea’s voice on the phone when he gave me this address. No residue of mocking
there that I can remember, no elusive mischief come in handy to dissuade young
filmmakers bearing compliments from abroad. I can only recall his friendly tone
and the appointment we had made for one.
"I live in a two story house, by the way, with our part
upstairs."
A sick feeling starts taking over as I scan this neighborhood of nothing
but two-story houses. The prospect of molesting hot and hungry Habanians for
directions is not a thrilling option at this point. The driver grows impatient
looking for something that clearly doesn’t exist. I pay him the three-dollar
fare and watch his Fiat haul ass towards Avenida Cinco.
The house is black and white, with the most manicured shrubbery on the block.
The number 105 is prominent on the front wall. Moving through a
wrought-iron gate, I head up the glossy painted stairs, come face to face with a
startled housekeeper mopping the foyer. "Permiso, señora. Me llamo
Lorenzo DeStefano. Yo tengo an, appointamento con Senor Alea. Es aqui?"
She smiles at the tongue-tied visitor. "Señor Alea no aqui. Entrar,
por favor." The housekeeper walks ahead of me, motions to a chair.
I set the heavy box down, am led towards a veranda shaded by plumeria and rubber
trees. When she vanishes into the kitchen I try for as clear a view as possible
of the front door. I hear Tomás Gutiérrez Alea greet his housekeeper before I see him. His
black Reeboks float in their own shadows on the immaculate tile floor, make him
look frail in the intense fragmented sunlight. From the patio he looks somewhat
older than I expected. A dignified and very handsome man in his sixties, his hair is
gray and close-cropped, his khaki slacks and white cotton shirt neatly pressed Mirta Ibarra enters with a tray of chilled whiskey. One of
Cuba’s best known actresses, she has a way of occupying a space so thoroughly
as to immediately make it her own. She wears her hair in wild brown ringlets, her arms kinetic forces of nature.
The serene features of her beautiful face stand out from across the room,
familiar to me from her roles in her husband’s films. After a few words with the housekeeper she approaches me with
several great strides, gives me a friendly kiss on the cheek without a word. Our
whiskeys served, the three of us sit in a semicircle around a table full of mail
and magazines. I say, "I'm sorry to have gotten here before
you.". Mirta looks to Alea for help with the translation, a duty he
performs quite amiably over the next two hours. "I had expected you
to phone me at one, actually." From the way he looks at me I must
look very confused. "But this is perfectly alright.", he
responds quickly. "Are you sure? I can always come back later if..." "No, please. This is fine. So, you arrived in Havana
today?" "At eleven." "And you found the house with no problem?"
I hesitate. "No? There was a problem?". "Actually, I thought on the phone you told me it was
#110." I show him the pad I wrote his instructions on. He shuts his
eyes. His head shoots up about thirty degrees. "I am so very
sorry." Mirta looks fully confused by now. He explains something to
her in Spanish before turning back to me. "Just after hanging up with you I asked myself, ‘Did I
just tell him #110 or #105?’ I remember the thought troubling me for hours
after that." He leans back in his chair, his fine tapered hands
coming to rest on his lap. "You see, that number stays with me from
another time. It was the address of a professor of mine when I was young, a
special person to me. Sometimes I find myself confusing this number 110 with
other numbers I encounter. Either way, we are happy you are with us." I pass on greetings to them from the American director Randa
Haines, a frequent visitor to Cuba who has kindly acted as my referral for this
meeting. "Ah, Randa.", Alea beams. "She
is a fine director and a beautiful person." Mirta moves towards Tomás Gutiérrez Alea has made twenty films in the past
thirty-eight years, among them the edgy classic of the early post-Revolution
era, "MEMORIES OF UNDERDEVELOPMENT" (1968),
the first film from post-revolutionary Cuba to be released in the U.S. "DEATH OF A BUREAUCRAT" (1966), Without being asked Titon tells me that his own favorite
among his films is "THE LAST SUPPER" (1976),
which he also wrote. Come sunrise the brutal overseer, Don Manuel, rouses the
slaves for work. They refuse, citing the Count's gracious dispensation. A
slaughter ensues during which the mill is destroyed and many slaves, especially
those from the Last Supper scene, are hunted down and brutally killed. Only
Sebastian, the reverse Judas figure, escapes with his life. A small scene
strikes me in particular. The Count dresses before a crucifix after the mass
slaughter, trembles while a priest counsels his tormented soul. "But
father," the Count moans. "I can find no peace. I live
in constant uneasiness. Even by day I walk lost in a maze of darkness. Where can
I find a way out?" The priest supplies him with the very
advise he needs to carry out his onerous plan. "In God and only in
God." At the time of our meeting Titon is editing "FRESA
Y CHOCOLATE", a 1995 Miramax release co-starring Mirta and an
eventual Academy Award nominee for best foreign film. I’d hoped to watch Titon at work in the cutting room but he
is done for the day and I leave for Miami at seven tomorrow. "I work in
the editing room from 8:30 to 12:30 every morning," he volunteers. "The
remainder of the day is taken up with my medical treatments, reading and
rest." I do not pursue the medical question, instead drag over the
large white box which caused Titon and Mirta some concern when they first saw
it. "There’s some film equipment and a bunch of other things in here
from a list faxed to me by ICAIC." Titon responds with a raising of
hands. "Thank you very much. Our film institute needs so many
things." I pull out a separate box, tear off the clear bands of tape. "I’ve also brought some films of mine, as film editor
and director." Titon scans each title carefully. "You arrive so
prepared, Señor Lorenzo. Are all Americans this prepared?" Heading deeper into the box, Titon and Mirta unearth staples,
paper clips, #10 rubber bands and other basics required for literary creation.
By the look on their faces they haven’t seen this much scotch tape in years. I ask Mirta about her work. "I am an actress!" She
straightens up like someone who really is who they say they are, touches Titon’s
hand. "Twenty years we have been together," She tosses a slight
look of impatience his way. "And my first film with him comes only after
eight years." She seems proud of herself for having stuck it out so long.
Waiting eight years f "My budgets are usually around $300,000 for a feature.
$500,000 would be a great epic here. Since there is no hard currency in Cuba now
for films, foreign co-productions are essential. My latest film is financed by
Spain and Mexico, with Cuban equipment and personnel. This is how it is." Though they’re both very trim, Titon and Mirta eat with
great relish. A man rushes into the dining area, begins a rapid-fire exchange
with them. Judging from the frequent use of the word "capacitor" I
figure the general subject of discussion must relate to something electrical. My
tin-ear Spanish picks up that the whatever device they’re talking about is
either a partial or a total loss. The man smiles at me, shakes my hand without
being introduced, leaves on a trail of promises to come back soon. Titon
explains. "He is a friend of ours, an excellent mechanic. You see,
the air conditioner in my office has gone out of order and there are absolutely
no parts to be found to repair it." "Can't you buy a new one?" I ask naively. Titon
translates for Mirta. She laughs quietly. "No. I'm afraid this is not possible." "Then what’ll you do?" Titon flings one arm in the vague direction of the Gulf. "The
Sierra Maestra Hotel is being completely renovated, all new central air
conditioning is going in. There is a great pile of the old units there which he
will search for the proper fitting part." He utters this with some pride, proof of the resourceful nature of the
Cuban people, still getting things done despite frequent adversity. I finish my bowl of cherry Jell-O with pineapple and orange
wedges, can see that Titon is getting tired. Before I say good-bye he and Mirta
let me take a photograph for myself and for Randa. "Titon died this morning around
four a.m. our time." We have known for the past several months that he’s
been gravely ill, his cancer relentlessly on the march. I finally reached Titon by phone two weeks ago after several
frustrating attempts, listened in anticipation to the double rings separated by
heavy static. Mirta answered. It was good to hear her voice, though she seemed
tired, worn down. She passed the phone to Titon. His voice was noticeably weaker
but still quite like itself. "Good to hear from you, Lorenzo. I am not
so well right now. I have to be in this wheelchair. Mirta and I are writing a
script together, though, which keeps me busy." I asked if there was
anything I could do, though we both knew there was not. I found myself getting
very emotional as I listened to him speak the last words I was likely to hear
from him. All I could think of in response to this sad situation was to tell him
how much understanding I felt he’d brought to the world through his films.
There is this great love and tolerance for people shining through them, the same
love that’s coming back to him now in spades. He seemed to like that thought.
Maybe he was just being polite. We said good-bye and I hung up first. No need to
hear me cry. Randa barely keeps it together on the phone as she reads me a
letter to be read at Titon’s funeral in Havana in two days. Dear Sisters and Brothers
Stand
in the middle of the nearly deserted Callé Cero and you will see a densely
populated street bearing the telltale imprint of decline with measurable pride.
Ending at the shoreline of the Caleta de San Lazaro, Callé Cero, like many
streets in Cuba, hangs onto the faded middle-class tranquility of decades gone
by. I look around for an open face to bail me out here. A tall man walks a wiry
black dog, shakes his head at my rudimentary query, "Donde esta la
casa su Senor Tomás Gutiérrez Alea?" Another man on a
balcony ignores me altogether. All at once a man emerges from behind a section
of rusted fence. He’s carrying an armload of huge dead banana leaves, nods
vigorously when I ask him for Senor Alea’s house. He points me directly across
the street from where I’ve been standing all this time. "Es aqui!"
The living room is home
to some very fine abstract paintings and a modernist floor sculpture made of
mother of pearl. Family photographs hang on the walls behind smoky convex glass.
A caustic breeze lacerates the dwelling from front to back, strangely uncooled
by its proximity to the Gulf of Mexico. It brings with it the scent of kitchen
cleanser and some roses from a planter down below.
despite the stifling heat. I stand as he approaches, his hand outstretched.
"Mr. Lorenzo, hello." His accent is as genteel as
his appearance. "A great pleasure to meet you, Señor Alea." He
points me towards a white cane chair, sits beside me. "I’m very
sorry to have kept you waiting." Before I can answer, loud noises
erupt from the kitchen.
a cabinet, returns with a framed color 3x5 of herself with Randa and another
American friend. She looks at it for some time as Titon and I keep talking. "Titon"
is what Randa said everyone calls Alea here. Though clearly affectionate, I have
not asked her or anyone else exactly what it means.
Based on the
four films of Titon’s that I’ve seen it could mean clever dissembler, savage
humorist or fierce visionary.
is a biting satire on Cuban government bureaucracy as experienced by a
young man trying to bury a dead relative. The tyranny of red tape becomes in
Alea’s hands a slapstick farce combining the black humor of "CATCH
22" with the hijinks of the Marx Brothers.
Centered
on an 18th century slave revolt at a Cuban sugar mill, the film
recounts the diabolical plan of a pious Count to trick twelve rebellious slaves
into submission by inviting them to a drunken last supper ceremony. Seduced by
his generosity and the raging sermon he delivers on the nobility of suffering,
all of the slaves but one, Sebastian, think they have found a powerful friend in
the Count. As a gesture of his good faith, he gives them and all the other cane
workers the next day off. That being Good Friday makes the slaves even more
grateful. They cheer the Count until early morning, eventually pass out drunk
under his cold sober stare.
Titon
lays out the basic story for me. "The title translates in English as
"STRAWBERRY & CHOCOLATE". It is, how do you call it, a black
comedy, about the friendship between a prostitute, a homosexual, and a young
Fidel loyalist in contemporary Havana."
"These
are meant for both of you." Titon and Mirta reach into the jumbled mass
of yellow notepads, pens, pencils, blank audio and videocassettes, obviously
pleased. 
or her husband to find the role most suited to her could
not have been easy. Still, it is this kind of care and attention on both their
parts that has made Mirta Ibarra the star of Cuban and Latin-American cinema she
has become.
Perhaps
Titon was afraid to expose someone he loved to the terrible difficulty of making
good films in the current economic climate of Cuba.
We visit
for about an hour before being called to lunch by the housekeeper. "You
sit there.", Mirta ladles tangy black bean soup into a bowl for me.
Beside a large bowl of fried rice is a plate of salted plantain chips, three
strips
of marinated flank
steak with grilled onions and a basket of bread. Titon takes several tablets
from several prescription bottles on a table behind him. Gorda, Titon’s small
white dog, stands watch at his feet.
I’m looking at this picture now, almost
three years later, as I prepare to send a new print of it to Mirta in Havana. It
is Tuesday, April 5, 1996. I got a call from Randa Haines this morning, the kind
of call you know is coming but do not want to receive.
We grieve with the family of the brilliant Cuban filmmaker
Tomás Gutiérrez Alea and all the people of Cuba at the loss of such an
esteemed artist, excellent friend and unforgettable comrade. Titon will
remain alive and present for everyone in the endless wealth of ideas that
flow from each one of the images he created. In Titon’s life is the truth
of Jose Marti’s saying, ‘Death is not real if one has accomplished his
life’s work well.’ "
As I reread this Titon article I realize that I have not shed the visceral impact of Cuba as quickly as I thought I would. Though I’m back on the freeways again, have wracked up many frequent flyer miles since then, the familiar LA landscapes quiver with impermanence. As I’m driving the sun bursts from behind a building, marks me in its rays, one not half as intense as those that shine on Miramar. Pulled back to that Caribbean whiteness, I recall the last image I have of Tomás Gutiérrez Alea. As we’re leaving his house he lets Gorda off her leash. A taxi has been called, can in fact be heard approaching on the near-empty streets. Titon keeps himself turned away from the direct sun. "Thank you for coming all this way to see me, and for all the helpful things you brought."
"I appreciate you and Mirta taking the time today."
"Perhaps you will return in December for the Film Festival?"
"That would be great." He shakes my hand, waves to me once before turning away. "Until December then, Lorenzo." The cab pulls up. I get into the back seat of the same Fiat that brought me here, though the driver has changed. Pulling away, I look through the back window, see Titon moving northward towards the Sierra Maestra Hotel. His shoulders rise to their true stature for a moment, his pace slow but absolutely sure. Turning from the shimmering water he proceeds the few remaining steps to numero 105, Callé Cero.
Lorenzo DeStefano
Los Angeles – April 1996
© 2001 Lorenzo DeStefano
PHOTO CREDITS:
Judy Janda, Mirta Ibarra, Sandra Levinson, Lorenzo DeStefano
to read this obituary, click on text