My neighbor is a single man, rather lonely. I don't like lonely people. I've always believed that anyone who doesn't socialize is hiding something. He moved in downstairs just a few days ago, and I know very little about him.
The neighbor helped him pack up a table and a chair that were tied to a sling. He had a bag across his chest and a figure almost his height wrapped in a sack. No one could get a word out of him; they nicknamed him the Madman of Macagua because of his resemblance to a Jamaican who lived in a cave in Macagua, Jobabo.
He walks barefoot and always stares at a fixed point, as if he didn't care about anything going on around him. He only tends to his cigarette. Last night the streetlight was flickering, so I went downstairs barefoot with a blanket over my shoulders. I peered through a gap between the slats of the window. His naked ebony body looked like a charcoal sketch. In front of him was a Saint Lazarus and a lit candle.
With his elbows on his knees, he exhaled a huge puff of smoke. I slowly moved away and climbed the stairs without making the slightest noise. I couldn't sleep.
....
It's Saturday, it's raining, and it's beautiful. I like to make love when it rains. I watch the rain fall on the neighbor's mango trees. There it is, among the aromatic herbs, like a shiny black dot in the middle of the jungle that has grown in the yard.
The scent of oregano, marjoram, and holy cane fill my space. Minutes fly by as I look at it, drawn to its large hands. Hands and eyes identify people; it must be kind.
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Mi vecino
Mi vecino es un hombre soltero, más bien solitario. No me gustan las personas solitarias. Siempre he creido que quien no se relaciona con nadie es porque algo oculta.
Hace solo unos días vino a vivir al piso de abajo y muy poco sé de él. El vecino le ayudó a guardar una mesa y una silla que venían amarradas a una perihuela. Traía una bolsa cruzada al pecho y una figura casi de su altura envuelta en un saco.
Nadie logró sacarle una palabra; le pusieron el Loco de la Macagua por su parecido a un jamaiquino que vivió en una cueva en la Macagua de Jobabo. Anda descalzo y siempre mira a un punto fijo, como si no le importara nada de lo que pasa a su alrededor. Solo atiende a su tabaco.
Anoche la luz de la calle estaba intermitente, bajé descalza con una manta sobre los hombros. Miré por una hendija, entre las tablillas de la ventana. Su cuerpo de ébano, desnudo, parecía dibujado al carboncillo. Delante de él tenía un San Lázaro y una vela encendida.
Con los codos en sus rodillas, exhaló una inmensa bocanada de humo. Me aparté lentamente y subí por la escalera sin hacer el mínimo ruido. No pude dormir.
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Es sábado, llueve y es bonito . Me gusta hacer el amor cuando llueve. Veo caer la lluvia sobre los mangos del vecino. Allí está, entre las hierbas aromáticas, como un punto negro brillante en medio de la jungla que se ha creado en el patio.
El aroma del orégano, la mejorana, la caña santa inundan mi espacio. Se me van los minutos mirándolo, me atraen sus manos grandes. Las manos y los ojos identifican a las personas, seguramente es bondadoso.
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