A revolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past.
—Fidel Castro
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING I dragged Sofía’s luggage over the potholes of Calle Neptuno to her grandmother’s house to say good-bye. We didn’t look at each other walking down street after street, but we held hands until she’d complain I was squeezing too tightly. Her head was high, while my chin was down against my chest. I saw a dead chick in the gutter that a stray cat was toying with. I don’t remember much else about that walk.
We stopped outside her grandmother’s apartment and I let go of her hand and told her I couldn’t wait with her for the taxi to take her to the airport. We heard Nat King Cole singing “Nature Boy” out someone’s barred window, “The greatest thing … you’ll ever learn … is just to love … and be loved … in return.”
She smiled at me when she saw that my eyes were wet.
“Oh pleeeease. You acting like you never see me again.”
But I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“I think it’s a little worse.”
“Why is that, Brinicito?”
“I’m crying because I won’t see you tonight.”
“See? What did I tell you the first time I saw you? No chemistry between us.”
I kissed her and she bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. With her teeth inside my upper lip, I smiled without being able to look at her and ran my hand through her hair. She let go and I told her that I loved her before stepping away and turning the corner. I caught the first taxi that stopped and told them to drop me off at Colón cemetery in Vedado.
* * *
I’ve always loved cemeteries. When my father took me to new places as a kid, for our first stop we’d always stop at the local cemeteries and make a game of tracking down the first person laid to rest. Colón was the most beautiful cemetery I’d ever seen, filled with all the marvelous people who added their weight, color, and melodies to Havana’s Goya-like dreamscape. After being built in 1876, over a million people had been buried in eight hundred thousand graves, with hundreds of impossibly detailed mausoleums, family vaults, and chapels so white under the sun they blind you when the tropical heat doesn’t blur the air. The first man buried in Colón was the architect, Calixto Arellano de Loira y Cardoso, who never finished building it.
I’ve never met anyone from Havana—even those who left so young they can’t remember it—who didn’t seem to be sucking life from a bent straw living anywhere else. Part of Havana’s twisted magic is how even visitors aren’t immune to this disease, with some clumsy music inside your own heart playing an off-key karaoke version of the real symphony you observe behind the eyes of locals. The first time I ever visited Madrid and asked a stranger outside the Plaza de Toros who the greatest bullfighter in the world was, he listed off the names and held his hands apart to symbolize how close the matadors allowed the horns to their hearts. His hands got closer with each name until he smiled mischievously before concluding the list. “But José Tomás? He lets the horns come so close to his heart nobody can bear to watch. We all cover our eyes. His genius is so beautiful that nobody in Spain has ever dared to see it.”
As the cab got closer and the 140-acre cemetery was in view, something besides Sofía or getting arrested gnawed at me. In the back of my mind, I had always yearned to be in Havana when Fidel would be laid to rest in Colón. Ever since I’d first seen The Second of May 1808 in the Prado when I was eighteen, I’d been obsessed by Goya’s take on Napoleon and the most powerful army in the world invading and meeting their downfall in Spain. With Fidel’s passing, I wanted to witness that impossibly strange atmosphere firsthand and see what the air tasted like for Cubans the first day Castro stopped breathing it. “It’s not my fault I haven’t died yet,” Castro once told Ann Louise Bardach, who’d flown over to interview him. She asked Fidel if he was the devil his enemies made him out to be. “If that is the case,” Fidel replied, “then I am a devil who has been protected by the gods.”
The world doesn’t get to choose the destinations where its most colorful, important characters stain history’s canvas. I’ve always played goofy games in my mind trying to imagine Shakespeare being born anywhere else, transplanting van Gogh to Detroit, or Napoleon to Mexico City, or allowing Hitler to fail at pastoral painting in a back alley in Shanghai. What impact could Fidel have had if he were born almost anywhere else but a small, impoverished island ninety miles off the shore of the most powerful civilization on earth? Even from such a meager stage, with such a humble role, he still managed to find a way of holding the world hostage and bringing it as close as it ever came to oblivion. What if he’d been born on third base? What would our world look like? What impact could he have had? Fidel didn’t have a bust or a statue or so much as a plaque anywhere across the country, but his dent in history was undeniable. And unless Fidel died during my last twenty-four hours in his country, I’d be watching Havana on cable news the next day like everyone else. “All the glory in the world can fit into a kernel of corn,” Fidel quoted José Martí, after Bardach asked him how he wished to be remembered.
I was meeting a cinematographer named Ana María at La Milagrosa’s grave, Colón’s most popular. Ana María was a young girl fresh out of film school who worked for Cuban television. Ría had helped me find her. La Milagrosa’s grave belonged to a girl named Amelia Goyri de la Hoz. Amelia was buried, along with her child, in 1903. They had both died as Amelia tried to bring the child into the world when she was only twenty-three years old. Inside their tomb, Amelia’s infant son was placed at his mother’s feet. When both bodies were exhumed, according to legend, the child was discovered in his mother’s arms. Amelia’s inconsolable widower returned to his bride and child’s grave each day for the last seventeen years of his life. It was said that her widower never accepted their deaths and instead believed they were asleep beneath the ground. He installed a brass knocker over the grave and each day he brought flowers and knocked on the grave three times as a secret signal. After the knocks, he would cry out, “Wake up, Amelia! Wake up!” Since I’d first started coming to Havana and visiting Colón, the grave was guarded every hour of every day by a cult devoted to La Milagrosa. A sculptor had built a statue of Amelia clutching her child over the grave and I never once saw all the white marble of her tomb unadorned in fresh flowers and troves of offerings from people praying to her to look after their kids or to allow for them to be blessed with children.
As I approached our meeting place, Ana María was talking with a few old women guarding the grave next to the statue of Amelia cradling her child. I noticed Ana María had a book under her arm and was smoking an unfiltered cigarette. She was tall and wiry, wearing a man’s white undershirt and torn jeans, her hair fastened in two wild clumps behind her ears. She had an alluring mixture of soft femininity in her features and masculine grace in her posture and movements.
“So?” she said in perfect English. “Would you like to shoot the cemetery?”
“Yeah,” I told her, handing over my camera. It wasn’t a film camera since I’d been terrified they’d confiscate anything looking professional at customs. I had a shitty tripod with me also.
“This camera is mierda, yuma. Ría warned me about you. First she told me you had an affair with the granddaughter of Fidel.”
“Why would she tell you that?” I asked.
“I have a boyfriend,” Ana María declared.
“Because I slept with Fidel’s granddaughter I’m a threat to the sanctity of all Cuban women in relationships?”
“Well.” She smirked, changing the subject by holding up the camera as though it were rotting meat. “This tourist camera makes me even more uncomfortable. Ría also told me your work is sensitive. So I’m guessing you have zero clearance to do any of the work you’re doing here?”
“If you can explain to me how I can get clearance in this country to work on anything sensitive—”
“Are we shooting something sensitive today?”
I shrugged.
“Dangerous?”
“You don’t have to help me.”
“Ay—”
“What?”
“We both know I need the money.”
“And I’m fifty thousand dollars in debt back home and desperately need this footage.”
“Yuma, will this put me in danger?”
I could see she was about five seconds from walking away, but I didn’t know what to say.
From a pay phone the night before, I’d gotten as close to Teófilo Stevenson as I ever had, with him not outright rejecting an interview. “Call me tomorrow,” he growled, before hanging up. Someone close to him had told me things had gotten so bad financially Stevenson didn’t have enough money to put gas in the tank of his little car or replace a flat tire. But who knew how much money he expected to talk, let alone on camera. Who knew who was listening to our phone calls and might be closing in long before I ever had the chance to sit with him? Out of eleven million people in the country, three million were officially enrolled as CDRs spying on their neighbors.
Besides Stevenson, Cristian Martínez and his boxing coach, Yosvanni Bonachea, the stars of Sons of Cuba, a documentary that had won awards around the world on the film festival circuit, had agreed to come over to my apartment that afternoon to talk. Before I left Cuba for good, my Hail Mary was somehow managing to include Héctor Vinent, Félix Savón, and Teófilo Stevenson in my documentary defending their decision to remain in Cuba, the whole continuum of great Cuban heroes who rejected America’s Faustian bargain. Then, with two years following Rigondeaux’s journey toward a world championship and riches in America, I would offer Rigondeaux’s life and reasons in defense of leaving. And then finally Cristian Martínez’s role, just before his sixteenth birthday, staring down his first Olympic Games, seemed to offer a unique view on where Cuba’s next generation on the horizon wanted to go.
Cristian had come of age just as Fidel had stepped down from power. “If the U.S.A. dares to attack us at this sad moment,” Cristian said the day after Fidel announced his state secret illness, “we’ll run out to defend our country.” Fidel had rewarded Cristian’s father with a car and an apartment for his contributions to the revolution. But that home was in shambles and the car had long since broken down and there was no money to repair any of the damage. Cristian, like the others, would have to weigh the life of his father, and the lives of all the great boxers who came before him, in order to determine the right path to take. Perhaps where he went, and his reasons for doing so, would point the way where all Cubans of his generation might easily follow.
There was some additional pressure on me talking to Cristian Martínez, as the manager who’d gotten Rigondeaux off the island was interested in doing the same thing with this boy. I’d been asked to feel the teenager out in terms of his receptivity to making the jump. To broach the topic of Cristian’s defection meant prison time for me, and the certain death of Cristian’s boxing career before it ever got started. Even creating the perception I was trying to help facilitate Cristian’s escape was a serious offense against the revolution. “Cuban boxers fight for a better future,” Cristian had told the cameras as a child of twelve. “We Cubans are fighting from the moment we are born.”
“I think the next twenty-four hours are going to be pretty dangerous, talking to who I want to talk to,” I explained to Ana María. “There are risks. It’s up to you if you want to help me or not.”
We looked at each other for a tense moment until we both smiled.
“I was expecting a womanizer from how Ría described you. A romantic is even worse. Joder. No more talking. If you like, we could shoot one of the funerals taking place here. Ría told me you play a lot of chess. We could shoot some of the famous graves and start with Capablanca, with his giant queen over the grave. I love that grave. Alejo Carpentier is buried here, if you are partial to writers. Dulce María Loynaz, if you like poets. Máximo Gómez, if you prefer military men. Chano Pozo, if you want a musician. Tell me where we should start.”
“Today I’d like you to shoot anything you want. We can go anywhere you think is special. Take me to your favorite places. Today let’s just film your Havana.”
“Shouldn’t we be filming your Havana?”
“I don’t have the stomach for it today.”
“This is the weirdest assignment I’ve ever been given.”
“Later this afternoon,” I said, “I’d like you to shoot an interview with a young boxer at my apartment and also film him exercising with his coach on my roof. I’d like you to film him with all of Centro Habana and the skyline behind him while he shadowboxes and trains with his coach. Until then I just want to get my mind off of a few things.”
“Why do you seem so sad?” she asked.
“I don’t have much time left in Havana,” I told her. Maybe even less time than you think, I reminded myself. “What’s the book under your arm?”
“My favorite book.” She smiled. “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.”
“Let’s shoot for several hours, and then we can go somewhere before the interview at my apartment and maybe you can read some of it to me?”
“I told you that I have a boyfriend.”
“I’m not asking you to be my whore. You have a beautiful accent and I’d like to hear you read. Reading isn’t cheating.”
“Reading Kundera to a stranger isn’t far from cheating.”
“You don’t have to read anything to me. You can think it over while we shoot your city.”
“You’re just going to use me to get over someone else.” Ana María smiled.
“Not really,” I disagreed. “I’m just trying to use you.”
“That’s sad, but I like that a little better.”
We spent the rest of the morning and afternoon filming all over Havana. After filming some famous graves around the cemetery, we captured kids enjoying rides inside Jalisco Park, communism’s clumsy answer to Disneyland. Nearby, Ana María leaned over our old Ford Thunderbird’s window to shoot a long line of teenage students eagerly waiting to be let into the Charlie Chaplin Cinema to watch a matinee of City Lights. I watched her lie back on the ground and film some Orson Welles angles of little boys picking off beer cans inside a corner shooting gallery. She filmed gasoline rainbows swirling over the puddles that glazed the gutters of Centro Habana. She caught a stickball homerun smashing a window from an intersection in Centro Habana while bootleg DVDs of Annie Hall and Manhattan were peddled behind an outfielder punching his ratty glove. Down the street from the Karl Marx Theater, some lunatic was high above us on his balcony, screaming obscenities about Fidel while collecting laundry from a line. “If the revolution had worked out, I ask you why are none of Fidel or Raúl’s children in politics? How many of them have left? Answer me that!” Three teenagers laughed from a balcony across the street, passing around a joint they smoked in the peculiar Cuban style, through a nostril.
We went back to my old gym in Old Havana and filmed children following instructions from Héctor, who remembered nothing from his drunken visit to my apartment. Ana María wandered with her camera around seniors assuming poses with yoga classes in the park, construction workers wiping the icy froth from their mouths at guarapo stands, fathers and sons window shopping at the Adidas store, tourists and whores leaving or entering hotels, Che look-alikes. Outside the Capitolio we filmed a man with a hundred piercings in his face sticking his tongue out at us while he posed with tourists being photographed by the portrait artists with their century-old cameras.
We got in the back of a Chinese taxi and peddled around the most desolate slums of Old Havana until we arrived ten minutes later in the most beautifully restored area of Plaza Vieja and her pristine fountains. Ana María filmed kids lounging in the courtyard of the university surrounded by palm trees and tanks. We rode past the statue of El Caballero de París, maybe the world’s most beloved homeless man who ever lived. Long before the revolution, when they installed the Caballero in Mazora, Havana’s mental institution, there was such a protest across Havana that he was released by presidential order. He was invited to meet the president and his cape and mysterious belongings were returned to him. After the triumph of the revolution, he told the press that Castro and the other rebels had stolen his personal sense of style with their beards and grungy fashion. El Caballero died in 1985, and almost anyone I’d ever met who lived in Havana before that time, if you mentioned his name, produced such an incredibly thrilled smile recounting their interactions with him that it was impossible not to fall in love with him yourself.
Schoolchildren marched across the Malecón in their uniforms. For the first time, I noticed some of them wore headphones. Cell phones were in the hands of teenagers rumbling by on skateboards. Many didn’t have enough money to pay for texting, let alone phone calls, but they clasped their phones everywhere they went as status symbols. Conspicuous consumption, too: the house band at El Floridita played “Guantanamera” and all the other deflated standards for tourists in Hemingway T-shirts, smoking Montecristos lit from red-uniformed bartenders waiting on blenders churning daiquiris.
Even after a little more than a decade of returning again and again to this city, it had changed completely on me, and was changing even faster now than I’d ever seen before.
“Of course it’s coming,” Gary Indiana, an American writer and filmmaker who had spent many years returning to Cuba, wrote of one visit to Havana. “Coming here, coming soon, the gathering tsunami of Our Kind of Capitalism. iPad, iPod, YouTube, Buy It, Love It, Fuck It, Dump It, Buy Another One. The people who sell all this shit say it’s what the people want, and they’re not wrong. But if the people knew what they were in for their heads would explode.”
Yoani Sánchez, Havana’s world-famous blogger, once described the Cuban people as birds in a cage, birds reduced to servility, living a life of limited liberties in exchange for the seed and water of the education and health care systems. “Cubans wish to fly,” she said. “Yet the cage is well made and the bars are thick. And, by the way, neither the birdseed nor the water is all that great.” The analogy had always echoed what Guillermo Rigondeaux’s experience had been of Cuba and why he left. Yet as it turns out, he’d chosen, despite an offer to smuggle his family out with him to America, to leave his family behind in the “cage” of Cuban life. During my first interview with him after his escape from Cuba in 2009, I asked him why. He explained that, unlike Cuba, if he failed to succeed in the American system he would be left to die. He was bankrupt if anyone in his family got sick. He was thrown out of his home if he couldn’t pay the rent. He would be hopelessly unable to support his children to pursue an education to give them a better life than he could have ever hoped for if boxing hadn’t been his calling. He was more afraid to subject his family to the risks of America’s system than to allow his family to live the rest of their lives without him, suffering the cost of his choice in Cuba.
“If I didn’t think the water surrounded me like a cancer,” Virgilio Piñera wrote in his poem “The Island Burdened,” “I could have slept easy … the weight of an island in the love of its people.” I’d heard so many people dismiss anything they saw sent back to them from Cuba that looked remotely positive as merely evidence of a Potemkin village. On the other side, three years in, the voters who’d put President Obama in office were suffering the effects of a hangover with what amounted to their Potemkin president.
We got dropped off at my apartment in Centro Habana and went up on my roof waiting for Cristian and his coach to arrive. Ana María lit a cigarette and took in the views across her city—the Malecón, the dome of the Capitolio, the decaying rooftops and azoteas—then she turned inward with her chin resting against her palm.
“Can I make you some coffee?”
“Do you have any rum to go with it?”
“I’ll bring the bottle,” I said.
“Will you drink with me?”
“I don’t drink.”
“You are a very strange person.”
While I made coffee over the stove and pulled the Havana Club from the icebox, I was sizing up the situation with this kid and the coach who loved him. Turning over all my preconceptions and what I’d learned about these Cuban boxers I’d met, I felt more uncertain than ever about what to really ask someone like Cristian, with so much of his life in front of him. Could his answers ever have a hope of revealing more about him than my questions revealed about me? I wasn’t sure if I was doing him any favors letting him know that people internationally were already keen to bankroll his escape and start the same money drip they’d offered many of the fighters who’d left. Maybe the only reason he’d agreed to come to my apartment was to hear the offer. Did Guillermo Rigondeaux’s fate in America, never seeing his family again, look more appealing than Héctor Vinent’s complete inability to support his own family after staying? And between them, who had the moral high ground? Or was life so hard for Cristian already that it didn’t really matter anyway?
I came back outside with the coffee and rum and found Ana María crumpled up on the corner of the roof, with her back to Miami, holding her favorite book.
“Yuma,” Ana María said. “Would you still like me to read to you from Kundera?”
“Very much.”
“Today wasn’t what I expected,” she said. “At first I thought it would be a feo day with you, but now all I have is this strangeness.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re so obsessed with us as a people being torn between two horrible choices, but I have no desire to leave. And I don’t know why we look so exotic to people like you in the first place.”
“You’ve never wanted to know what the rest of the world was like?”
“Everything about you tells me what the rest of the world is like.” She laughed. “Do you think that someone who sleeps with a thousand women understands more about a woman’s nature than a man who only stays with one?”
“Depends on the guy, doesn’t it? Both could be cowardly choices.”
“Yes, they could.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to see other places?”
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“You are free to travel anywhere else and yet you keep coming back here. You think it’s tragic I’ve never been on a plane in my life? You think I’m sad because I’ve never left this island?”
“I’ve met a lot of people who consider this island a prison.”
“Maybe it is for them. But wouldn’t Miami be another kind of prison for them, too? From all the people who visit here from cities all around the world, all I learn is how much these other cities wish to be like one another. People do the same things. They have the same struggles. They have the same fears. I see how afraid these people and their cities are to be anything different, let alone unique. Isn’t that why all these boxers who turn down all their money are so threatening to their values? Don’t they seem scared to question any of their own values for even a second? These cities and their people aren’t even stereotypes, they aspire to be stereotypes. El Norte has never wanted anything from us beyond reopening the casinos, fucking our women, having our men serve them mojitos with a smile, turning us back into their tropical resort. They tell us how fascinating Havana is with time standing still, but all I see is how everywhere else people rush to the point without spending any time wondering what the point is in the first place.”
“You don’t want anything to change?” I asked.
“Havana couldn’t be anywhere else if it tried!” She took a swig from the bottle. “I could have been born in any city in the world and made life bearable. This is the only city in the world where my heart is always in flower. Every day of my life something makes me laugh until I cry, whether from something sad or something beautiful. No one I’ve ever met or anything they’ve shown me inside their silly gadgets has ever convinced me I’d be in bloom anywhere else.”
“How do you think this boy coming over will view his future?”
“Like any other sixteen-year-old. He dreams of his chance to be in America like Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road headed for Oz.”
Right then Cristian and his coach, Yosvanni, stepped out into the glare of the sun on my roof, both panting from the climb up the stairs. Cristian was wearing a Yankees cap that shielded his eyes, a buttoned-up jean jacket with the collar flared, and jeans. Yosvanni was wearing a Cuban national team sweater and red track pants. Both had a gym bag slung over their shoulders.
In Sons of Cuba, Cristian had been shown as a sensitive boy devoted to his parents and his country. Now he had grown, just before the brink of manhood. He had an air of independence and detachment to his gaze that was absent from him during his years participating in the film. Yosvanni remained ever watchful of his star pupil, but had the easeful confidence and grace of someone who’d managed to walk between the raindrops of Cuban society.
Cristian came over and tapped my shoulder. “After you film us for a little while up here,” he said, smiling, his voice a couple octaves lower than I’d last heard it, “maybe you’d like to spar with me? I’ve sparred with heavyweights before. I’ll go easy.”
I looked over at Yosvanni removing some mitts from his gym bag. Without looking at us he was beaming approval.
“After we film this and the interview.” Cristian tapped my shoulder again. “See how you feel.”
Ana María tossed back another sip from the bottle of Havana Club and shook her head.
“How big is your apartment in New York?” Cristian asked me.
“The size of a closet.”
“I would like to fight in Madison Square Garden one day. Cuba is changing.”
Cristian changed into his gym clothes and his coach wrapped his hands, encircling his wrists and threading between his knuckles. As he stretched out his arms and legs and looked out over the rooftops toward the Capitolio, I saw bits of Stevenson, Savón, Vinent, and Rigondeaux in his pride and casual elegance. They’d all been in his place once. Cristian turned around and located his shadow and began throwing combinations in the air.
When several of Cuba’s finest boxers had left the island, Yosvanni had asked Cristian and all his pupils the question he had been forced by the government to ask: “Would any of you betray your coaches and comrades?”
“NO!” the children cried in unison.
“So you’re not traitors?” Yosvanni asked with emotion in his voice. “You’re not going to betray the fatherland or your team?”
All the children before him shook their heads vehemently.
Now Yosvanni approached me as we watched his star.
“How are things going for Cristian?” I asked him.
“He’s extraordinarily special. But politics are getting the better of him.”
“Why?”
“Because of the film there are many jealousies. There are many jealousies with teammates and with coaches. They assume that we were paid for our participation in that film.”
“Were you paid?”
“No,” Yosvanni stated flatly. “But the perception remains. And he’s being punished for it. He’s not where he should be in terms of his talent and ability. His performance is flawless, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be given the opportunities he deserves here. I see this with so many of the great boxers—the safest place on earth for them is inside the ring. I love this boy as much as my own children.”
Ana María filmed Cristian skipping rope and working relentlessly with his coach, round after round, for thirty minutes under the sun, hardly breaking a sweat. I sat on the edge of the roof and watched them together, imagining where both would be a few years on. I went back inside the apartment and brought everyone a pitcher of ice water and we retreated to my living room, where I set up a couple chairs for Yosvanni and Cristian in preparation for the interview.
“Cristian is the first boxer I’ve spoken to who has his career in front of him.” I sighed. “If Cristian has any questions for me about where Rigondeaux’s career and life have gone in Miami, I’ll tell you whatever I can about what I’ve learned. I think it’s important. People internationally are already looking at you. The people who were interested in Guillermo are interested in you and I’m worried about you for that reason. If your life changes and things get more difficult, this is a very tempting reality.”
Cristian said nothing, only glared vaguely in my direction.
“When I saw you in the film, one of things that stuck out for me and many other people was the way you responded to the boxers who left—”
This brought Cristian to life. “Everyone is entitled to their opinions and to do with their life as they please. It was their careers and their own choices.”
“You didn’t feel that way as a boy in the film,” I said.
“I was a kid back then.”
“So why the change?”
Cristian smiled and brought his elbow up onto the armrest of the chair and rested his chin on the palm of his hand. He gazed up at the ceiling fan.
“I can speak to you about that,” Yosvanni interjected. “It’s not the same for a boxer or anyone else to receive for an interview a bit of money to resolve a problem you have at home. But at the same time, staying with your family—that is very different from receiving money and immigrating to another country where you are going to be away from your family. Your friends and the people are not going to love you the same way. Because after your glory days in that place are over, you won’t be looked up to as Teófilo Stevenson or Félix Savón are here. There is no higher gift than kids wanting to become what you are.”
Cristian turned to his coach and they looked at one another in silence. Suddenly Yosvanni reached over and put his arm around Cristian: “Here is the next Teófilo Stevenson or Savón.”
And in my mind I went thousands of miles away to Rigondeaux defending his decision to turn down becoming the next Stevenson or Savón. “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.” Rigondeaux, too, had shrugged, flashing his gold grill. “I don’t think for them, they shouldn’t think for me. Those guys are history. Their time is long gone. Those guys had a chance, they didn’t take it, and they got screwed.” He laughed. “Those opportunities don’t repeat themselves. They laid that opportunity on the table and I took advantage of it and now I’m here in Miami. If not, I would still be there in Cuba, just like they are, struggling. I would be in Cuba living off of photos and memories. Telling people what I did, that’s all you are left with.”
Héctor Vinent had made an almost identical confession about what his life was left with, leaving the temptation of America behind.
Cristian cleared his throat and brushed some dirt off his knee. “In every decision I’ve ever made my mom has been very supportive. And our ambition is for me to be greater than both Stevenson and Savón.”
“Greater?” I asked.
“Yes.” Cristian laughed. “Things could change and professional boxing could return to Cuba.”
“Fidel has banned professional sports for the last forty-nine years on the island. If professional boxing doesn’t happen on the island, how does that make you feel?”
Yosvanni turned and stared intently at his pupil just as Cristian shrugged his and maybe all of his generation’s answer to what came next.