Pedro Juan Gutiérrez’s Malecón (in Dirty Havana Trilogy) is a place of sin! It takes its inspiration from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities
Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perceptions deceitful, and everything conceals something else.
Gutiérrez writes almost exclusively of the Malecón at night time. No, of the early hours when “everyone here was sinning, sinning frenetically”. So, there are hustlers, prostitutes, dope dealers, drunks, solitary men masturbating in full view of passers by. In the daytime it is tourists “snapping photos of crumbling buildings”. Gutiérrez remarks “Tourists love the sight of decay. From a distance it makes a wonderful picture”.
My own memory of the Malecón is framed in the hour before dusk. The wall looks out to sea. People are ambling in a lazy, unhurried stroll. There are the most beautiful women dressed elegantly, provocatively, and some with the most audacious gaze and others indifferent and arrogant. The best of Castile and Yoruba marinaded in marjoram, oiled and then bronzed. Left to mature golden in the dying sun. The Malecón was the aperitif before an evening at the Tropicana.
At another time and place, sitting out on a balcony, the sea bluish green and the horizon hazy, blurred and a few birds chirping and the waves rolling on to the beach, making a gentle lapping noise. There were some local boys shouting, shrieking every so often. A dove also cooing, like a soloist, to the machine thrum of an unseen pump or perhaps an air conditioner working hard in the heat. I recalled other marinas, corniches, Barcelona on a Sunday along the coast walk, and then this particular gulf road.
The day before, a sand storm laid siege to the skies all day, filling my nostrils with a distinctive smell that was impossible to describe. In the early evening I went for a run. There were stray cats everywhere and another occasional runner, sweating and heaving in the furnace atmosphere. It was surprising to see so many women veiled and covered in the black shroud of modesty. How unbearably hot, how feverish must their blood have been in this oven, boiling even.
Some daring young women, daring to run in cropped tops and jogging trousers went past me. A young woman with headscarf sat apart on a low wall, a dwarf Malecón, talking on her phone. But always, the men were in clutches, rodents packed closely and huddling tightly for safety. But here, what were these men in fear of? No apparent danger openly lurked in the plain daylight of walking the streets. It must be an inner danger, a fear of the spleen festering unseen within the torso, perhaps a diseased viscera that itches and strains against the belt like a cough that starts in the pit of the belly pushing at the diaphragm and strangling the breath.
Yet, if you looked closely enough the contradictions of life stared back at you. At the hotel pool, women in the most revealing of swimwear, pursued the postcard symbol of luxury, lie with eyes closed on deck lounge chairs, dozing or strutting gazelle-like to the bar. Cigarettes held with poise, smoke rings, perfectly made faces, gaiety and theatrical flounces. These poses and ornamented posturings could be anywhere where the jet set laboured for fashion in the sun.
It was impossible to decipher what motivated the inner, feminine, life. Wealth or shall I say the external accoutrements of wealth, Rolex watches, diamond encrusted head scarves, shaped eyebrows, six inch heels, weighed down the shoulders and forced the face, the mien into an unmoving facade, that was a painted over hoarding, covering a derelict site. What the blood coursing through the arteries was saying was muted. Whether sorrow was the concentrated mascara shaping the eyes or hatred the lips so elegantly glossy bloodred but unsmiling, who could tell?
Gluttony must be the outward semblance of an inner void. And, the fat, the bellyful of sweets, the bodies that had ceased to speak to sensuality before its time, what cry did they hide? In the middle of the night when the moonlight glinted on the marble floor and the scarf of chiffon blind blew like a flag on a post, the breath or snore of the man, how deeply buried was the contempt for his insecurity, his hope and bidding, the mesh and cage wall of his fear?
This piling of food into the stomach, how did that still the rising disgust in the innards? I looked everywhere for the vomit, for the foul discharges, for the boil that had erupted in the skin, the sore patches, the eczematous self-abnegation of the corrupted, repressed soul. What I saw were little women shrouded in the blackest mourning cloths, bent over and ready for the grave. No words spoken, no silence even, a twilight existence that evaded, dodging sight, slid away from sound into silence, mummified itself, curled into rounded shoulders, hunched backs, faces averted, into nothingness.
Gutiérrez is all swagger. His women were sensual and alive, free in their extreme poverty. Here, to run along the gulf was an heroic act, rendering visible for a fraction of time what was otherwise nothing.
Photos by Jan Oyebode
That human life must be some kind of mistake is sufficiently proved by the simple observation that man is a compound of needs which are hard to satisfy; that their satisfaction achieves nothing but a painless condition in which he is only given over to boredom; and that boredom is a direct proof that existence is itself valueless, for boredom is nothing other than the sensation of the emptiness of existence (Schopenhauer 1788-1860).
This is Schopenhauer’s bleak assessment of life. Yet, this pessimistic summation of life can be how melancholia colors and interprets it: something pointless and meaningless and hence not worth living.
Stevie Smith was born in Hull in 1902. When she was 3 her father left, abandoning the family. When she was 5 years old she contracted TB and spent time at a TB sanatorium. She said that her preoccupation with death started at age 7 and that she thought that if she kept crying and refusing to eat she would die and her misery would end. In 1953 she cut her wrists and spent time in hospital. Her poems are often characterised by this ambiguity about life. In ‘The hostage’, the protagonists tells us “I’ve always wanted to [die]”
…I should like you to hear my confession, Father, I’m not of your persuasion
I’m a member of the Church of England, but on this occasion
I should like to talk to you, if you’ll allow, nothing more,
Just a talk, not really a confession, but my heart is sore.
No, it’s not that I have to die, that’s the trouble, I’ve always wanted to
But it seems despondent you know, ungracious too,
Even as a child, said the lady, I recall in my pram
Wishing it was over and done with…
And in ‘The Deserter’, the speaker has sought refuge from life, in hospital.
The world is come upon me, I used to keep it a long way off,
But now I have been run over and I am in the hands of the hospital staff.
They say as a matter of fact I have not been run over it’s imagination,
But they all admit I shall be kept in bed under observation.
I must say it’s very comfortable here, nursie has such nice hands,
And every morning the doctor comes and lances my tuberculous glands.
He says he does nothing of the sort, but I have my own feelings about that,
And what they are if you don’t mind I shall keep under my hat…
Finally in Stevie Smith’s best known poem ‘Not waving but drowning’, we meet a man who was remote from life, all his life. But his malady was not recognised.
Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
19th century Russian literature is full of boredom, of a sense of pointless existence, even of despair. Chekhov’s ‘Story of a Nobody’ is set in this emotional context. The “Nobody” of the story asks
But here is the question, I continued. ‘Why are we exhausted? Why do we, at first passionate, bold, noble, full of belief, why do we become, by the age of thirty or thirty-five, completely bankrupt? Why does one fade away with consumption, a second put a bullet through his forehead, a third seek oblivion in vodka and cards, a fourth, to deaden his fear and anguish, cynically trample underfoot the portrait of his pure, fine youth? Why do we, once fallen, no longer attempt to rise, and when we lose one thing, why do we not seek another? Why?
Chekhov’s characters derive their pessimism not from an inner melancholia but usually from their social positions and roles. The inertia is driven by an absence of the need to strive for anything. This is how undue wealth corrupts, sapping motivation and drive, making morally bankrupt those who have excessive material wealth!
My title is Prayer & Melancholia. Ivor Gurney (1890-1937), whose poems speak to this matter directly, was born in Gloucester in 1890. He began composing music at age 14 years and won a scholarship to Royal College of Music in 1911. He was a contemporary of Vaughn Williams. He served in WW1 & was wounded and gassed. He suffered bipolar mood disorder from early adulthood and was declared insane in 1922. He spent the rest of his life at the City of London Mental Hospital Dartford where he died from TB in 1937. In ‘An Appeal for Death’ he says the unthinkable, he prays for death.
An Appeal for Death
There is one who all day wishes to die,
And appeals for it – without a reason why –
Since Death is easy if men are merciful.
Water and land with chances are packed full.
Who all day wishes to die. How many ages
Have denied Death so – who reads old-written pages
And finds “This man suffered and prayed for Death,
And went beyond this, Desire of Life beneath”.
Bitterly, bitterly, and though he feels his wrongs,
And once took pride in verse-making and in songs,
Yet now, yet now would wish to rest, and be
Out of Pain, out of Life, quietly, as quietly
As pained men ever were meant to rest…
If you are wondering what the point is of reading about melancholia, then Karl Kraus (1874-1936) explains all
I do not envy the security of the man who feels safe from all surprises in his room at night. Even if you know that pictures do not leave their frames, you can still believe it can happen…
Photos by Jan Oyebode