By Lavinia Spalding
I buy José Luis a beer, and only then does he tell me today is his 66th birthday. I wonder over his life that has made him look fifteen years older than his age (especially when Cubans are known for looking younger than their years), his life that has made him so grateful for the cigar a friend bought him for his birthday and for the cans of Cristal we share with him. For an hour, maybe two, he sits with us. Somehow we speak only Spanish (astonished by how useful “See It and Say It in Spanish” has become) and when Erin mentions she wants to learn to play the güiro, José Luis disappears and returns holding a second one to teach her. After Erin masters the instrument, he asks me where we’re heading tomorrow.
Cienfuegos, I say, on our way to Havana. José Luis immediately takes my hand and begins crooning to me, a song by Beny Moré. “Cienfuegos es la ciudad que más me gusta a mí,” he sings slowly, carefully enunciating every word. Canto, canta, cantamos, I remember. I learn and sing and clap while the band keeps playing and José Luis keeps pulling us to the dance floor. He is vibrant, joyful, smart and funny, wrinkled around the eyes and missing a tooth or two. He looks older than 66, but he’s undeniably younger than his years—and at last, at last, so are we.
