Lázaro comienza a llorar en medio de la noche : Gloss

Lázaro comienza a llorar en medio de la noche

At the turn of the twenty-first century I lived in outer boroughs; first Brooklyn and then Queens.  Subways took me to work on The Hilly Island (Manahatta; Manhattan) via tracks that crossed one strait of the River that Runs Both Ways (Muhheakunnuk; The Hudson River) before slipping down under a twentieth-century midtown. Our offices were on the 21st floor of a building across from the Sheraton New York Times Square. Below, in the hotel’s basement, a friend’s uncle from the Dominican Republic worked in the laundry room. Down and up, midtown is vertical geography.

The Working Group had the goal of attempting to carve out a small space for genuine intellectual collaboration in the face of the inevitable fallout from Track Two, carril dos. Track One—the language is the US government’s—was to assassinate Fidel Castro. Track Two, socavar el régimen via “people to people contact,” which cast as suspicious all academic connections. Vaya, cualquier relación. For three years I traversed cubicles, looked down from giant windows on tidal regimes, and flew to Cuba on local carriers that departed from gates roped-off from the rest of Miami International Airport. A week before 9/11 I left New York. A decade passed. A friend, older than me, liked to chide it’s later than you think, chilling if cheap.

I returned to New York. One afternoon I left my new apartment on the border of Muhheakunnuk’s hurricane evacuation zone. When I exited the subway the buildings and sidewalks were the same, though no longer familiar. I looked at the clinic address on my phone. As I passed through the entrance on 52nd street and my body torqued through the same security turnstiles, the uncanny return clicked. Elevator doors opened onto the 22nd floor and onto a bright waiting room with southern views of the city: the same views as I had taken in many years before, but also not. The doctor’s office was a mix of taupe healthcare technology and shopworn décor. New York is expensive things teetering atop or stuck inside decaying infrastructure. The anesthesia was pleasant—no sense of time passing—and when I awoke eggs had been withdrawn.

 


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