Waiting

The bus stopped at the road from Guantanamo to Santiago de Cuba. A malfunction had to be fixed and it was going to take a while. I got bored of being sat and thought of getting off. I had seen a man sitting on the edge of the road. I took a picture on him and I was watching it now. I decided to get off. It was almost midmorning. The scenery was beautiful, although traces of Hurricane Sandy could still be noticed: there were palms and other trees with their top off and houses without roofs.

But the landscape was still beautiful. I walked around the bus, stretched my legs. Finally I approached the seated man. He was talking to someone near him, an old man, who according to the depth of his wrinkles should be about ninety years.

–          What are you doing? The old man asked.

–          – Waiting’ the seated man replied.
– Who are you waiting for? The old man asked again.
– ‘No one, I’m not expecting anyone. I just sat here to wait.

The bus driver told that everything was arranged, that we were going to continue traveling. I got on the bus, but the strange conversation troubled me. If he was not expecting anyone, what was he expecting ?

That seemed to me a dialogue between two characters of Carson McCullers in a southern novel of few peripeteia and high psychological density. Perhaps I was exaggerating; maybe the man was just tired. Or maybe he was expecting for a certain time, or for the truck that took him to work, o r whatever. It was most likely that that piece of conversation not to have major impact. The bus started and the man remained sat on the edge. The old man shuffled away. I was somewhat depressed: in the eyes of that man I saw the same despair I once saw in the ones of my neighbor Lazaro.

Lazaro was the father of Diosdada, our neighbor on the first floor. I do not how old he was, I just know that he was very old. When I met him, he walked with a bad limp and was full of infirmities and bad temper. He always treated me well. “You are well educated, he told me, I’m tired of mouthy brat kids “.

Some evenings, when I came from school, he was rocking on his balcony. I always liked listening to old stories, so I usually stayed for a while with him. He was obsessed with the past: “In the corner where now the winery is, there was a department store. They sold everything you wanted and all was good and cheap.

It is not like today , that the items in the stores are all useless… Ancient shoes and clothes lasted forever! Do you see these moccasins? They are from 1957 … and I still wear them! “Sometimes I dared to contradict him:” But my grandfather says there were many things in the stores, but he almost ever had money to buy them. “”That would be your grandfather! I did have my money “-he got bothered and the conversation ended there. That happened regularly.

But one evening I found him sitting on a park bench. He was staring into space. I asked him something, and he took time to answer me: “I am sitting here helplessly. I’ve noticed that I have no illusions, no desire to argue with anyone. ” I got worried a bit: “Does something hurt you?”. He looked at me and smiled : “My soul aches”. “Do you want me to accompany you to your apartment?” ” No, I’m going to stay here… waiting.”

A few days after Lazaro died in his room, in his bed, quietly. He died of old age, my mom said. But my father was blunter: he died of boredom. I’d wish the road man to get up and start walking. I’m sure he did it, he was not an old man. My grandfather used to say: The only thing you wait for is death; you have to look for all the rest.