Before Night Falls Page #4

especially about|other prisoners.

Soon they knew,|maybe from the guards,

or the warden himself,|or a killer named Torre,

that I was a writer.

Say, you think you could|write a letter for me?

What?

Not for nothing,

I give you two cigarettes.

Carlota-

tell her that I miss|her so much.

Your words or mine?

I'm sorry.

My fame as "The Writer"|spread all over the prison.

Mara...

From the 17 cells of El Morro,

and for those who couldn't|see me directly,

petitions came in the form|of hundreds of balls of soap,

tied to long strings,

that the prisoners|could pass on to my cell.

It was called "The Mail. "

I never wrote so much.

I accumulated a small|fortune of cigarettes

that provided me with|enough paper and pencils

for my own novel,

which I wrote in the middle,

of all the screaming|and crying.

Cubans are defined by noise,|it's their nature.

They need to bother others.

They can neither enjoy,|nor suffer in silence.

Even the sun was rationed,

but once a month|the gay inmates

turned El Morro|into a nightclub.

Leonardo da Vinci|was homosexual,

so was Michelangelo,|Socrates, Shakespeare,

and almost every other|figure that has formed

what we have come|to understand as beauty.

Bon Bon, the hearthrob|of El Morro,

was no different.

She was so glamorous,|that when she walked by,

she made everybody feel|like they were in the movies.

Bon Bon was also famous|for another quality.

He was one|of those transporters,

who by the grace|of countless activity,

could carry unfathomable|quantities in the deepness

of his rectum, even if given|a thorough ass check.

Excuse me,

I heard that you can get|things in and out of here.

Could you carry|a package for me?

Of course,|he denied it.

I don't know what|you're talking about.

But every ass|has his price.

It took me a thousand|cigarettes and Bon Bon

five trips to smuggle my novel|to the other side of El Morro.

Por favor!

- Por favor, no me metan ah!|- Camina!

Por favor!|Por qu?

Si no le he hecho|nada a nadie, hombre!

Por favor!

Abran la puerta!

Abran la puerta, por Dios!|No me entren aqu!

Abran la puerta!

Por qu me hacen esto?

Est bien...|est bien.

Por Dios!

Abran la puerta, por Dios!

Abran la puerta!

Espera, por Dios, espera!

I felt an indescribable|sadness to see my mother

with that white shirt,|demanding that I come home

and telling me that|I had no other choice.

I gathered all|the strength I had.

After two years|of prison,

you think my only choice|is to go home with you?!

I turned my back on my mother|and ran away.

I will always remember|her standing there like that.

I wanted to go back|and hug her.

But instead,

I ran towards these gigantic|black men playing volleyball.

...tambin me despertar.

A m me despertar|de este sueo,

que tambin es pesadilla,

que tambin es pesadilla...

Vamos, afuera!

The truth is that there|is no possibility

of rehabilitating a f*ggot.

How many times have|we confiscated this...

counterrevolutionary poop?

Don't you realize...

that this can cost|you your life?

We can make|you disappear,

or you could|be free tomorrow.

It's up to you.

But, if you keep|writing this,

you're not going|to get very far.

I'm going to give you five|minutes to make up your mind.

It might take a queer|more than five minutes

to make up his mind|while watching this handsome

lieutenant stroke his|magnificent organ.

What do you say?

Can I have some|paper and a pen?

All the work I've done|until now is garbage.

I quickly accused myself|of being a villain,

a traitor, a depraved|counter revolutionary,

and while fixating on his|generous projectile,

I thanked the government|for the largeness,

and about the grandness|of Lt. Victor.

I deny my homosexual condition.

And I am converted into a man|illuminated by this Revolution.

Good.

Very good.

This is how a man behaves.

I almost fainted when I felt|his member near my face.

Your five minutes is up.

You got a lot|of publicity,

but friends,

where are they now?

Pepe Malas is your friend?

He's someone you can trust?

Why isn't he here with you?

You recognize this|book, Reinaldo?

That book was the only|proof to me that I was alive.

No.|I've never seen it.

This book was|published in France

without permission|of the Writer's Union.

Therefore, you must have had|someone to smuggle it out.

You didn't go|to France did you?

Maybe I should be|discussing this book

with the Writer's Union|and not here in State Security.

Abre la boca.

La boca...

La boca!

As...

As, Reinaldo...

I will close my eyes now|and you will be gone.

You're gone.

The revolution will find|a way to use your talent.

We could fit you in somewhere,

some speeches, a letter|to your friends, publisher,

telling them how well|you're being treated

and that's a good beginning.

You thought it was me|who turned you in.

I thought it was...

Pepe.

Can you really|blame him?

Yes, I can.

And, I will blame him|for the rest of my life.

Look at this.

This book...

won best foreign|novel in France...

and I don't even have|a place to live.

What am I going to do?

What are you|going to do?

You're in luck.

I'm in luck?

Remember Blanca Romero,|the painter?

She lives in the Hotel Clarita,

next to the convent|of Santa Clara.

Hey, Blanca wanted|a window.

We thought it went|to the street.

We're selling this stuff|on the black market.

So, this is the surprise.

Something else...

making a fortune.

We got a hold|of these parachutes

and we're going|to sail them to Miami.

You're kidding, right?

No, I'm not kidding.

This is my friend, Armando

He's an expert with|the blowtorch.

He can fix anything,

even steal electricity|from the street.

He's an engineer.

I knew him in jail.

We figure that the balloon|will take three passengers.

So, we are going to draw|lots to see who goes.

I'm definitely going.

Blanca's definitely going.

T no vas a estar|haciendo dieta ahora.

The rest of us|will draw lots.

We need some help,|there's only six of us.

I can help.

- Who's the guy?|- Reinaldo.

Someone is here.

Someone is here.

She's such a b*tch.

She hates me just|like my mother.

Why do you think|your mother hates you?

She put me in an asylum|so she didn't have to feed me.

What?

She put me in Mazorra so she|wouldn't have to feed me.

Her own son.

She's just like her.

You can sleep here|anytime you want.

Just friends, okay,|just friends.

A pillow, you have|a blanket...

and I don't have anything|to offer you...

but a book...

that you asked me for|a long time ago,

you remember that?

It's your-|It's your book?

Yes, it's my book,|now it's yours.

Thanks.

Why do you write?

Revenge.

Could you teach me|how to write?

I don't know, Lzaro.|I don't know.

I want to die|at the end of the day,

in the high seas,

with my face|towards the sky

when it seems like|agony is just a dream

and the soul, a bird|ascending in flight.

Who is that?

Manuel Guitrrez Njera.|Mexicano.

I mean, you're a writer|even if you don't write.

You know what I mean?

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