I want to think that death surprised him while he was reading, with his eyes shining when he found some clue, some lost piece in the puzzle of our culture
14ymedio, Yunior García Aguilera, Madrid, 8 July 2024 — In one of the presentations of the play Jacuzzi [written by the author of this article] in Madrid, someone from the group came running to the dressing room with the news that Carlos Espinosa Domínguez was in the audience. If there had been a nerveometer to measure the ensuing panic, it would have broken instantly. But not because of the fear that fierce critics provoked; we already knew that Carlos was very elegant when it came to giving a professional opinion, even if it was negative. What triggered our anxiety was the privilege of acting before one of the most authoritative voices of Cuban theater, whose name was synonymous with rigor, wisdom and excellence.
At the end of the show, the actors approached me: “Did you see him? Did he tell you anything about the play?” Nothing, I answered them. And we all felt low, and neither the audience’s applause nor the congratulations could raise our spirits. Nobody confessed it that night, but each of us went home with the terrible feeling that he didn’t like the play.
However, the next day, I received a call. On the other side of the phone, a soft and slow voice said good morning to me. It was Carlos. He had gotten my number through a mutual friend and wanted us to know that he had been deeply excited about Jacuzzi. He apologized for leaving the theater in such a hurry, but he had to return to Aranjuez, almost 50 kilometers from Madrid. After that he didn’t write just one, he wrote two articles for Cubaencuentro about the show. The second carried a title where it positioned itself without hesitation: The dream of a free and inclusive Cuba*.
Since that day we haven’t stopped talking. He wanted to know everything. He wondered with a child’s curiosity about details that I hadn’t even noticed myself
Since that day we haven’t stopped talking. He wanted to know everything. He wondered with a child’s curiosity about details that I hadn’t even noticed myself. I went to see his apartment in Aranjuez, a retreat where he avoided any distraction that would take him away from what was important: to investigate, rummage through the bowels of Cuban culture until he found what they call soul. I was surprised how up-to-date he was, especially about what was happening in Cuba. We conspired. We confessed terrible experiences suffered on that Island, but we did it more with hope than remorse. He himself proposed to me the publication of a volume of five of my works for the Verbum Publishing House. And that was his penultimate job.
This Saturday, when I left the flamenco show where I earn my bread, Maestro Carlos Celdrán called me to give me the news of his death. Another friend of his, the journalist Carlos Cabrera, also called to share his pain. I couldn’t believe it. I called him immediately and his cell phone was busy. It seemed like one of those hoaxes, Chomsky-style, but on the networks there were publications from serious colleagues who also talked about his death. The rest of the times I insisted on calling, a long ringing with no answer confirmed the worst.
I learned later, from an article by Carlos Cabrera, that a neighbor of his warned the firefighters, surprised because Espinosa did not respond to his calls. He lived alone, with that loneliness of the alchemist whose research has become a sacrament. I know that his last work, Así Siempre los Tiranos [Thus Always Tyrants], had become an obsession that required him to stretch every minute. And anyone who knows the size of his work, knows that Carlos was like those men of other centuries who make you wonder how the hell they could write so much. That’s why I don’t want to think about the sadness of his solitude but about the freedom that the word also implies.
I want to think that death surprised him while reading, with his eyes shining when he found some clue, some lost piece in the puzzle of our culture or our history, if they are different things. I want to remember him with his shy smile, despite the daring of his writing. I want to stay with his absence of anger, which did not imply any absence of character. Carlos Espinosa was, like few others, a man with judgment, but his opinions about the political situation in Cuba went beyond the immediate. They were much more comprehensive and profound.
I am not at all surprised by the silence of some institutions in Cuba to which he contributed a lot, nor the silence of some of his colleagues. There remains his work, tremendously immense.
I didn’t want to refer to Espinosa’s biography in this article. Other voices, more authoritative than mine, have already written excellent obituaries. Also on the networks, several artists and intellectuals have expressed deep sorrow at his loss. I am not at all surprised by the silence of some institutions in Cuba to which he contributed a lot, nor the silence of some of his colleagues. There remains his work, tremendously immense, which speaks more than anything else.
My main reason for this article is to be able to say goodbye, as if he could read it. In his last message he scolded me big time for taking so long to answer his calls. I didn’t have time to talk to him about my telephone phobia. I couldn’t thank him enough for his effort to bring out a book that we couldn’t present together. I didn’t get to tell him in the most sincere way how much I owed him, how much we owed him. Carlos knew how to look at Cuba as you look at the things you love. And his look – time will be in charge of confirming it – has been an essential look.
Translator’s note: The review closes with this: On his Facebook account, Carlos Celdrán, National Theatre Award winner, wrote: “Since I saw it, some time ago, in Havana, I assumed that Jacuzzi , by Yunior García, was a tremendous, sincere, unusual, highly accomplished work. Last night, and this time in Madrid, Jacuzzi has shaken me again. Not only me, but the entire audience that filled the room and gave a standing ovation, moved at the end of this performance that, I can assure you, has been a high point, very high, in Yunior’s theatre. The show crossed time, distances, the accumulated pain of these last years to arrive purified, whole and leave us with what only the theatre with its stripping down can achieve.”
Translated by Regina Anavy
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