Power Outage

I wrote this Short Story after my visits in Cuba. I travelled 3 times to Cuba, and stayed with friends. One day we had an black out for hours. Everything was standing still, and this with 30 degress and 90% humidity. So this story is dedicated to the people of Cuba and her daily struggle to survive. In any way.

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When had it been?

She had forgotten.

It didn't matter anymore.

Thoughtfully, she took another drag on her cheap cigarette.

No power for hours. Silence. 

Not even the quiet whirring of the fan.

Always the same. Every week. Power outages again and again. For hours.

Everything was outdated. Nothing worked anymore, neither in Havana nor

anywhere else in this country.

Another deep drag on the cigarette.

Annoyed and bored, she stubbed out the cigarette.

The fan was still silent.

She looked at her fingernails. What else could she do?

The nail polish was old and chipped. Like everything else here.

There were still traces of red on her nails. A tourist had given her the nail polish. A beautiful, 

rich red. Socialist red. She had used it sparingly, only a few times.

Yes, poverty and thriftiness. And bitterness.

It just made her sick. Problems every day.

Somehow she could understand him.

One night he was gone. She hadn't noticed anything.

As always, she was exhausted and tired from work, problems, and her life. 

Her nights were dreamless. Heavy and restless.

Nothing. No letter. Just nothing.

What had become of him? Had he crossed the sea? Was he still alive? How? Where? 

They had nothing. Except meaningless, worthless work in a Cuban tobacco factory.

Worthless Cuban pesos that couldn't buy anything. They were still there, in their absence.

The MAXIMO LEADER.

SÍ, VICTORIA SIEMPRE!

Che was watching day in and out, old and yellowed, over the workers as a warning:

VENCERMOS CAMA PATRIA O MUERTE!

He hadn't taken anything with him. No bag. Nothing. He only wore his colorful

glass bead necklaces from his African spirits. For protection? Has it helped?

She lit another cigarette. The pack was almost empty.

Lost in thought, she reached for her handbag and poked around until she found her wallet. Just

 a few Cuban pesos. Worthless old paper from the past. Just enough for cheap cigarettes and 

cheap rum. The rum in the plastic packaging was the cheapest. No Havana. You could only 

Get that with hard currency. With dollars  from tourists. She didn't work with tourists. 

So, no dollars.

The fan was still standing. 

The heat was oppressively humid. 

Heat and humidity were the only free things they got.

Another last drag on the cigarette. 

She looked around the room. The walls had cracks from the last hurricane.

The paint was peeling and falling to the floor. Old, worn-out furniture from decades past.

Yes, she could understand him. All too well. 

This damn heat!

Married far too young. Like all Cubans.

She went into the bathroom and dipped a piece of old cloth into the water. 

This damn heat!

She dabbed herself lightly. Hardly any relief! God! Damn it!

No electricity since last night!

Her shift at the factory was about to start. At least there was a working fan there. And the 

daily dose of monotony, with the latest news from the socialist party newspaper Granma.

She had to remember the cigarettes and the rum. Then the money was finished.  And a quick 

prayer for help to the Holy Virgin de la Regla. Candles were too expensive. Didn't she still 

have some stubs somewhere? From her husband? 

She went into the bedroom. She hadn't been to his closet in months. Not since he 

disappeared. Why should she?

For a moment, she stared pensively at the jeans. A gift from friends. From America. 

The promised land. They have everything there. Freedom. A good job. Dollars that were 

worth something. Supermarkets with full shelves. Maybe she could sell his American jeans? 

Or trade them? She had to try. Maybe for a few dollars.

She threw his things on the bed. Nothing. 

No candle stubs. Just a quick prayer must be enough. As always. 

She had lost track of time.  

There was an energetic knock at the door.

“You're late!” her colleague called.

She quickly grabbed her denim jacket and her old handbag and closed the door behind her.

The fan quietly began its work with a slow whirling sound.

By Sugar de Santo

From: Germany

Instagram: sugar_de

X: sugar_de