2001, May, 22. Havana. 04:47 h.
Casey keeps searching.
Ivan Walsh remains by the window as Havana begins to wake.
He thinks that perhaps his whole life begins there.
Not in Rome.
Not at Columbia.
Not in Cuba.
On a street he can no longer identify, with his father telling him to look.
That would be too perfect.
That is why he distrusts it.
The phone vibrates.
A photograph.
His painting.
He sees it whole for the first time.
Bernardo is standing before a white city. Behind it there is a mountain. A railway runs along one side. In the sky, barely visible, Venus.
There is no Virgin.
He searches.
He enlarges it.
Nothing.
That reassures him until he notices the lower edge.
There is a very small figure.
A man with a camera.
It is him.
Beneath the painting there is a date.
1985.
Bernardo has not been born yet.
He is fourteen.
And someone is already watching him watch.
2001, May, 22. Havana. 04:47 h.
Casey keeps searching.
Ivan Walsh remains by the window as Havana begins to wake.
He thinks that perhaps his whole life begins there.
Not in Rome.
Not at Columbia.
Not in Cuba.
On a street he can no longer identify, with his father telling him to look.
That would be too perfect.
That is why he distrusts it.
The phone vibrates.
A photograph.
His painting.
He sees it whole for the first time.
Bernardo is standing before a white city. Behind it there is a mountain. A railway runs along one side. In the sky, barely visible, Venus.
There is no Virgin.
He searches.
He enlarges it.
Nothing.
That reassures him until he notices the lower edge.
There is a very small figure.
A man with a camera.
It is him.
Beneath the painting there is a date.
1985.
Bernardo has not been born yet.
He is fourteen.
And someone is already watching him watch.
2001, mayo, 22. La Habana. 04:47 h.
Casey sigue buscando.
Ivan Walsh permanece frente a la ventana mientras La Habana empieza a despertar.
Piensa que toda su vida quizá comienza allí.
No en Roma.
No en Columbia.
No en Cuba.
En una calle que ya no puede identificar, con su padre diciéndole que mire.
Eso sería demasiado perfecto.
Por eso desconfía.
El teléfono vibra.
Una fotografía.
Su cuadro.
Por primera vez lo ve completo.
Bernardo está de pie frente a una ciudad blanca. Detrás hay una montaña. A un lado pasa un ferrocarril. En el cielo, apenas visible, Venus.
No hay Virgen.
Busca.
Amplía.
Nada.
Eso lo tranquiliza hasta que nota el borde inferior.
Hay una figura muy pequeña.
Un hombre con una cámara.
Es él.
Debajo del cuadro hay una fecha.
1985.
Bernardo todavía no ha nacido.
Él tiene catorce años.
Y alguien ya lo está mirando mirar.