Carlos Acosta - No Way Home - A Cuban Dancer’s Story

She tried to soften her tone, but her voice was still harsh.

They obviously do not know El Moro de Los Pinos! I thought, but I did not say anything, I just smiled as I always did, showing off the strong white teeth I had inherited from my father. I would not be a huntsman or a cook, I would be a footballer! I would be Pelé!

The pianist started to play. I ran and leapt and danced. I do not know what I must have looked like. I am still not exactly sure how you imitate a footballer to the rhythm of classical music.

My mother continued to watch intently through the glass.

When I had finished, they told me to go up to the second floor for a musicality test. We went up fourteen steps and joined another queue. Queues, like Santería, are just a way of life in Cuba. I tried to feel optimistic as we stood there waiting our turn, but the truth is I had never felt so out of my element.

‘Next!’ said a tall woman with short grey hair, who was smoking with as much enthusiasm as my mother. I went in and sat down.

‘Repeat whatever I do, okay?’ she said.

‘Okay,’ I replied.

She started with hand-claps and I repeated them. She stared at me and wrote down her assessments in a blue notebook. She made some noises with her mouth and I repeated them. So there we sat for a while, clapping and making noises like a couple of idiots. It seemed like a big waste of time to me. I was hoping that they would fail me, that they would say to my mother that I was not musical, that I had no flexibility or that my interpretation of a footballer was not the kind of thing they were looking for. That way my father would admit defeat and I could go back happily to my old routine of break-dancing and stealing fruit from the neighbours.

The next day my mother returned home with the results of the audition. We were all on tenterhooks.

‘Come on, María, don’t keep us in suspense any longer,’ urged my father.

‘Just be patient,’ she said, and took out her glasses to read the results.

I crossed my fingers.

‘It says here that you start on the first of September.’

‘I knew it!’ crowed my old man, bringing to his words all the enthusiasm he could muster – an enthusiasm I failed to share. What a disaster!

My sisters shrieked with delight. They did not know the bitterness that I felt on hearing the news. I looked at my father and he returned my look with an indulgent smile. The die had been cast. While everyone was celebrating, I drifted away. I went up onto the roof to look for comfort amongst the pigeons I kept up there as pets. I chose one at random and caressed it to the accompaniment of my choking and stifled sobs. I stayed there and watched the landscape of Los Pinos being swallowed up into the darkness. Happiness reigned in our house, but not for me.

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