The smell of sunshine!
Icicles hung from the almost mature pink-cheeked peaches. If only the sun could have given them another week or two. The peach tree had shrivelled. In a few hours, the unshrivelled peaches would also shrivel up. There were brown leaves by Astra’s feet. They vibrated with the steady thrum of the city. At least she and the majority of the Artemian youngsters got to taste peaches the previous summer. It tastes much better than the super nutrient capsules all Artemians swallow thrice daily. As the new head of taste and smell at the super nutrient capsule laboratory, her visit to the peach tree was official. Her newest idea was to replicate the smell of peaches in the capsules they manufacture. As the youngest scientist ever in such a senior position at the lab, she had to come up with something remarkable.
She stared at the tree. Unfortunately, her idea arrived a little too late.
What did people eat ages ago if they didn’t have access to super nutrient capsules? Surely not peaches only. Nobody could have had optimal life without a balanced diet of super nutrients. Maybe she should pay Orion a visit. At twelve centuries of age, he seemed senile to most citizens, but he is still one of the wisest elders on the council. He might just remember something useful.
Astra understood the original excitement of the elders. They had planted this tree here in the middle of Artemis and willed it to grow. Apparently, Orion had found the pit they had planted. When anybody asked him about the location, he scratched his unkempt white beard and mumbled something incoherent. Where they got the soil from, only the elders would know.
Astra looked at the tall buildings surrounding her. She squinted. Not because of the sun, but because of the cold. She wiped the skin under her eyes. Artemis was not the only glass, smart
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city on their planet, but it for sure was the biggest. The wind stirred a leaf on the safety glass. Out in the open, the wind howled, but here in the middle of the city, she was safe from its fury.
A mobile flew past her. She looked at the passengers in the glass capsule. None of them looked out the window. They all stared straight ahead.
The sun flickered. She looked at the green screen on her wrist. Noon. The sun flickered yet again. Though it was summer, there was a layer of ice on her boots. She exhaled slowly. Her breath formed ragged icicles on the peach in front of her.
She had leaned closer to smell it, but it smelt like ice. Rock solid ice. Cold and unyielding.
Her green screen pinged. She tapped it to listen to the message delivered via vibrations in her ear. An electronic voice boomed: “Citizens of Artemis, the sun is dying. We have spoken with the other councils on the planet. It was unanimously decided that we need to leave the planet. To go to another planet in this galaxy isn’t wise. Another galaxy definitely is an option. Should you wish to remain in this galaxy, your only option is to travel to the past, to Earth. Each one for himself. We wish you the best!”
Astra listened to the pinging sound that marked the end of the announcement. She looked down at the holographic catsuit she was wearing. Hot or cold wouldn’t affect her. She was travel ready and like everybody else, had nothing and no one she needed to worry about. The adults whom she grew up with, had left to another galaxy when she was young. Her caregiver-robot raised her, but the robots were merely tools. Servants. Nothing more.
Astra looked at the buildings around her. Where could she go?
Orion, who had experienced more centuries than any of the other elders on the Council of Twelve, had once mentioned that mango was the fruit he liked best. He had eaten that seven centuries ago when he had lived in Cuba.
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Astra recalled the stories she had heard from Orion about Cuba. Cuba is on planet Earth. Seeing that she had to abandon her planet while a team of scientists tried to fix the sun, maybe she should visit Cuba.
She tapped her green screen to indicate the location.
“Year?” the screen asked.
She scratched her head.
Possibilities started flashing across the screen. Astra closed her eyes. Tapped on the screen.
She opened her eyes when she heard upbeat music. In front of her was a band. Some of them played on weirdly shaped things with strings. One was making funny movements and shaking two things which resembled … “Maracas,” her green screen suggested. Another one had a metal thing in front of his mouth. She didn’t understand the lyrics of the song. She tapped her green screen and suddenly the language and her surroundings made sense. It was as if she had been born in the new location:
And for the cruel one who would tear out
This heart with which I live.
I cultivate neither thistles nor nettles
I cultivate a white rose.
Guantanamera, guajira Guantanamera
Astra looked around. She was in a bar. On the table in front of her was a drink with a straw. In the glass was a lot of green leaves. Mint. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew it was mint. She nodded her thanks at the screen built into her wrist. When she touched the glass, she felt the condensation under her fingertips. There were no other women in the bar. She stared at the blue walls, nodded her head in time to the rhythm of the song. La Bodeguita Del Medio, a sign behind the counter read.
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At the end of the counter sat a man. Her eyes widened. He smoked a massive cigar. Didn’t he know any kind of smoke was carcinogenic? Smoke spiralled above his head. Nobody on her planet ever smoked. The man’s eyes blurred. He swayed on his chair. Only his forearms, which rested on the counter, kept him on the barstool. The bartender stared at her and her holographic suit.
When he turned to a customer, she looked at the man two seats from her. He leaned over and introduced himself. “Ernest …” At that moment, the man with the trumpet decided to show off and his next words disappeared.
“Astra.”
The man frowned.
She tapped the screen.
“I heard the word in a Latin song. Don’t you know it? Not important. Don’t worry.” she fabricated. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Carmen.”
The man nodded. He wore a cap and glasses. His beard was white.
He stared at her. His brown eyes blinked behind his glasses. “Surname?” he asked when she didn’t respond to the stare.
“Uhm …” she tapped her wrist while studying his blue and white chequered shirt. “Rodriguez.”
“Are you in the entertainment industry?” He looked at her catsuit.
She hesitated and then nodded. She didn’t know much about the entertainment industry in Cuba, but if that’s what he wanted to believe, so be it.
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“And you?”
He looked flabbergasted.
“I’m a writer. Ernest Hemingway.”
When she didn’t reply, he elaborated. “You might have heard of For whom the Bell Tolls? Or The Old Man and the Sea?”
She shook her head.
“The Sun also Rises?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Doesn’t matter.” He scratched his neck. “I write. Cheers!” He lifted his glass and waited for her to do the same, so she obliged.
“What are we celebrating?” She took a sip of her drink. A fire erupted in her head, but it was nice.
“Life. Writing. These mojitos are the best in all of Havana.”
She nodded. “Is writing difficult?”
He lifted his glass again. “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
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The ocean was angry. It punched and sprayed the Malecón, the 8-kilometre-long iconic wall the Cubans had built along the seashore. Her green screen pinged faintly. On Earth, the pings weren’t as loud as they were on her planet. When she saw security forces coming around the corner, she didn’t bother pulling up her sleeve to look at the screen. By this time, she was used to it warning her every time there was a cop, traffic cop or security policeman in the vicinity. The screen probably still feared a government official would discover that “Carmen Rodriguez” didn’t legally exist.
She turned and headed inland towards Habana Vieja, navigating through the charming streets, aiming for Empedrado Street about 500 metres in. She loved the name. The street must have been cobbled during Spanish rule. Astra looked at the yellow sign of La Bodeguita Del Medio when she passed. Her friend Hemingway had returned to America, he had said. He had never known her real name. She decided it was safer if nobody knew that she wasn’t Carmen Rodriguez. She once had to make it clear to Ernesto – as she had called him – that she wanted friendship only, nothing else. Though she was scared that that would impact their friendship negatively, it strengthened it. Without her friend, there was no reason for her to visit the bar. The bartender knew to no longer expect visits from the weird woman in the strange clothes.
In the distance, she smelt freshly baked bread. Must be the bakery down the street. A shiny, red Chevrolet Impala drove down the street. It hooted at a construction worker. She didn’t hear her green screen pinging three times in rapid succession. Due to the construction work, she also didn’t feel its vibration. She passed a street vendor with guavas and other fruit and inhaled deeply. It smelt like sunshine. The smells and tastes here are something she’s taking back to her planet when she returns.
Her friend, Ernesto was concerned with the deteriorating political climate and the increasing hostility between Cuba and the United States of America. Therefore, he left Cuba. His health was the biggest problem, she had thought, but even so, she had not expected him to take his own life about a year after he had left.
It was easier for Astra to leave a location than for any other human being. All she had to do was tap her green screen. However, she loved Cuba. She first wanted to see what happened during the regime of Fidel Castro with the political, social, and economic transformation he had promised. The Cuban people seemed to love him. Batista was liked initially, but his authoritarian regime and the corruption in his government had handicapped him towards the end.
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Astra had seen Fidel Castro addressing the nation. He seemed likeable, a truly charismatic person, and a skilled orator.
She headed in the direction of the Malecón again. There were puddles in the street. It probably was one of the angry waves that had breached the wall. She stepped over a puddle. When a bicyclist came from the front, she stepped closer to the Malecón. She smelt the wave, felt it. It sprayed her with small droplets before it crashed down on her in all its fury. She lost her footing, stilled when the back of her head hit the wall.
