"hard times, hard times/come again no more."-eastmountainsouth

"I was in Spain and I was enjoying a delicious wine--how I love wine!--, and to occupy myself, I browsed through the library of this very wealthy Spaniard. Very wealthy."

The music historian I am interviewing has a tendency to repeat certain words and phrases, a habit I might find annoying in anyone else but which suits his character and temperament perfectly. We've talked about so many things and Brayan has gotten some great candid shots: Felix leaning forward as he tells me about his encounters with some of the greatest and most famous Cuban musicians of the 20th century; Felix's bookshelf, table, and bench--every free space piled high with photographs, books, and letters--; Felix's hands as he entrusts me with two slides of a Cuban tango enthusiast, a mysterious fellow who died three years ago but who is the reason why I am here and who, strangely enough, led me to Felix.

"So I was keeping myself busy by looking at his books, his books. And what did I see but a shelf full of books about Cuba. Cuba. And don't you know, I opened them and..."-- here he pauses dramatically and I think I see tears pooling up in his eyes--they are stamped with the seal of the Cuban National Library. The Cuban National Library! Lo puedes creer?" Can you believe it?

"And so I asked him, I asked him, but very politely, very politely, 'Sir, may I inquire as to how you acquired these books? They are treasures, treasures!' And do you know what he told me? That Spaniard puffed up his chest and smiled proudly and told me that he bought them from the librarian for a bar of soap. A bar of soap! Lo puedes creer?"

*

Last September, we went in search of one Sr. Pompeyo, a friend of a friend who was believed to live in Havana. We were asked to deliver a gift to Pompeyo, who was alleged to have the largest and most impressive collection of tango music in Cuba. We stood on the street and called out Pompeyo's name in front of the address we'd been given. Finally, a neighbor came out and informed us Pompeyo had died. "What a sad man, a sad death," she said. When we asked who inherited his music collection, the question was met with a blank look and a curt "No se," before the door shut in our face.

Later, Brayan encountered Felix at a tango event in Havana and learned that he had been a great friend of Pompeyo; indeed, he had been Pompeyo's disciple of sorts. I decided to meet with him and deliver--six months later--the gift that had been intended for his dear friend.

*

"About Pompeyo...Pompeyo. Pompeyo was a grand man. A lonely man. Really only semi-literate. But he traveled the world, the world, with the Merchant Marine and collected his music that way," Felix recounts during our first meeting. "And what happened to the music?" I ask. Felix turns his head and is quiet for just a moment before saying, "The neighbors! The neighbors sold almost all of it before I could rescue it! Lo puedes creer?"

*

My last night in Cuba, the family is gathered in the kitchen, enjoying a meal prepared by Francisco's mom. We're talking about the Special Period, the name given to the mid- to late-1990s in Cuba, signifying the period when the USSR withdrew its support of the island and Cuba suffered a debilitating economic crisis. "Can you believe the pizzas had 'pepperoni' made out of condom rings?" Brayan asked me. I've heard some rough stories of the Special Period, but I don't know whether to believe this one. He insists it's true. Everyone recalls something they had to sell in order to buy something else, something they lost in order to gain something else.

*

It's easy to lament--and I do--the dispersion of great treasures of Cuban culture (or any culture for that matter; I think of the looting of the National Museum in Iraq) across the world, delivered into hands that might not appreciate them for just a bar of soap. But sometimes, life is that hard. Can you believe it?