BOOKS
Cuban 'ghost' writer regaining his legacy

BY BRETT SOKOL
Special to The Miami Herald
Few literary tragedies are so heartbreaking as is the life of Guillermo Rosales. By the beginning of the 1970s, Rosales was only in his early 20s, yet he already had earned an enviable reputation among his fellow dissident Cuban novelists, all blacklisted by Fidel Castro's government.
Reinaldo Arenas accords Rosales almost mythic status in his memoir Before Night Falls, discussing his writing at clandestine Havana salons, borrowing his typewriter (mere possession of such an object was enough to inspire police suspicion), and gazing admiringly as Rosales, perched on his bedroom balcony, waited patiently while Arenas feverishly banged out a fresh chapter for him to read.
Yet Rosales remained unknown beyond the Cuban cognoscenti. His younger sister Leyma recalls that as the years wore on, ``He grew tired and disillusioned. He didn't feel there was anything remaining for him in Cuba. The system broke him down and kept him down until he left.''
But Rosales' arrival in Miami in 1980, where he suffered from schizophrenia and was subsequently in and out of hospital psychiatric wards, hardly changed matters. Despite being championed by Arenas, Carlos Victoria, and many of the other leading lit figures among the ``Mariel generation,'' Rosales continued to labor in obscurity. On July 6, 1993, he destroyed many of his unpublished manuscripts, and then, sitting inside his tiny Little Havana apartment, put a gun to his head. He was 47.
Fortunately, thanks to new English translations, Rosales' reputation finally appears on the verge of transcending mere cultdom.
First up is The Halfway House (New Directions, $14.95 in paper), originally published in 1987 after a jury led by Octavio Paz, who would win the Nobel Prize for literature three years later, selected it for the University of Miami-sponsored Golden Letters prize.
NIGHTMARE STAY
An autobiographical novel based on Rosales' nightmarish stay in a One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest-styled group home in Little Havana, The Halfway House is as critical of el exilio as it is of Havana. Like Rosales, its narrator is a Cuban author whose work has fallen afoul of the Communist party's cultural commissars. Miami beckons and, spiritually adrift and physically ailing, he goes.
``There were some relatives waiting for me here who didn't know anything about my life and who, after twenty years of separation, barely knew me anymore,'' the narrator reports. ``They thought a future winner was coming, a future businessman, a future playboy, a future family man who would have a future house full of kids, and who would go to the beach on weekends and drive fine cars and wear brand-name clothing. . . . The person who turned up at the airport the day of my arrival was instead a crazy, nearly toothless, skinny, frightened guy who had to be admitted to a psychiatric ward that very day.''
The narrator's fellow group-home residents are similar ``human wrecks,'' the shattered remains of Cuban communism, caught between two worlds, unable to find a firm purchase on reality and preyed upon by their countrymen -- sometimes for money, sometimes for sheer sport. Soon, the narrator finds himself joining in the cruelty, alternately stealing from and brutalizing his housemates. The process feels eerily familiar to ``one who lived twenty years within the revolution, as its victimizer, witness, victim.''
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