PUNTA ALEGRE, Ciego de Ávila.— He saw it in the sea: a round, dirty white object, covered with debris. He ran home to find his mother, who helped him unearth it. Little José Daniel held it high like a trophy, running from house to house, shouting: “Look! I found Martí! I found Martí!”
Martí slept in his closet, while José slept little, lying between his mother and sister and the disaster that the hurricane had left behind.
The next day he would be six years old. He got up and took the bust to the shore, to rinse it clean in the sea, the same that had brought the maestro to his house, because “Martí is the man who is in my school, next to the flag.”
That day, in the midst of the destruction, we saw him, hugging Martí.
And we didn’t know for sure who was protecting who.