At the tip of the map

The great feast of the book that has traveled the archipelago will live its last chapters in the eastern zone. I come to advance what will come, I come to evoke my rides in Vueltabajo. I come drenched from Cuba. A rain has scratched my bones. No more climbing the Calle Real, the artery where Pinar del Río flows, Iran Capote, the knight who defines himself in five words ("I write books and make dramas"), gives me a hug, and Neivis Pando puts in m…