Dance, Nana, Dance / Baila, Nana, Baila Read online

  Dance, Nana, Dance

  Baila, Nana, Baila

  Dance,

  Nana,

  Dance,

  Cuban Folktales in English and Spanish

  Baila, Nana, Baila

  Retold by Joe Hayes

  Illustrated by Mauricio Trenard Sayago

  CINCO PUNTOS PRESS EL PASO

  Dance, Nana, Dance / Baila, Nana, Baila: Cuban Folktales in English and Spanish. Copyright © 2008 by Joe Hayes. Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Mauricio Trenard Sayago. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hayes, Joe.

  Dance, Nana, dance = Baila, Nana, baila: Cuban folktales in English and Spanish / retold by Joe Hayes; illustrated by Mauricio Trenard Sayago. -- 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: A collection of stories from Cuban folklore, representing the cultures of Spain, Africa, and the Caribbean.

  ISBN 978-1-933693-75-0

  1. Tales--Cuba. [1. Folklore--Cuba. 2. Spanish language materials--Bilingual.] I. Sayago, Mauricio Trenard, ill. II. Title. III. Title: Baila, nana, baila.

  PZ73.H265 2008

  [398.2]--dc22

  2007038295

  Many thanks to Eida de la Vega for her edit of Joe Hayes’ Spanish translation.

  BOOK DESIGN BY THE INIMITABLE JB BRYAN OF LA ALAMEDA PRESS

  Set in Adobe Caslon with Bountiful titling

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  YAMS DON’T TALK Los ñames no hablan

  THE FIG TREE La mata de higo

  THE GIFT El regalo

  DANCE, NANA, DANCE Baila, Nana, Baila

  THE LAZY OLD CROWS Los viejos cuervos perezosos

  PEDRO MALITO Pedro Malito

  BORN TO BE POOR El que nace para pobre

  YOUNG HERON’S NEW CLOTHES La ropa nueva del joven garza

  WE SING LIKE THIS Nosotras cantamos así

  BUY ME SOME SALT Cómprame sal

  THE HAIRY OLD DEVIL MAN El diablo peludo

  COMPAY MONKEY AND COMAY TURTLE Compay Mono y Comay Jicotea

  YOU CAN’T DANCE No baila

  NOTES TO READERS AND STORYTELLERS

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  INTRODUCTION

  IF YOU TRAVEL TO CUBA, the people will greet you with a smile. They’ll want to know where you’re from and if you like Cuba. And right away they’ll want you to go to their home and eat a meal. In the meal you’ll find a mixture of food and flavors from Spain and Africa—and from many Caribbean cultures as well. In Cuban folktales you can taste the same mixture of flavors.

  I first visited Cuba in 2001 to participate in a workshop dealing with the translation of literature from Spanish into English. When I wasn’t busy attending classes, I searched for Cuban storytellers and people who were familiar with the folklore of the island. The staff at the Centro de Investigación y Desarrollo de la Cultura Cubana Juan Marinello in Havana was very helpful. It was there that I met Martha Esquenazi, a Cuban folklorist and musicologist who lent me the manuscript of a collection of folktales she was preparing. Paper is sometimes hard to find in Cuba and the copy of the manuscript she entrusted me with was the only one she had. It was one of the first demonstrations I experienced of the incredible faith and generosity of the Cuban people. The tales she documented and her notes on the origin and development of Cuban folktales started me thinking about a book of Cuban stories for young readers in the United States.

  It took me a long time to produce this small collection, however. To me, a story retold from another culture is like the fruit of a tree that branches out across the fence from my neighbor’s yard into mine. The roots of the tree stay firmly fixed in the neighbor’s yard, but I get to enjoy some of the fruit if I feel like I know my neighbor well and am sure it’s all right to pick it. I made several trips back to Cuba and gathered and studied all the material about the country’s folklore I could find before I felt I would be able to tell the stories in a way that preserved their strong roots in Cuban culture while putting them in easy reach of young readers in this country. I hope I’ve been successful.

  Martha Esquenazi’s book was published in 2002 with the title Los Cuentos cantados en Cuba (Tales Sung in Cuba). As the title suggests, all the stories incorporate at least one song. This is to be expected in tales of African origin because singing is so intertwined with storytelling in that tradition, but in Cuba even tales that came originally from Europe have acquired a musical verse or two. Of course, lilting refrains are not unknown in European storytelling, but the music-loving Cubans have enriched almost every story with a song. Sometimes the lyrics are in Spanish, sometimes in the Afro-Cuban dialect referred to as lucumí. Sometimes they have no specific meaning, but simply imitate the sound of an animal or something in nature. In many cases I’ve simplified and shortened the songs, especially when the original lyrics would not be understood by a Spanish or English speaker. Some Cuban researchers have recorded the tunes of the songs, but most haven’t. When I tell the stories, I make up my own melody, one the listeners can easily pick up, and I suggest other storytellers do the same. The most important thing is to have fun reading and telling the stories. Then you’ll be participating in the real spirit of Cuban storytelling.

  — JOE HAYES

  To all my Cuban storyteller friends.

  JOE HAYES

  Para Issandro y Lucia Trenard:

  Otra bella oportunidad para decirles cuánto los amo.

  MAURICIO TRENARD SAYAGO

  YAMS DON’T TALK

  ONE YEAR A YOUNG WIFE and her young husband harvested a big pile of yams from their field. Yams, rice, beans and an occasional chicken were just about all they ever had to eat, so they were very pleased. They had enough tasty yams to keep them supplied for the rest of the year. They piled the yams in a dry place under their house.

  But that very afternoon, Jicotea, the tricky old turtle, crawled under the house to escape the hot sun and discovered the pile of yams.

  “Here’s food and shelter all together in a nice, cool place,” Jicotea said to herself, and she burrowed deep into the pile of yams. “I may just spend the rest of my life right here.”

  That evening the young couple decided to boil a chicken and cook up a yam to celebrate their good harvest. Young Husband sat down to pluck the chicken and Young Wife ran to select a nice fat yam from the pile.

  Jicotea heard someone, or something, approaching her new home and then felt the pile above her begin to move as Young Wife sorted through the yams.

  Jicotea roared,

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  The poor young wife was terrified. She ran into the house. “The yams can talk!” she told her young husband. “They don’t want to be taken from the pile.”

  Her husband laughed. “Did you say that yams can talk?” he said. “Don’t be silly. Everyone knows that yams don’t talk. You pluck this chicken. I’ll bring back a yam.”

  The young husband crawled under the house to the pile of yams. Again Jicotea heard someone coming. As soon as the young man reached out his hand and touched a fat yam, she bellowed,

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  The young husband dropped the yam like a poisonous snake and jumped back. “Ho!” he said. “These yams do talk! I’d better tell the king about thi
s.”

  The young husband ran until he came to the king’s house. “King,” he said, “my yams are talking. The ones under my house can talk. They don’t want to be taken from the pile.”

  The king laughed, “Ho, ho, ho, ho.” And his round belly shook up and down. “Silly young boy,” he said. “Yams don’t talk.”

  “King,” the young husband insisted, “the yams under our house talk. My wife and I have both heard them. You must come and hear.”

  The king rose from his seat on the floor. With his manservants surrounding him and his whole army marching along behind, he followed the young husband home.

  “My man,” the king said to his chief manservant, “take a yam from the pile.”

  The servant reached out cautiously and touched a yam.

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  The chief manservant jumped back. The other manservants did too. So did the king and all his soldiers.

  The king called for the bravest man in the army to come forward.

  “Brave man,” said the king, “pick up a yam from the pile.”

  The bravest man in the army reached out and touched a yam.

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  The bravest man in the army dropped the yam and ran back a hundred yards. The whole army ran back with him.

  “Yams must not talk!” the king declared loudly and pounded his walking staff against the ground. “In this land, yams do not talk!”

  “But these yams talk,” the young husband and the chief manservant reminded him.

  “Ha!” the king said. “Send for Osain of the Three Feet. The holy one of the forest can help us with these talking yams.”

  The king’s soldiers ran off and found Osain of the Three Feet. The holy man had three arms, three legs, three eyes and three ears and he arrived walking—one-two-three, one-two-three.

  “Yams talk,” the king told him.

  “Yams don’t talk,” replied Osain of the Three Feet.

  “Then you must solve the mystery of these talking yams. What payment do you wish?”

  Osain of the Three Feet asked for three silver plates the size of full moons, three shiny new pots, three roosters and three coconuts.

  The offering was brought to him and Osain of the Three Feet reached out and touched a yam.

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  “Oh-ho,” said Osain of the Three Feet as he jumped backwards. “This is a matter for Osain of the Two Feet. He is much older and wiser than I am.”

  He took the three silver plates, the three shiny new pots, the three roosters and the three coconuts and went away—one-two-three, one-two-three.

  The king sent for Osain of the Two Feet. He had two arms, two legs, two eyes and two ears and he came walking—one-two, one-two.

  “Osain of the Two Feet,” the king said, “yams talk.”

  “Yams don’t talk,” replied Osain of the Two Feet. As payment for resolving the matter, he asked for two silver plates, two shiny new pots, two roosters and two coconuts.

  The offering was brought to him and Osain of the Two Feet reached out and touched a yam.

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  “Oh-ho,” said Osain of the Two Feet, “this is a matter for Osain of the One Foot. He is much, much older than I. He was already very old and very wise before I was born.”

  Osain of the Two Feet took the two silver plates, the two shiny new pots, the two roosters and the two coconuts and went away.

  The king sent for Osain of the One Foot. He had one arm, one leg, one eye, one ear and he came leaning on a twisted stick—stump-hop, stump-hop.

  “Osain of the One Foot,” the king said, “yams talk.”

  “Yams don’t talk,” said Osain of the One Foot and he picked up a yam.

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  Osain of the One Foot held up the yam. “Look, King,” he said. “There is no mouth on this one. No teeth, no tongue, no tonsils.”

  He laughed and threw the yam over his shoulder. He picked up another one and the voice roared even louder:

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  Osain of the One Foot laughed louder. He picked one yam after another from the pile and the voice grew furious:

  “THIEF! SCOUNDREL!

  LEAVE US WHERE WE ARE!”

  And then it grew desperate:

  “THIEF …!

  SCOUNDREL …!

  LEAVE … US … WHERE … WE … ARE!”

  Osain of the One Foot was shaking with laughter. He reached the bottom of the pile of yams. There was wily old Jicotea, her eyes shut tight, trembling with anger.

  “Jicotea, you rascal!” said Osain of the One Foot. “I should have known it was you!”

  Laughing all the while, he banged Jicotea with his twisted stick until she broke into pieces. With his one foot he scattered the pieces in every direction.

  Osain of the One Foot took a small sack of yams as payment and went away—stump-hop, stump-hop.

  The king and his manservants went home, and the whole army marched along behind. And the young husband picked up a yam so that he and his wife could finish cooking their supper.

  Late that night the young husband was awakened by a rustling sound outside his house. It was the sound of tricky old Jicotea slowly bringing all her pieces back together again. When she finished the job, she shuffled off toward the forest. There at the edge of the trees Osain of the One Foot sat beside a fire smoking a cigar.

  He greeted her cheerfully. “Comay Jicotea,” he said, “what an uproar you caused today. Sit down. Let’s smoke together and have some conversation.”

  And Jicotea and Osain of the One Foot spent the whole night joking and talking by the fire. And they told each other many stories. Maybe they even told this one!

  LOS ÑAMES NO HABLAN

  UN AÑO, UNA JOVEN PAREJA cosechó una gran cantidad de ñames de su huerto. Su alimento tan solo consistía en ñames, arroz, frijoles y uno que otro pollito, y por eso estaban muy contentos. Contaban con lo suficiente para pasar todo el año comiendo los sabrosos ñames. Los guardaron en un lugar seco debajo de la casa.

  Pero aquella misma tarde Jicotea, la tortuga traviesa, se metió debajo de la casa para protegerse del sol abrasador y encontró el montoncito de ñames.

  “Aquí hay comida y abrigo en un solo lugar”, pensó, y se hundió en la pila de ñames. “A ver si paso el resto de la vida aquí mismo”.

  Esa tarde la joven pareja decidió cocinar un pollo y preparar una ración de ñames para celebrar la buena cosecha. El hombre se sentó a desplumar el pollo y la mujer corrió a escoger un buen ñame gordo de la pila.

  Jicotea oyó que algo, o alguien, se acercaba a su nuevo domicilio y luego sintió que los ñames de arriba se movían.

  Jicotea rugió:

  ¡LADRÓN! ¡CANALLA!

  ¡DÉJANOS DONDE ESTAMOS!

  La pobre mujer se espantó. Entró corriendo a la casa.

  —Los ñames hablan—le dijo a su marido—. No quieren ser llevados de la pila.

  El marido se rió:—¿Que los ñames hablan?—dijo—. No seas tonta. Todo el mundo sabe que los ñames no pueden hablar. Ven. Despluma este pollo mientras busco un ñame.

  El joven marido se metió debajo de la casa y se acercó a gatas al montón de ñames. Otra vez Jicotea oyó que se acercaba alguien. Tan pronto el hombre alargó la mano y tocó un ñame, Jicotea bramó:

  ¡LADRÓN! ¡CANALLA!

  ¡DÉJANOS DONDE ESTAMOS!

  El joven marido soltó el ñame como si fuera una serpiente venenosa y retrocedió de un brinco.

  —¡Jo!—dijo—. Estos ñames sí hablan. Más vale que el rey se entere del asunto.

  El joven marido corrió hasta llegar a la casa del rey.

  —Rey—le dijo—, mis ñames hablan. Los que tengo guardado debajo de
mi casa hablan. No quieren que los quitemos del montoncito.

  El rey se rió:—Ja, ja, ja, ja—. Su panza amplia se sacudía de arriba a abajo.

  —Jovencito inocente—dijo—. Los ñames no hablan.

  —Rey—insistió el hombre—. Los ñames debajo de nuestra casa hablan. Tanto mi mujer como yo los hemos oído. Usted tendrá que ir y escuchar.

  El rey se levantó de su cojín en el piso. Rodeado de sus sirvientes y con todo un ejército marchando detrás, siguió al joven marido hasta su casa.

  —Hombre—le dijo el rey al sirviente principal—, toma un ñame de la pila.

  El sirviente extendió el brazo cautelosamente y palpó un ñame.

  ¡LADRÓN! ¡CANALLA!

  ¡DÉJANOS DONDE ESTAMOS!

  El sirviente principal saltó hacia atrás. También lo hicieron los otros sirvientes, el rey y todos los soldados.

  El rey mandó llamar al hombre más valiente del ejército.

  —Hombre valiente—dijo el rey—, coge un ñame del montón.

  El hombre más valiente extendió el brazo y tocó un ñame.

  ¡LADRÓN! ¡CANALLA!

  ¡DÉJANOS DONDE ESTAMOS!

  El hombre más valiente soltó el ñame, y corrió cien metros hacia atrás, y el ejército entero corrió con él.

  —¡Los ñames no deben hablar!—vociferó el rey y golpeó la tierra con su vara—. En este reino los ñames no hablan.