When tobacco leaves begin to fall off the villi, it is time to harvest. Lush green mugs, maturing, lighter, becoming yellowish, like an old paper. Garlands of tobacco leaves hanging on the wire as drying pictures on the ceiling laboratory. In the stuffiness of the drying sheds on the sheets show through all shades of brown, tan or beige. As in sepia. And if it really were pictures, they would document the special southern life. On They would be etched portraits of landowners and the laborers, peasants – guajiros Twister and cigars – tabakero: swarthy faces on dark skin races applications, the perfect harmony of ideas and material.
Leaf by leaf, each high bush would have become one of the family tree of nicotine dynasties. Such as family Torano, people tobacco. Cuba is far away, near Cuba. This is how you look. Santiago Torano looked across the ocean. Blinked, probably on the sharp glossy silk Atlantic under the sun, repeating the idea of the route of Columbus.
On concepts of physical geography the way from point A to point B was not really close. But the prospects for opening up to the young Spanish golodrantsu from the sands his impoverished fishing village, it would seem only a brilliant painter, marine painter. If you are ambitious, the coast of Asturias, the beginning of the twentieth century can not be the start of a great life plans. And in the former colony, where more Cortez shipped its Mexican gold galleons fortunate compatriots Santiago and enterprising competitors, gringo forged young capital, and this hindrance could hear the ringing of the ocean to the ears of aspiring European boys. Santiago came to Cuba when he was eighteen or nineteen.