There are memories you never forget and even dream frequently with them. That was the case of my car Moskovich brand, of course Russian, and flooded the city, as a stimulus for medical professionals in the late 80's. Saying "they gave me" a car is a euphemism for what had to buy my wife and I peso to peso and costing dearly for the salary of a doctor. But there was the Moskovich in the garage at home, bright and shiny as morning coffee with milk.
I felt privileged because medical professionals and others had no car but ancient American machines that survived as antediluvian dinosaurs. The car represented a breakthrough in our lives. It served to go to work and to the beach or the field on Sundays. Until we put it a name: Lester. I bathed and shinning Lester whenever I could, I took him to the mechanic as a lady carry on to the dentist to maintain good teeth. It had a good engine, the Soviets had copied the Renault on that, otherwise, as the carburetor was like a cavity that hurts again and again. It was a member of the family, was the first child I had, then came Jennifer and Orlandito who enjoyed it a while. A Orlandito loved to enter the garage with me sitting on my lap and driving, it was his greatest happiness.When I decided to go into exile I knew that Lester would be lost because my wife could not stay with it. So the authorities took it because it was in my name and it was a car delivered by Castro although we had paid until the last penny. Things of the tyranny. When I went to Guantanamo 18 years later I did not want to ask about the fate of Lester. One of my brother told me he had seen the rest of the body over there in a lost west of Guantanamo, Villorrio. He reconnacied the plate, It was a den of cats, they had rickety. The news hurt me as when you lose a close relative, Lester the car of my dreams in exile in Uruguay had died. I only have the memory of my babies laughing on Sundays glad when taking them to the beach and Lester took them like a car that ignored his final destination.