Advance Praise for
The Sweetness in the Lime
“A frank story of romance not only between cultures, but across the First World–Third World divide, with all the inherent economic tensions and frustrations, where the poor will risk everything for greener grasses and the rich won’t understand their own wealth. Skeptical yet tender and generous, this is a tense, honest, and moving tale of latter-life love in the time of post-colonial globalization. You won’t want to put it down.”
–Chris Benjamin,
author of Boy With A Problem
“Vividly drawn, intriguing, lyrical, funny, and always entertaining, The Sweetness in the Lime is a story about home, friendship, loss, and new beginnings; about second chances and the power of loyalty and abiding love.”
–Carmen Rodríguez,
author of and A body to remember with and Retribution
“A terrific read and a beautifully crafted novel, with lots of twists and turns in the central plot. It is both a tender love story and a moving, insightful glimpse into the world of people moving in, and between, two different cultures—Canadian and Cuban. The portrayal of Cuba and her people is both authentic and insightful, and the character portrayals real and convincing. I found it hard to put down.”
–John Kirk,
Professor of Latin American Studies at Dalhousie University
“Part love story, part mystery, this engrossing tale of Cuban–Canadian connections avoids clichés and gets to the heart of what can happen when we cross borders.”
–Karen Dubinsky,
author of Cuba Beyond the Beach: Stories of Life in Havana
Praise for
Stephen Kimber
What Lies Across the Water: The Real Story of the Cuban Five
WINNER, Evelyn Richardson Prize for Nonfiction
LONGLISTED, Libris Award for Canadian Nonfiction Book of the Year
“In this remarkable piece of investigative journalism, Kimber has unearthed a riveting story at the very heart of why there is little hope of political reconciliation between Cuba and the United States—until there is justice for the Cuban Five.”
–Judges’ Citation, Evelyn Richardson Prize for Nonfiction
“An invaluable and informative account of the last chapter of the Cold War between Cuba and the United States—a story that is alternatively bizarre, surreal, and ever suspenseful.”
Ann Louise Bardach,
author, Without Fidel and Cuba Confidential
Reparations
“Stephen Kimber has woven a difficult story about racism and power politics in Nova Scotia with exceptional skill and sensitivity…an important literary voyage into a largely unexplored region of the Canadian experience…reads as fiction…resonates as history.”
–Linden MacIntyre,
Giller Prize–winning author of The Bishop’s Man and The Wake
“Canadians have waited too long for an entertaining, ambitous, multi-layered novel about the historic black community of Africville, but they need wait no longer…an entertaining, provocative legal thriller about power and race relations in Nova Scotia…bold, outrageous, and dangerous.”
–Lawrence Hill,
Governor General’s Award–winning author of The Book of Negroes
Copyright © 2020, Stephen Kimber
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.
Vagrant Press is an imprint of
Nimbus Publishing Limited
3660 Strawberry Hill St, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9
(902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca
Printed and bound in Canada
NB1465
This story is a work of fiction. Names characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Editor: Elizabeth Eve
Editor for the press: Whitney Moran
Cover design: Jenn Embree
Interior design: Rudi Tusek
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The sweetness in the lime : a novel / Stephen Kimber.
Names: Kimber, Stephen, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200264222 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200264257 | ISBN 9781771089135 (softcover)ISBN 9781771089142 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8621.I5448 S94 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.
“What’s Love Got to Do with It?”
—Tina Turner, 1984
Flotsam
There must have been a storm, but it has passed. Nothing remains but a yawning silent void, a mist-shrouded, blue-black-grey sea that extends to the horizon in all directions—to the beginning of sky, to the end of hope. She scans the mirror of flat-calm water, pocked here and there by scattered bits of flotsam—mismatched planks and pieces of metal, broken hunks of white Styrofoam, multi-patched inner tubes, forty-five-gallon steel barrels, a tattered bedsheet sail still snagged by one corner to its mast.
She knew Roberto and his cousin Delfín had been building a raft inside his uncle’s shed out of those very same pieces. It was supposed to be a secret. But everyone knew. The neighbours would come to watch, and gossip. No one told the authorities. Sometimes, other men offered a hand with the construction.
Alex had offered. Why are you helping them? Mariela had asked her husband.
Roberto’s my friend, that’s all. She’d believed him. She’d been wrong. About that. And much more.
Now, the bloated bodies finally sharpen into her focus among the remnants of the raft. They are all face down in the water, their arms and legs akimbo in a kind of studied repose, as if they’d been snorkelling and come upon a particularly beautiful expanse of coral. She can’t see their faces, but she recognizes Alex’s balding head, burned red now by the sun. How long had they been at sea? How far had they gotten? How close had they come?
She senses movement, a sound, an intense whooshing, like something breaking the surface of the water, breaking the silence, just beside her or maybe behind her, somewhere beyond her field of vision. She turns toward the sound. He bubbles up out of that still sea, a tiny head turning toward her, smiling.
Tonito! Tonito is alive!
He shakes his little head like a puppy, water flying away from his hair in slow motion. His hair is a raven’s black like hers. He will be such a handsome man one day. She watches those tiny droplets fly through the air, feels them splash her face. She opens her mouth, tastes the saltiness. As soon as Tonito sees her, he smiles his big, goofy, gap-toothed smile.
“Mami!” he yells, delighted but not delirious like her, as if this was any other day, as if she had just arrived home from work and he was waiting by the door to greet her. She flings open her arms, reaches out to embrace him, and—
She awoke with a start, twisted up in her bed sheet, clammy with sweat. Alone. Still. The electricity must have gone out overnight. The fan had stopped working. The alarm had not sounded. She did not want to get up, to endure the cold dribble of the broken shower, to
navigate her way past the broken elevator, climb down that makeshift ladder into the blackened stairwell and out into a morning that didn’t know and didn’t care.
She wanted only to curl back into herself, to drift back into that place and time where Tonito was smiling, where she could reach out and touch him…to the place and time that had never been.
Many Sadnesses
Havana, 2017
Tony waits for me by his classroom door. My wiry little bundle of energy, dressed in his standard-issue kindergarten white shirt, red shorts, and blue scarf, bounces from foot to foot as if the floor beneath him is burning. While his body moves, apparently independently of his arms and legs, his eyes remain laser focused on an amused Señorita Isabella as he earnestly explains something to her in a rapid-fire Spanish I can admire but not completely comprehend.
“Ah, Señor Cooper,” his teacher interrupts when she sees me. “It is so good to see you. How are you today?” She says each word precisely, carefully. She likes to practise her English on me. I try not to betray my continuing ignorance of Spanish to her.
“Estoy bien. Muy bien.” Careful too. And precise, I hope.
Tony notices me then, grins, runs up, wraps his tiny arms around my leg. “Papi, papi!” he yells. “Can we go down to the sea? Count the boats?”
“If they’re there today.” Like everyone else of every age here, Tony’s favourite new game is sighting the gleaming white American cruise ships in the Bay of Havana. Last week, we spotted three. Tony doesn’t wait, just grabs me by my hand and push-pulls me toward our destination. I shrug my goodbyes back toward Señorita Isabella, who smiles and waves.
This is our time, his and mine, but mostly his. While Tony is in school, I take care of the daily business of our casa. After the guests have departed and the rooms are re-set for the next guests, I head over to the Parque Central hotel, settle into my favourite couch in the lobby, order my second cafecito, and respond to email inquiries from potential guests. When I have finished my duty correspondence, I check the news sites. Once a newspaper editor, always…. The internet is still painfully slow here, but faster than when I arrived. I don’t linger, not just because connectivity still costs by the hour, but also because the news is never good, and it mostly just repeats itself. Besides, I have better things to do with my afternoons now. Like spend them with Tony.
“Papi, you know Olaf?” I do know Olaf. How could I not? Tony and I watch Frozen at least once a week, more often so long as he promises not to tell his mother. I don’t like the movie because it takes me inside places in my head I don’t want to know. But Tony loves it, and I love Tony. And that’s enough. We discovered Frozen last year on a Paquete Semanal, the thumb drive filled with Hollywood movies and popular TV series a courier hand-delivers to our door each week. The packet is illegal but, as I’ve learned in Cuba, “No one cares…unless they do.”
For reasons that make no sense to me—we are in sunny, never-snow Cuba, after all—Tony has become obsessed with Olaf, the snowman character in the Disney movie. “Olaf is made of snow, right Papi?”
“Right.”
“What’s snow made of?”
Suddenly and for no reason, a memory I try to keep flash-frozen inside my head flashes hot and flares in front of my eyes. It’s my father, his face bloated, mottled, and blue-ish, covered by the lightest dusting of snow, staring up at me through dead eyes. Imagined? Real? I force myself not to tighten my grip on Tony’s delicate hand.
“Water,” I tell him. “Think of raindrops. Imagine the drops get so cold they turn white and stick together. Like Olaf.”
“I like water. Papi, do you like water?”
Water never used to terrify me. I grew up in a harbour city. Now I live in another one, on an island, and I’ve become an aquaphobe. Was that Mariela’s doing? Or the stories I have invented to replace the ones Dad never told me? No matter. I must not pass my panic on to my son. I must let him create his own phobias.
“Of course I like water,” I answer. “Who doesn’t?”
We have reached the Malecón. I lift Tony up and set him down on the concrete wall overlooking the bay. His brown legs dangle over the edge. I admire his brown skin, that black hair, and, most of all, those green eyes. Where am I in Tony? Perhaps that small dimple on his chin? Perhaps not. I wrap my arm around his tiny waist, root my own feet to the sidewalk, force myself not to imagine what Mariela imagines—wading into the Bay. Deeper, deeper, deeper, gone.
There are no cruise ships today, just a few small fishing boats bobbing in the distance. On the rocks to the right of us, an old man casts his rod into the water, fishing for his supper. In the tidal pool beneath, half a dozen teenaged boys shout and splash and swim.
“Papi, can you learn me to swim?”
“Someday,” I tell him. “When you’re older.”
“With Mami?”
“Of course.”
“We can swim together.” No, we can’t. I will not even mention this conversation to her. Mariela still has her…what did David call it so many years ago? “Many sadnesses.”
We’ll Meet Again
Halifax, February 2008
1
McGlashlen told me that his rim fell off after his car plopped into one of to many among the popping potholes along North Barrington that motorists must now manoeuvre in order to reach the downtown of Halifx…
Thirty-seven ill-chosen words stuffed into one unsuspecting sentence! Where to begin? McGlashlen? So obviously misspelled. But who had the time, what with this week’s new publisher-mandated hourly tweets for twits, to check the mangled spelling of one lonely proper name? Let tomorrow’s city editor field the outraged, can’t-you-guys-get-anything-right phone calls and write the day-after-space-filler, regret-the-error correction. Told me? Who told these kids to insert themselves into news stories? His rim fell off…. His what? Off what? His hat? His head? A car wheel? Not to mention—don’t mention—to many? Or all that artsy alliteration. Plopped, popping, potholes…. Was this what they taught them in journalism school?
As the Tribune’s foreign news editor, I should have been overseeing a “World” section. But with ad sales tracking well below even their usual mid-February blahs, the publisher last week ordered another reduction in the paper’s page count, which the higher-ups had then translated into—surprise—two fewer pages for foreign news. My section had shrunk to however many briefs I could squeeze onto one tabloid page, minus the two columns reserved for bill-paying advertisements.
“The Taliban claims responsibility for a suicide bombing that killed thirty-eight Afghan civilians and injured four Canadian soldiers….” Six graphs. Wounded Canadians in the lede, of course. “American Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama makes it ten primary wins in a row….” Five graphs. “Fidel Castro resigns….” Resigns? Didn’t he die already? Washington rejoices. Three graphs. “The fallout from the British government’s nationalization of the Northern Rock Bank.” No room. Pawned off on the business section. I did find space, however, for the earth-shattering news that formerly famous (for what I can’t recall) actress Kirstie Alley was no longer the official spokesperson for Jenny Craig. She had started her own weight-loss brand. Give that one six graphs, same as the suicide bombing. That should please the publisher (“We need more stories people give a fuck about”), if not the entertainment editor, who would bitch—again—I was poaching her material.
It took less than an hour to injudiciously slash and burn those once information-packed, grammatically correct international news-that-mattered stories into the pulpy gruel required to fill my allotted space. So I had no excuse when Liv tagged me to handle tonight’s late local copy.
Liv was the Trib’s night news editor. For eight hours a day, from five in the afternoon until one in the morning, Liv sat staring at an over-sized computer screen, her taut body leaning back at a forty-five-degree angle with only her shoulder blades and butt t
ouching the edges of her chair while she directed copy, edited copy, checked, re-checked, approved, and then dispatched final electronic pages into the production ether, soon to reappear as your ink-on-paper morning miracle of a newspaper.
In the harsh fluorescent glow of the newsroom at night, Liv’s overgrown forest of grey-flecked red hair crowded her face and spilled over her shoulders in limp ringlets. She was too thin, too pale for my liking. But I liked her anyway. I tried to remember her—full makeup, bouncy curls, too-short red dress—at the company Christmas party. I did remember her later that same night—makeup messed, slobbery drunk, too-short red dress pushed up above her waist in the back seat of her car outside my father’s house. Was that the last time? There was so much I couldn’t conjure anymore.
“Eli? You get Wendy,” Liv had called out then, adding, unnecessarily, “She’s late. Again.” Wendy Wagner—no wonder she was so fond of alliteration—was the Trib’s newest, youngest reporter. A formerly undistinguished J-School intern, she had been hired by Gibson, apparently for her cheerful can-do attitude even when she couldn’t, which was most of the time.
Wendy’s story wasn’t just abysmally written. It was, more importantly at this late hour, too long, spilling over its allotted text-box space on the page on my screen by fourteen lines. I squinted at the digital clock on the wall opposite my workstation. Four-and-a-half minutes to the paper’s production deadline. No problem. I started, as usual, zapping all her story’s unnecessary “thats,” which inevitably meant all of them. I have a thing about thats. Search. Check. Select. Delete. Next. There were fourteen thats in Wendy Wagner’s 436 ill-chosen words, none necessary to make more sense of her senseless story. Not that I cared about that. My job now was simply to make her words fit on the screen, on the page. I scanned again—I’d cut five lines by eliminating thats—and began zeroing in on all those one-word widows dangling at the end of paragraphs. If you eliminated even a single other word within a paragraph, I’d learned long ago, you could often save a full line as the type reflowed. Done. The story was still crap, but now the crap fit. I looked back up at the clock. Thirty-three seconds to spare. Not bad. I hit Done.
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