I Was Never the First Lady

by Wendy Guerra

  Dedication

  Thank you to Celia Sánchez’s family, here and there, for their anecdotes, words, and hospitality.

  To my mother, for her lost pages and recovered poetry.

  To Celia, for not allowing herself to be forgotten, for soaring.

  To Marco, my counsel.

  To Julio Carrillo, for his style.

  To the Cuban archives, to the two coasts, to all the friends who hold on to their memories.

  To you, secretly.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I

  Daybreak with No One

  Notes from My Diary

  Meeting at the Station

  Writing in My Diary

  Merci, Moscow, December 2, 2005

  January 1, 2006, 7:30 a.m.

  January 2, 2006 (Red Diary)

  February 3, 2006, Paris—The Wee Hours

  February 20, 2006, Paris

  Red Diary

  Eskimo Word

  March 10, Paris

  Cuban Radio Soap: “Meeting Paolo B.”

  March 20, 2006, Moscow, Russia, Former USSR

  A Program for Diego

  Letter from Diego, Attached to My Red Diary

  Letter from Diego in My Red Diary

  Dear Diary

  Part II

  Pain and Forgiveness

  Cuba Stays in Cuba

  My Country: My Personal Museum

  Funeral Speech. Havana in the Rain

  Words Against Oblivion

  The Black Box

  The House, My Mother, Memory, and the Body

  The Bath

  The Orwo Tape

  Red Diary

  Rare and Valuable Collections

  Who Am I?

  May 28

  Part III

  My Mother’s Unfinished Book

  Meeting Celia

  Celia, Brooklyn, and Snow

  The Golf Course, Che, and the Nudes

  Celia’s Reprimand

  End of School—on the Path to Radio. Celia and Fidel and the House on Once Street

  Broadcast from the Enemy Station

  Castro and Flynn

  Notes (Fidel: Details, Habits, Style)

  The Last Time I Saw Her

  Ideas/Notes

  How Fidel Found Out Batista Had Fled

  How We Got the News (I)

  Part IV

  I Was Never the First Lady

  Dirt or Blood?

  Celia’s Wake, My Mother, Butterflies, the People

  The Dust-Jacketed Library

  Monologue with the TV

  Pain and Forgiveness

  Pure Theater

  The Living Wake

  Dania’s Notes

  Breakfast, the Fishbowl, and My Mother’s Death

  Farewell and Mourning, for My Mother

  We’ve Grown

  July 28

  How We Got the News (II)

  Letters, Letters, Letters

  What Is a Cuban Woman?

  Journey to Miami

  Journey to Havana

  Without Fidel

  Translator’s Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part I

  Daybreak with No One

  My country is that singular instant taking place right now everywhere, the shoreline, places I don’t know how to get to, that I can’t get to, and yet where I alight.

  —ALBIS TORRES

  Everyone’s child here, reporting from a country of no one.

  This is Nadia Guerra, and for the first time, sitting at an open mic, I’m going to tell you what I think, what I’ve felt every morning of my life and during all these years when I saluted the flag and sang the national anthem. I’m going to say everything I haven’t dared to say until this very moment. Listen to what I’m about to tell you here, on my radio show, live, while I take refuge in the half-light of my hermetically sealed sound booth.

  I belong to that intimate place that makes me human and not divine. I’m an artist and not a contemporary heroine. I hate that lack of proportion—I don’t want there to be expectations I can’t meet. I don’t owe the martyrs any more than I owe my parents, than I owe my own resistance, than I owe my personal history, anchored here in a simple Cuban life.

  I can’t keep on trying to be like Che, to inherit Camilo’s purity, Maceo’s courage, Agramonte’s fearlessness, Mariana Grajales’s fury, Martí’s nomadic and creative spirit, Celia Sánchez’s stoic silence. My most heroic acts are simple: to survive on this island, to avoid suicide, to deal with the guilt provoked by my obligations, to accept my good fortune of being alive, and to definitively disengage from the insistence of war and peace.

  I don’t want to be the martyrs’ martyr, with their sagas and great epics. Standing before the heroes’ statues, I’ve thought my death should be simple, meticulous, sober, discreet.

  My true heroes are my parents, victims of their own survival, settled, drawn out, painful. Expelled from an adoring and disillusioned sect, they lost their minds.

  When they looked beyond the seawall—now crumbling—they saw the sea as their only patrimony. The dark and starry bay or the luminous everyday Caribbean. But nothing could save them. They put aside their personal projects to devote themselves to collective work.

  The leaders in the foreground and my parents out of focus, lost in the depth of field, far, far from the protagonists. They were endearing extras, doubles devoted to the great work, the sacred script and its complicated staging.

  There were days when I felt orphaned or—I’ll say it in a more conciliatory fashion—like a Child of the Nation. I saw my parents for brief periods. It wasn’t personal; several friends found themselves in the same situation.

  Where’s your father, they’d ask.

  Somewhere in Cuba, you had to say.

  On how many rainy afternoons did I see grandparents from more or less normal families standing at the school door, with raincoats and umbrellas, calmly waiting. Grandfathers and grandmothers—I’d raise a monument to them myself.

  I remember my parents swallowing banned words and names while smiling for black-and-white photos. Maybe they wanted to surrender to the giant flag of lies they told—a black-and-white flag, but still a flag.

  After a time, they were ambushed by their invisible enemies.

  My parents weren’t a part of the Revolution’s triumph, because they were too young; nor did they arrive in time to enjoy the freedoms that came with such an ideal. Distressed, because they’d had no part in making the Revolution, they supported it. They held up the new society, their bodies the scaffolding. They were almost happy to take part, to be a voice in the great choir, part of the resistance. When they found themselves at the very center of that isolated generation, they were trapped; they couldn’t find a way out.

  But, well, my dear listeners, let’s listen to some music and take a break from everything I want to confess today. Let’s listen to Carlos Varela as he sings his composition “Family Portrait (Foto de familia).”

  Behind all that nostalgia,

  all those lies and betrayals . . .

  And now, speaking about family and parents: the weight of the celebrity dead was so much greater than the lives they lived in anonymity. That’s how they slowly resigned themselves to the idea that we’d be better off over there, in the humanist paradise, in that other life. How many times did we hear them say, in the middle of a meeting or in our living room or while standing in line: “It won’t benefit me, no, but my daughter will have a better life.”

  My dears, I have news for you. I also hope for something better for my children
.

  This is the sound from when our parents were young, when Silvio Rodríguez and Pablo Milanés were working with the group Experimentación Sonora del ICAIC. Now let’s listen to the Columna Juvenil del Centenario song, which goes like this:

  When the sun splits in two at noon from the horror

  when slogans and goals beg to be killed off . . .

  It’s true, no school has been named after my mother, but if I’m standing here it’s because she had the nerve to write, to speak whenever she had to, and then later, when she was no longer recognized, she knew how to cry quietly, locked in a closet, smoking in the shadows between the moth-eaten coats so I wouldn’t see her doubting, so she wouldn’t have to lie to me with an explanation that was only more or less true about our inexplicable reality. My parents reconstructed a country within a country, just for me.

  They called me Nadia, in honor of Lenin’s wife. In Russian: Нaдeждa. My name and I mean “hope.”

  Papá and Mamá delighted in constructing a nonexistent world, perhaps hoping to create a template for me. They made over whatever was ugly, multiplied what little we had so we could share, blurred whatever was horrible, and changed the subject so they wouldn’t be cornered without a way out. That was my recurrent nightmare: that I’d be trapped in one of those popular underground tunnels, where I’d end up suffocating.

  I grew up in my parents’ country. By the time I arrived, its inviolable borders were already drawn. Today I’m not so sure we all live in the same Free Territory of the Americas for which they struggled, but the country in their heads was a marvelous place. We rocked ourselves in a floating ideal, a non-place, a utopia at the very center of the Caribbean.

  My mother’s hands untangled unforgivable entanglements, repeated mistakes, the losses her mind couldn’t conceive. She’d drown in an angry sob, fall ashamed on the battlefield, whenever she was surprised by her own lies. She was tormented because she couldn’t come up with better arguments and would cough, intoxicated by nicotine and disillusionment, smearing her empty hands with salty tears. My mother ran because someone or something was stalking her. What we call the enemy was, for her, a reminder of her demons.

  My dear listeners, my mother is a martyr. My father, a hero. Enough of feeling guilty over what was bestowed on us. Those we saluted from the foot of the pedestal were riddled with doubts, were prey to panic. Weren’t they? Those people doubted, stepped back, disobeyed, were unfaithful or miserable; they were wrong. They divorced; they fell in love. Men and women made love standing up, with their boots on.

  My parents went mute when I asked for an explanation. The heroes turned to marble when we needed them to be human. Speak, damn it! The testimony to their existence is their wives, their children and grandchildren who moved among us in school, in crowds, at summer camp, when their faces told us more about their misgivings and detachment than any speech. Together we cultivated the art of the “necessary loss.” But are losses necessary?

  Resignation makes it so we think it’s natural to see your father’s face on a huge billboard or on a political poster. Do the people share your pain, or do you share the people’s pain? Do we all cry over the death of a loved one?

  The children of those martyrs who grew up with me don’t remember their parents either. They remember the heroes, yes, but not their parents. With their parents protected, their doubts camouflaged, it made it so I never knew much about my parents. In my more fanciful moments, I presumed I knew what they would be like in a normal state: at home, playing dominoes, sharing games.

  Since we never managed to experience our parents’ naiveté, since we could never be like them, who can possibly ask us—all of us—to be like the martyrs?

  Every morning I pledged what I couldn’t achieve: Pioneers for communism, we would be like Che. I didn’t even have the nerve to just stay quiet, like my mother. I spoke and gave myself away. I expressed myself and collapsed from the guilt of not being what I was raised to be or, better, designed to be.

  Maybe everything was a metaphor and not guilt. Did I ever know my parents? Did I ever know if they said yes when they wanted to say no? Will I ever know?

  I continue with a campaign of pretense. I defend myself because they want to wrench something from me, to take it from me—that much I know.

  Enough of this devotion to saints. I don’t owe the heroes a thing. I can’t swear loyalty with my hand to my forehead for even one more day of existence, because I won’t be able to keep my word. Since I was a girl, I’ve repeated their names like an automaton: a little slogan machine dressed up like a soldier, unable to pick up even a quarter from the floor. Not arguing with the unarguable, there goes my hand, up, stiff, to my forehead. Not asking questions, because “you don’t ask about what you know.”

  I throw flowers into the sea as I dry tears unfathomable for my age. What will Camilo think of me, given this poor bouquet? The water is carpeted with flowers, and I have brought him ten wilted carnations.

  I’m dressed in someone else’s clothes, olive green, patched and clean. Another Guerra uniform. I’ve learned to aim at an abstract target. What will be my real bull’s-eye?

  Do we owe everything to those heroes? Mamá and Papá, wherever you are, it looks like it was true: “Homeland or death” meant there was a chance we could die. Fall, collapse, faint. It was no metaphor, no. That we will triumph is a broad promise, marvelous and much bigger than us.

  The audio engineer—I’m not going to say his name—opens his eyes and nods. He always sleeps during these hours . . .

  Thank you for being with me. Even though we might not get a single call, we’re here.

  We’ve started the show today like a burst of machine-gun fire. Like certain American movies broadcast on Saturdays at midnight that set our nerves on edge. I’m the last Pioneer still awake, and I’m spending these wee hours with you. Where’s your family? (Silence on the other side of the glass.)

  Dear listeners, dear friends, I’m coming to you from an old sound booth where they used to sit my mom when the disc jockey failed to show up. In spite of the fact that she hated hearing her own voice, she was always here. She said the mics stole her soul.

  I can see her. I was little, but I remember. She stood here, in front of me, next to the audio engineer, leaning on the console and smoking, the script in her hand, ready to direct the broadcast. Even though she was intimidated by having to make sense of the news, to transform it, to manipulate reality, she still had to do it. And now here we are again, with the same smell of cork and intense nicotine, broadcasting something acceptable to you on a modulated frequency.

  Let’s stop these ideas with a burst of machine-gun fire . . . Let’s listen to some music, here on your station for life. I know, I’ve gone on too long, but I have this mic hanging from the sky, swaying with the perilous rhythm of my voice like a hangman’s noose. As I look on, this old gadget, an RCA Victor, refuses to be silent, defies time and the enemy’s abstract distance. Excuse me, aren’t we used to long speeches? All my life I’ve gone to bed and woken listening to an oration. I can’t forget the voice that haunts me. My memory wouldn’t fail me.

  Then let’s be quiet while listening to this piece I’ve pulled from our musical archives . . . It’s sepia, and don’t forget, you heard it all on a day like today, dateless, with nothing to celebrate, right here on Radio Sun City (48.9). I’m speaking on this modulated frequency, today, right now, because tomorrow they might pull me off the air forever. But this program airs so late or so early that hardly anyone monitors it. Whoever is listening to me in these wee hours of the night almost agrees with me. If the censors fell asleep and failed to cut this off, then let’s keep going on this nocturnal freeway . . . Then again, maybe nobody’s “watching out” for us. As a friend of mine used to say, “Just because we might be psychopaths doesn’t mean we’re being followed.” In any case, if that’s how it is, let’s say what we feel today; let’s not leave anything unsaid. Let’s breathe in this free space without guilt. Let
’s listen to the songs we learned for the marches or the jam sessions at the country schools, in all those empty parks in different towns, and on the steps of the university, singing in a chorus. But please, don’t forget this is Radio Sun City. No, you haven’t made a mistake. This is Nadia Guerra, and this is Daybreak with No One; we’re awake for you.

  We’re listening to Carlos Puebla’s voice, which reminds us of that song we used to sing in the camps and at school events . . .

  . . . of your beloved presence,

  Comandante Che Guevara . . .

  Dear friend, let’s talk like we’re intimate, so we can stop behaving like we’re part of the crowd and feel instead like we’re complicit in something more personal. The sleep-deprived, the night owl, the lunatic, everyone who’s listening to me knowing tomorrow I may not be able to divulge what I know today, what you’re also thinking and don’t say, just like our parents right here on this very same radio station in this city, or in one like it, when they stopped talking at this very same hour.

  Let’s get close . . . At this hour of the night, I can’t lie to you.

  Listen up, my dear watchman, sleepless girl, desperate poet, citizen of a slumbering city. Do you remember this record?

  You’re the music I have to sing: Tony Pinelli’s song in Pablo Milanés’s voice.

  I’d like to say what I’m feeling

  on a July day in the middle of the plaza . . .

  If they let us, like that old Mexican song says, we’ll go on with the show. For now, only if they let us, we’re going to ask ourselves some questions, the kind we usually swallow so we won’t get in trouble. It’s time now for interrogations.

  Right this minute, dear listeners, in this very “moment of spring,” almost no one will hear us. We’re a club with only four or five members, bohemians, kamikazes, united by a common idea: to share our personal truths. As individuals, we need to say in singular what we think in plural.

  Please call, interrogate yourselves, vent. If I’m still on the air, I’ll answer. I promise. Any inveterate night owl in our secret troupe is going to be on Daybreak with No One.