by Carlos Eire
This includes the current oppressor, Fidel Castro, who spent lots of time in New York and Miami, gathering funds and weapons with which to invade Cuba and topple Fulgencio Batista.
I’m only twelve and I know this. Every Cuban knows this, even the poorest illiterate peasant. You can’t get rid of the oppressor from within; you need to invade from across the sea.
But John Fitzgerald Kennedy is a man of his word, and groups such as the one I’m with today are hunted down by all sorts of American authorities, including the FBI. If they get caught, all of their gear and weapons are confiscated, and they’re prosecuted and sent to prison. The CIA has its own programs for dealing with Cuba, but they tend not to involve Cubans, and the few times they do, it always turns out poorly for the Cubans. We’re shut out from their operations, for the most part, except when they need expendable foot soldiers who will fall on their own swords.
Flash forward, nine years: A handful of Cubans break into the headquarters of the Democratic Party at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C., to look for documents that could link some Democrats to the Communist Party. In all of the news stories that follow, they are hardly ever mentioned by name. Even those for whom they’re working fail to refer to them by their names as they are hauled before all sorts of tribunals. To them and to the press, they’re simply “the Cubans.” Everyone else involved who is not Cuban is always mentioned by name. All of the Cubans end up in prison.
Back to the Everglades, and 1963.
Tony and I are there with Juan Becquer, who has come to our rescue once again. Every two or three weeks he pick us up after we’re done with our cleaning chores on Saturday and he brings us to his house. Almost every time we go to his house, there’s some sort of surprise. This weekend it’s men training for war. His role in all this is not clear to us. He’s not giving orders or taking them. He’s some sort of manager who seems to make things happen.
The Becquers are no longer living in the wooden shotgun shack. They’ve moved up to a small duplex apartment in a slightly less rundown neighborhood. I’ve never seen any building like theirs before. From the outside it looks like one house, but it has two front doors and two back doors, right next to each other. It’s about a thousand square feet, at most, and it contains two apartments. We can hear everything that goes on in the other apartment, and they can most certainly hear us. But it’s all right. The neighbors are Cuban too. Everyone in that redbrick duplex is used to loud voices.
Getting away from the Palace Ricardo is a blessing, anytime. Going away for a day and a half is an especially wonderful treat, even if there isn’t much to do at the Becquer house. But they do try to keep us amused, along with their two young kids: a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. Tony and I have trouble relating to kids that age, but it doesn’t bother anyone. That house is a beehive, like every refugee household. It’s a vortex of constant activity within minimal space, crammed full of bodies. When Tony and I come to visit that five-hundred-square-foot apartment, it houses four adults and four children.
And no one seems to care about personal space.
Tony and I depend on these getaways, for it’s the only real calor de familia in our lives, the only semblance of normalcy. Juan and Marta Becquer are as nice to us as possible, and so are Marta’s Spanish parents. Whatever they’re doing includes us. We go shopping with them. We run errands of all sorts. We go to the beach. And we go to drive-in movies all the time. The oldsters stay at home, but the rest of us pile into a station wagon and usually take in a double feature. We have to pay only one entrance fee for the car, regardless of how many of us are inside. Refugees couldn’t ask for a better deal.
I can’t make up my mind whether I like drive-ins or not. There’s definitely something magical about the outdoor setting. All those cars, parked beneath a giant screen, under the stars. The snack shack at the back; the constant foot traffic back and forth to that spot; the food itself, which tastes better than that in normal movie theaters. It’s more like a carnival than a theater. And it reminds me of those outdoor film parties that our neighbors the Italian priests used to hold on our street in Havana. Like anything that’s taken out of a familiar setting, the weirdness of it all makes it very special. But there’s a downside too. The heat, for starters. There’s no way to escape it. And in South Florida, you are always guaranteed heat at night. Then, those tiny speakers that you hang on your car’s window are all as crappy as any speaker could possibly be. Listening to the sound track through them is hard work, especially with all of the ambient noise. Need I mention the bugs? This is Miami, after all, and the Everglades are never far away.
The Becquer kids bring pillows and blankets and usually fall asleep quickly in the back of the station wagon. Good thing, too. Some of the movies we see are not exactly kids’ fare. Not because of sex scenes or foul language, which haven’t yet made their way to the screen in 1963, but because of their themes. Above all, because they’re so boring that you just want to scream. One double feature almost caused me to have a stroke: two insufferably turgid films with Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward: From the Terrace and The Long Hot Summer.
Returning to the Palace Ricardo on Sunday evenings is always hard, even after sitting through two lousy movies in a hot car. Anything is preferable to being in that house.
Of course, I give little thought to how the Becquer family is going beyond and above anything that they might be expected to do for two kids who aren’t related to them. Instead, all I can think about is why they don’t rescue us every weekend.
How I wish someone would.
I’ve stopped thinking about my real family back in Cuba. They may as well be dead, for, in essence, they are. Talking to them on the phone in three-minute increments every two months is a lot like talking to the dead through a Ouija board: You’re never quite sure that those on the other end are anything but a figment of your imagination. Their letters are no better: They’re always the same. Sometimes I get the feeling that there’s only one letter, which I keep receiving again and again, with only one word or two changed. They’re always fine, and our mom is always trying so hard to find a way out of Cuba. And then there’s the same reassurance in letter after letter. It reminds me of the echo we used to play with at the Bosque de La Habana, on the cliffs above the Almendares River, which reverberated a few times before fading away. Our mom will be with us soon. Very soon, very soon, very soon . . . I read the same words every week, and with every reading they get fainter and fainter. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette can’t say that we’ll be joining them there because all of the mail is opened and read by the Cuban authorities and if you say anything of that sort, which might imply that you think that Castrolandia will cease to exist, your letter gets destroyed and it never reaches its destination.
Deep down, I dismiss all hope of ever being reunited with my family. It’s not despair that I feel, but sheer numbness, even indifference. I don’t even have to make a conscious effort not to think about my parents, or anyone else. As I scheme ever more intensely to kill Carlos, time acquires a whole new feel for me. I have no past, and no future. All I have is the present, which is eternal. Even next week seems a long way off. Forget next year: That’s way too far away, and not much different from a hundred years or a thousand.
The world has a past, which I’m beginning to discover as I grow ever fonder of history. But I have no past at all. This, too, makes history even more intriguing, for the world seems to have a dimension I lack.
At the Palace Ricardo no one is forced to write to their parents. We’re forced to do all other sorts of stuff, but not that. I write anyway, and Lucy supplies me with an envelope and a stamp. Tony doesn’t like to write. I encourage him, but Tony is not one for doing anything he doesn’t really want to do. My letters are always the same too. We’re fine. Can’t wait to see you again. School is great. Miami is great. This house is so nice.
One of the few pieces of advice that Lucy Ricardo has for us is this: If you write to your parents, never
, ever tell them that anything is wrong. Tell them that everything is all right and that you’re very happy here. They can’t do anything to help you, so it’s best if you don’t worry them too much about stuff they can’t fix.
Good advice, especially when it comes to Tony. He’s not doing well at all. Lucy and Ricky ride him hard, and the Thugs are always after him for something or other. He’s always getting into fistfights with the guys in the back room. And more than once, Ricky Ricardo beats him up, badly. One time in particular was especially bad.
One of those odd afternoons when Ricky is home, he takes it upon himself to check all our drawers to make sure our clothes are neatly put away. When he gets to Tony’s he blows a gasket.
“Que coño es esto? What the hell is this? Look at this mess! Who do you think you are; where do you think you are, maricón? Do you think you’re still in your mansion back in Miramar where some maid or nanny will come and straighten out the mess for you?”
“No,” says Tony. “I was expecting you to do it for me.”
Ricky starts swinging away at Tony, and Tony tries to fight back. The kid lands a few punches, but Ricky is too big for him. He pins him to the wall and starts pounding away at him with his fists and feet, spewing venom from his mouth with every blow.
“Cabrón, requetesinvergüenza, maricón, who’s going to help you now? Where’s your father? Where’s the all-important judge? Huh? Let him come and help you now, you worthless privileged turd!”
And so on. Why elaborate? The insults and the foul language get viler and viler with every punch and kick, but one rhetorical question that Ricky keeps asking again and again sums it all up, and probably hurts Tony more than any bruising blow.
“Where’s your father now?”
Good question, Ricky. Great question. I’ve been asking it myself.
And where am I? Why don’t I do something to stop you? Why don’t I run to the kitchen, get a knife, and stab you in your big fat gut? Or, better yet, why don’t I come over there and slice you open, rip out your innards, and stuff Tony’s clothes inside of you, all neatly folded? Why don’t I cut off your tongue and cram your mouth full of dirty underwear?
I do nothing. I know better. I’m still a lot smaller than Tony. And this place is a lot like those Nazi concentration camps I’ve seen in movies. Every act of defiance is met with disproportionate cruelty.
The beating stops. Ricky takes the drawer out of the dresser and empties its contents over Tony’s head.
“Now, clean up this mess,” he growls.
This is followed, of course, by a few more inventive insults. Ricky was as much of a poet laureate when it came to swearing as the Three Thugs. And since he was older and more experienced in the ways of the world, one might say that he actually topped all three of them combined.
Fade to black.
Several beatings later, Tony is just as defiant. No one is going to make him fold his clothes neatly. No one can make him do anything. And no one can make him cry, either.
Unfortunately, his defiance extends to school, where he just shuts down. He drifts through Citrus Grove Junior High School like the opposite of a ghost. While a ghost is a spirit without a body, Tony is now a body without a spirit. A zombie. He goes to class and sits at his desk, and he’s counted as present, but he’s not really there at all. He’s more absent than the kids whose desks are empty. God only knows where he is, and how far down he’s managed to dive into the abyss he brought with him from Cuba. I feel him growing ever more distant from me too. I know he’s there, with me, but I also know that he’s not all there. I sense an impenetrable force field around him, which grows stronger and stronger with every passing day.
Fade to black again.
It’s springtime, which really doesn’t mean anything in Miami, except that it’s now starting to get really hot. Report cards are handed out. We have to bring them home and get them signed by our “parent or guardian.” Tony’s report card could win a prize for consistency. Straight Fs. There’s a certain beauty to it, physically. That one column filled with the same letter.
My own report card isn’t anything to brag about. I’m finding it hard to focus on school. For the first time in my life, I get lots of Cs, and comments from Miss Esterman about how she knows I can do better than that, and how I should buckle down, put more effort into my school-work, and take it more seriously.
Ricky and Lucy Ricardo couldn’t care less. They sign our report cards and say nothing. But Juan Becquer does care. He’s been keeping an eye on our grades, even though he’s not our legal guardian. When he sees Tony’s Fs he loses his cool and does what no one should ever do with Tony. He tries to modify his behavior through punishment.
“No time with us this weekend,” says Juan. “You’ve got to stay here. You can’t be rewarded. You’ve got to learn responsibility, to realize that there’s always a price to pay for every screwup. You stay here this weekend and think about what you’ve done, and how you can improve. We’ll take Carlos.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Even as a twelve-year-old I know that this is no way to deal with Tony. This is only going to push him in the opposite direction. And it’s unfair. If he can’t go, then I don’t want to go either.
“I’m staying with Tony,” I say.
“Oh no, you’re not,” says Juan. “You’re coming with me. No arguments.”
Several minutes of protesting and arguing get me nowhere, especially because Lucy steps in and orders me out of the house.
Tony says, “You’d better go; I’ll be all right. Go before there’s more trouble.”
I know it’s wrong, but I can’t do anything about it. I get into the car with Juan and drive away, and that weekend proves to be the most miserable of all, ever. I feel dirty, literally, as if my body is covered with slime. And it’s heavy, this dirt; it weighs me down. I’ve got something else inside that’s even heavier. I can’t locate it, physically, but I feel it inside, everywhere. Nothing has ever pressed down on me like this. Nothing has made it so impossible for me to feel good about anything, or so easy for me to hate everyone in the world, and myself most of all.
Judas must have felt like this, I think. “No wonder he hanged himself,” I say out loud, as I wander aimlessly around the Becquers’ yard. I study the blades of grass, so thick, so rough. I can’t look up to the sky, the weight on me won’t allow it. I bury every other memory from that lost weekend in my Vault of Oblivion, save for one: Juan Becquer lecturing me about responsibility, trying hard to convince himself that he’s done the right thing.
Fade to black, once more.
Flash forward, a few months. The Becquers have moved again. Now they’re in a larger and nicer place in Hialeah, an area that confuses me because it’s in Miami, but not part of it. It’s quickly filling up with Cuban refugees, and for the first time ever I see an English Spoken Here sign in Hialeah. The Becquers actually have a whole house to themselves, about twice the size of their duplex.
Hialeah is far away from the Palace Ricardo.
Tony tells me that the Becquers have invited us to their house for the weekend, but that Juan can’t pick us up and we’re supposed to get there by bus.
“Are you sure?” I ask. This sounds odd to me.
“Yeah. I took the phone call while you were outside.”
It could be true. I’d been outside for a long time, catching grass-hoppers. It was like a Biblical plague out there: thousands upon thousands of grasshoppers everywhere. Maybe they were locusts. They weren’t green. No. They were black, with some yellow and red. And they were huge. I was filling jars with them, by the handful, just because they were there and seemed worth capturing.
Someone had to stop them. And Lucy Ricardo had a lot of empty jars saved up.
“Are you sure?” I ask again. “You’re not making this up, are you?”
“I swear to God, I’m not lying. They want us to come over.” Lo juro; mal rayo me parta. I swear; may I be cleft in two by a bad lightning bolt.
Somewhere along the route, on the second or third bus, we have an unpleasant experience with a bus driver who wants to send us to the back of the bus when he hears us speaking Spanish. And it’s not just the bus driver who gives us a hard time, but some of the passengers too. I bury the details deeply in my favorite Vault, and make sure they can’t ever be fully accessed. I decide I’ll remember only the nature of the unpleasantness, but not the unpleasantness itself. I do remember the word spic being used several times, however, and Tony saying, “No way we’re budging from these seats up front. Don’t even think about it. Stay put.”