La Americana

by Melanie Bowden Simón

  On the front seat of my car sat an overstuffed, padded manila envelope. Inside were a handful of articles I had written for professors and the local paper in Athens, Georgia. It had been my first real job—writing about town happenings. I also brought along a thesis paper following the career of Tina Brown, who once headed The New Yorker and Vanity Fair.

  So, a year later after various temp jobs, when the head of a Manhattan entertainment staffing agency asked me if I knew who Tina Brown was and would I like to sit in as her second assistant at Talk magazine, I thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

  I sweated three interviews for a job that wasn’t even permanent. The first two rounds were with managing editors, and finally I qualified to meet with Margaret, Tina’s first assistant. In time, Margaret—or Mags as I now call her—became my dear friend, but at first she completely intimidated me. She is only slightly older than I was, but she was so very serious that it threw me. I had never met anyone my age so put together. Yet, behind the suit and her small, oval glasses, I sensed that she was fair.

  Fair she was. I started at Talk a few days later, knowing that, because of the stress level, a string of girls already had come and gone from the same job. I was innocent in a small-town kind of way and sat in a chair tucked in the far corner of the building, taking on any number of tasks that Margaret delegated to me. She briefed me on this, on that. Do this, try not to do that. And always—always—pick up the phone.

  I remember being horribly nervous when someone once asked me to take a Diet Coke to Tina in the middle of a meeting. She was with a group of Miramax execs, and I became nauseous at the thought of interrupting. Did Tina like ice? Would she want a straw? Would anyone even look at me?

  A couple of the girls ribbed me: Tina only likes one cube of ice and the straw cocked to the right side, not the left. NOT THE LEFT. Gallantly, I took the bait: I dropped one cube of ice in, but I couldn’t get the damn straw to stay on the right side. Finally, the girls caved in a fit of laughter, and caught in my own absurdity, I did too.

  It didn’t take long to realize that Tina didn’t care much about ice or straws. She had better things to think about. In its infancy Talk was a powerful magazine. Staff members frequently turned up in New York’s gossip columns or as inserts in other magazines for being fabulous, rich, and influential. Tina was known for throwing powerhouse parties, which were impressive to even the most impressive.

  I tried to take it all in stride, but when I helped set up an intimate dinner at her Manhattan home, with place cards that read BILL CLINTON, ROBERT DENIRO, and BARBRA STREISAND—among thirty or so others—it was hard for my heart not to skip a beat.

  Yet it was my mother’s excitement that spilled, as she became near giddy when I gave any insight, insipid or not, about our goings-on at work. In reality, her joy came from watching me chase my dreams—something she didn’t do at my age. When I was hired permanently as an assistant to Joe Armstrong, a vice president who crossed both the magazine and book divisions, my mom began to call me on my direct line routinely, enthusiastically, to make sure I had seen the most current gossipy bit on Talk or Tina. What she didn’t know was that if anyone in our office sneezed, it would be reported. Reported—it would be seized, scrutinized, stored, and rocketed to our office. The universe did not permit Talk media to go unnoticed.

  Her calls were brief and funny. This was her way of touching base with me in a nonintrusive way. However, one afternoon she called with news of her own. I was slammed at work, funneling one effort into the other. My job had become as physical as mental; I was up and down constantly, all but running a race to keep things moving as needed.

  Still, when Mom’s call came in, I picked up.

  “Hey,” I said. “I’m kind of crazy, but what’s up?”

  “Well”—and she paused slightly—“I went to the doctor today.”

  She had been feeling unusually tired and nauseous in the late afternoons, promptly at the five o’clock mark. I stopped multitasking and put down both the pen in my right hand and the papers in my left. I grabbed the receiver wedged into the crook of my neck.

  “OK. Are you OK?”

  “He found some unusual cells. They’re cancerous,” she said.

  Chapter 3

  Gringas in Castro’s Cuba

  I wished Mom could have been with me when I met Luis. He was strikingly handsome. In crisp blue jeans and a neatly pressed Havana Club T-shirt, he was elegant in every way—his bone structure, the way he sat, his jet-black hair shining in the sunlight.

  With his nod, his sky-reaching lashes flickered twice in a Morse code yes to our Havana Vieja trip request and turned left to align us again with the Malecón. He must have a huge ego, I thought. Way too pretty.

  I reset my sights and tried to take in the slideshow as we moved briskly next to the ocean. The late-afternoon sun cast a heavy shadow over the buildings. Life bustled inside those walls and across balconies where clotheslines were strung, but I couldn’t figure how anyone could live in something that looked like it might collapse at any moment.

  With their interiors on display, each piece of architecture is distinct. Many of the buildings are centuries old, ornate in their Spanish, French, and Greek rounds, curves, and columns. Other buildings are more modern, Art Deco I’d read, and most unfortunately, a handful salute the former USSR and its brief, but powerful 1980s reign in Cuba. The concrete block buildings looked ridiculously rude standing near the European beauties.

  In cultural overload I couldn’t absorb too many details, but as we moved quickly along the perimeter, the broad landscapes of pinks, greens, blues, and yellows reached inside me. Chills ran down my arms despite the ninety-degree temperature. The entire city looked as if it had been dipped into the ocean and pulled back up to dry with its colors faded and dripping.

  As I glanced to my left, a large rock formation appeared. Perhaps a tower was affixed to it, jetting over the sea. My eyes flashed down for a nanosecond, catching our driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he changed lanes. He looked back at me. As we neared the rock, my attention shot back to it, more fortress-like in its silhouette. Again, my eyes jumped to the side and I caught a glimpse of Luis’s hands. Smallish and square, they were clean and masculine in their grip of the taxi’s black handlebars. A white-faced Swatch with a silver and gold band circled his wrist precisely, as if Italian-tailored. In a minimal and exact language of its own, Luis’s span of gestures spoke within a tight body circumference. His legs stretched in direct line with the clutch and gas pedals, never once splaying, as his elbows tucked tightly into his sides. Slight head turns were the sole signals that we were about to curve in a new direction on Havana’s streets. And the only visible hint of stress detected in his otherwise confident structure peeped from his pink nails, which were bitten to the core.

  With force, I pushed my eyes back to the rock.

  “What is that?” I asked in Spanish.

  “You don’t know Cuba?” he said as he turned his head back to look at me. His Spanish was fast, but the comment was short so I got it.

  I shook my head no.

  With that, he crawled out of his clamshell and began to tell us about his city.

  What I was looking at was El Morro—a fort built by the Spanish in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries when Havana’s harbor was attacked repeatedly by pirates. I stretched as far back to history class as I could: In 1492 Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue. I remembered vague facts about Hispaniola, but not much about Cuba. I don’t think we ever learned more than Kennedy’s Bay of Pigs disaster in the ’60s.

  In Spanish-speaking countries, Columbus is referred to as Cristóbal Colón. He described Cuba as the “loveliest land ever beheld by human eyes.” Riding the country’s edge, it was easy to understand why.

  For transporting riches, Havana became a key stop between the new and old worlds. As a result, Havana was the most protected city in the Americas at that time. I had to read more later about the country’s history and
assume as much, because I didn’t get it the first go-round. Luis’s words were diluted by my inability to concentrate. I wanted to understand, but it was still too much work for me. Instead I fell into a trance of sorts, taken in by the ocean’s power. We eventually slowed to a stop in Plaza de Armas in Havana Vieja.

  Luis turned off the taxi and posed a question that I didn’t understand. Cynthia explained that he could come back later and give us a tour of Havana. He turned so we could talk in private. I jabbed Cyn with my elbow and widened my eyes. She laughed and told him, “Yes, please come back in an hour and a half.”

  “Adios, Luis,” we said in unison with a wave as we lowered ourselves onto the cobblestone walk.

  We moved on and crawled through an outdoor market that didn’t sell much more than plastic busts of Fidel Castro and Che, straw hats, and crocheted bikinis made for either ten-year-old girls or flagrant exhibitionists. Cyn and I redirected and navigated toward Havana’s side streets, large stones underfoot. We wanted to see, smell, and attempt to feel how locals lived, not how they peddled the same goods month in and month out.

  People were everywhere, sitting on the street and spilling from their front parlors. They laughed and talked with their hands as much as their mouths, but I quickly picked up on a uniform look of boredom. I had that same look the summer I spent collecting money at my post on Martha’s Vineyard where only a few visitors paid to cross the path to Chappaquiddick Beach. Many wanted to know if this was where Senator Kennedy had had his ill-fated night with Mary Jo. It was. They walked on and I remained in place, unimaginably bored.

  In my hometown of Savannah, residential doors typically stay closed, opened only by invitation, like most of the US. Yet, in the narrow streets of Havana, front doors and windows, with their decorative birdcage bars, were sprawled open, all but begging us to take a peek. There was no way around it: we were Curious Georges, leaving textbook chapters on communism and the Cuban Missile Crisis to American classrooms.

  Broken granite and tile floors were swept clean and topped with rocking chairs, oversize religious figures, and makeshift altars covered in what looked like beads, coins, and tapas-sized sweets. We heard blazing televisions, laughter, and the blended Spanish and African rhythms I love—salsa, son, and rumba. Together the sounds formed a paste, an actual texture in the air, which I instinctively sensed bound together more than just notes.

  Its essence registered in me, in the middle of all of that chaotic energy, and I was reminded of many New York nights, burrowed in crowded blues bars with my eyes closed, head swaying on beat. Like the music of Cuba, blues tells tales of oppression and inequality, tucked behind soulful riffs and a heavy dose of humor.

  It was after several blocks, speaking broken Spanish to locals, avoiding those that called out, “Hey, rubias (blondes),” or, “You, lady, you want be my friend?” that I fully appreciated the power of the music. It cupped my wobbly soul, and in turn, every ounce of me responded. My feet shuffled in constant motion, in small salsa swirls, pushing my hips to follow suit. On the street, in corner shops where we looked at postcards or in packed bars where we drank mojitos and Cuba Libres (this drink translates to Free Cuba, but what and who is free in Cuba, I wondered for a fleeting moment). Usually groups of three or four musicians and one singer in some variance moved me so much that I forgot where I was or who I was. The music possessed me and I welcomed it. It felt good to feel good.

  Men sat in chairs on street corners, refueling cigarette lighters with spray cans of propane gas. At home they would have thrown the used lighters away. Tourists and Cubans covered the streets while great automobile giants pushed through. VROOOOM, VROOOOM! The drivers floored the gas pedals in an attempt to clear the roads. The exaggerated masculinity gave the impression of flexed muscles in motion.

  Up close I could see that some of the car doors were clinging for their very lives. Flattened Coke cans were wedged in one; others were jacked up with tightly wound string or chicken wire. Coming to life in front of me were Cuba’s clichés–car windows down, raging good salsa, weeping boleros, and fat cigars hanging from thick fingers, trailing smoke behind them unapologetically.

  Patrolling the downtown blocks were well-armed and stone-faced policemen, meant to insure safety, but mostly, they made me feel uncomfortable. In their presence, the catcalls subsided, but the vast amount of militia was unnerving, as if Castro himself were watching my every move. After some time I realized that the guards were focused on their citizens, whom they watched and approached in uneasy closeness.

  The sense of adventure I felt walking those streets was distinct. I’ve always thrived on new energy, foreign languages, smells, and sounds, but there the sensations that passed through me were overwhelmingly powerful.

  I’ll say it—it was exhilarating to be somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. I’m not a hard rebel, but it was a little like sneaking a drink from your mom’s liquor cabinet at thirteen or getting into a bar with a fake ID for the first time at seventeen.

  What I wasn’t prepared for was the reality forming in front of me. The Cuban essence, so obviously based in pleasure, apparent in even the little bit I had seen, suppressed by such control, was scary. The paranoia was something I felt, though I didn’t understand, and it managed to creep into my system upon my arrival. The contrast of my curiosity, happiness to just be there, and newfound fear left me both intrigued and on edge.

  Cynthia’s healthy sense of direction eventually got us back to Point A after we wandered in what I thought was freestyle aimlessness. Had I been leading, we would have spent hours circling the beautiful cathedral in the Spanish-style square, situated in the middle of Old Havana.

  As we walked up, we spotted Luis sitting in his Cocotaxi, number 92, talking to another driver parked next to him. He was on time, which, from what I had read about Cuban culture, was a novelty.

  He looked at me and said, “Hola.”

  “Hola,” I returned meekly and jumped in the backseat without looking him in the eye. I flushed, embarrassed, though I didn’t know why.

  As soon as we took off, he and Cynthia started talking. I didn’t listen or try to decipher their conversation. It was overdrive for my brain and I was content to just feel.

  We swung in and around different neighborhoods: more into Old Havana, then Miramar and its Fifth Avenue, which used to hold the same reverence as its distant Manhattan cousin. The blocks were the picture of aged elegance, lined with mansions and a closed country club that I imagined once entertained American Coca-Cola and Ford execs. Like all businesses and private property, the buildings were rendered to the state in 1959 once Castro took office. Today they are home to foreign consulates and embassies, as well as government offices. Next we drove into a large plaza with a monolithic silhouette of Che on a concrete building. Though he represents peace around the world, the sheer size of his portrait loomed most unsettlingly. We’re watching you is all I felt. Maybe I had read too much. Maybe I needed to relax, not feed into the American hype.

  As Luis spoke, we turned to another monument for José Martí. The prolific intellectual, poet, and war hero died in 1895, defending Cuba in the War of Independence against Spain. His image can be seen throughout the country on a smattering of billboards and painted walls. Cuba’s deities were among us. Their power was distinct and so was my smallness.

  Eventually we made it back to Vedado, our hotel’s neighborhood, where Luis told us that he and his family had lived for many years (as noted by Cynthia who was translating about 90 percent of this to me). My interest in Luis and his family piqued slightly as we glided in front of his former house, a mansion with an enormous front patio and well-attended garden. Hot pink bougainvillea ran wildly over the stoop and was astoundingly beautiful in its disarray. The building itself was aged, but not abandoned. I caught something Luis said about running a B&B there. Tourists from all over stayed and loved his mom’s food.

  He said that they had lived there until recently, but had had to move. I might have asked
questions, but the US government’s website on Cuba had left me sufficiently paranoid about the country’s communist ways and many travel books warned of talking about any and all things political to locals. I assumed it was best to stay quiet.

  Luis pulled up to the hotel’s stoop. He and Cynthia talked about meeting up that night to go out. She was very clear—we wanted to go where locals went to dance. Gringas (white American girls) we were, but we wanted to shake it con Cubanos.

  Chapter 4

  Tick Tock

  July 2000

  When Mom told me about the cancer, I went mute. It was as if someone had slapped my mouth shut. The room started to spin and anyone who passed was a blurry vision.

  She told me that there was nothing to worry about. She might possibly have to do a little chemotherapy over the summer, but that would put the infantile cells out of their misery.

  “OK,” I said. I didn’t know how to respond. I was out of sorts, but chose to believe what she said.

  I hung up and not minutes later my boss, Joe Armstrong, walked in.

  “Mellll!” he called to me. Joe is from Texas and his way is fun.

  “Hi,” I responded, trying to put on a normal face.

  “Mel, can you put this in the mail for me, please?”

  “Sure,” I said as I took the bill and envelope from him. I stuffed it in with the accompanying check and pulled a stamp out from the drawer. I sealed it shut and put it on my desk.

  “Mel,” Joe said as he picked up the envelope. “Hon, the bill is turned around. The mailman won’t know where to deliver it.”

  He said it nicely, but I felt stupid. He’s going to fire me, I thought.

  “That won’t work, will it?” I said, forcing a meek laugh and I took it back. “Sorry. That won’t happen again.”

  “Mel,” he said, looking into me. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just a lot going on!” It was fake, that last exclamation I made, but I didn’t want him to feel like I couldn’t do my job. I also didn’t feel like answering questions about something I didn’t understand.