The wigs. The wigs! Only two colonial white wigs were in good enough shape to put on the heads of the soldiers. Luis spins magic when he’s on and he worked it. He offered to help pay to clean them. Anything, he’d do just about anything to get married there. Finally, he bartered with our tale. Cubans live for stories and the woman fell deeply into ours. Onboard, she called the department in Cuba’s version of the White House that oversees religious ceremonies to request specific permission for a Cuban and an American to get married on base. Three days before the wedding, we still didn’t have an answer. I was sick-to-my-stomach nervous. Becky asked me what we were going to do if we couldn’t get married there. I had no idea and trusted that Luis had something else lined up. I couldn’t think about it.
In the meantime, Becky and I went to see the Cake Lady. We sat in the salon of the ranch-style home and flipped through pages of cake photos, as well as flower arrangements. After making decisions, she assured us that both the flowers and the cake would be at the wedding, wherever that might be, and the reception hall. There was no management control, no one to hold accountable. I had to trust her. I felt sick again.
We did get word, shortly thereafter, that we had been approved for the military base. So while we were with the Cake Lady, Luis bolted to take care of the invitations, which he would hand deliver to eighty friends and family members the day before the wedding, seeing as there is no postal service in Cuba.
A computer whiz Luis called El Flaco for his slim build agreed to the task of invitation design.
“I want something old-fashioned,” Luis told El Flaco. “I don’t want any of the cookie-cutter square invites.”
Luis wanted to create invitations that resembled something like a scroll, on the same sort of paper used when mail was delivered horseback-style.
“It’s a great idea,” El Flaco said. “But what kind of paper are we going to use?”
Wax. Luis wanted wax.
“Ven acá,” he said, looking Luis directly in the eye. “Do you know how hard it is to find wax paper on the island?”
“Sí,” said Luis, with that killer Aries charm fully on. The poor soul was hooked and reeled.
Not only was he was ready to do it, but he was going to do it. At 1:00 a.m., Luis got a phone call. The man found the paper.
“Encontré papel! ENCONTRÉ PAPEL! VEN.”
He had found the paper through someone who knew someone in the Havana Archives department and insisted that Luis go right then to look at it.
“Haceré, don’t get divorced this year,” they guy joked when Luis walked in the door.
The paper was perfect, but the guy called again the next day, out of breath, saying that the ink wasn’t catching on the paper. Luis ran to his assistance and together they worked it out.
The rest of the time was nuts. The day of the wedding, the Cake Lady asked Luis to get some ingredient for the meringue, or the cake would fall apart in the heat. That morning, as I sat with friends and family in the back garden of the Nacional, Luis hurried back and forth, clearly ragged, with a near beard on his face. I felt badly for him and asked what I could do, but he told me it was just easier for him to do all.
Later, upstairs in Becky’s room, my girlfriends and I all got ready. Beck and Allie stayed out of sight as they used the small steamer to get the deep creases out of my dress. It had been hanging for three days, but the work to be done on it was sizable. For the first time, I began to act the part of a slightly neurotic bride. I laughed at their jokes, which they were doling out to keep the energy light, but from time to time I took the bait.
Allie had taken on the unenviable task of assembling my loads of short hair layers into a tousled bun, which would hide well under my veil. She sprayed a hefty amount of product on the back end of my hair, but when she tried to do the same up front, I snapped.
“Not so much!”
Her eyes rolled and she tried to calm me down. I apologized for being an ass, making fun of my absurd behavior. Sweet Al, she did a great job on my hair, just like a pro. I must say I did a good job on my makeup. Beck and the girls all helped me get on my dress, which was spectacular. I don’t know how they did such a good job. I told everyone to go get ready themselves and that Beck and I would see them at the service.
About twenty minutes before Luis and I were to marry, Walter called to say that the buses to pick up all the guests had not arrived. Short with him (I still feel guilty), I asked the only one of our friends who spoke Spanish to get every guest into a cab and tell the driver exactly where to go.
Wedding day car, April 26, 2003 (Corinna Robbins).
Upon confirmation that all of the Americans were in transport, I made my way to the entrance of the hotel and looked down onto a cream-colored 1925 Ford with a black soft top, resting on the driveway’s Hotel Nacional emblem. It was deeply cared for, not a note of discoloration on its frame. A delicate, white bow perched on the front headlight and drew long tiers of ribbon to smaller white blossoms on two side mirrors. Luis had gone through so much trouble to make everything perfect and this was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I was getting married!
The driver greeted me and offered his hand to help me down the marble steps and then up into the backseat of the car. Walter and Becky joined me. As we drove along the Malecón, the ocean brought perspective. How far I had come.
(Terry McNeal)
We wove in and around the cobblestones until we stopped at a circle. From there we were moved from the car to a horse and buggy with a female driver, fitted in a black hat and red tailcoat. In a slow clip clop, we wound through the colonial fort until we reached the small chapel. Walter and Becky got out before me to take their seats in the church.
Moments later, I floated as I walked to the doorway. A violinist played “Ave Maria” in the back corner of the church, signaling my entrance, per our rehearsal the day before. I focused on Luis, standing at the front of the aisle, looking at me with such wonder. His eyes are what I remember most. They were huge, boring into me.
The sensation of seeing him while passing my American family and friends, who sat next to Luis’s, was entirely strange and exhilarating.
Luis took my hand as I stood next to him. Quietly, he said, “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I returned, gently.
Two priests stood in front of us. The female priest spoke in Spanish and to my surprise, her male counterpart translated all into English. It was a brief ceremony that ended as Luis and I were joined with a band of white cloth. We kissed and that was that. We were married! The priests led us to a table covered in white lace and tropical flower arrangements. The Cake Lady had pulled through.
After signing our names to a register, we were official in the eyes of the church: Mr. and Mrs. Luis Simón. It was a requirement that Luis and I marry in the United States within three months of his arrival, which we would do at the local courthouse, but as far as we were concerned, that was an afterthought.
Colonial Redcoats stood just outside the chapel, their muskets crossed in an upside down V. Luis and I were lifted into the carriage and rode slowly through the fortress, stopping a handful of times for photographer’s shots. I could sense that Luis was uptight. There was still, in his mind, much that could go wrong, though the wigs were in shape, clean and fitted on the eight soldiers who saluted us as we made the final lap of our ride. One off his list, anyway.
Wedding day, El Morro Cabaña, April 26, 2003 (Corinna Robbins).
When we reached the guest congregation area near the fort’s entrance, we quickly realized that several of the private cars Luis had hired to carry them all were no-shows. The sky was growing dark and our driver all but begged us to get in the backseat of the Ford, as he unlatched the top hatch to push it back and down. Luisito, by then, squeezed his little body in between us, fascinated with the antique latch settings.
We helplessly watched as our family and friends crammed into the few cars there. Happily, they waved and told
us not to worry. I saw Luis’s jaw tighten, in what he may have presumed was a premonition of what was to come. I’m sure he imagined the cake melting, flyaway Canadian chickens, a nonfunctioning open bar, or a salsa band that would never show. He didn’t tell me until after the fact, but he wasn’t even sure that they were going to let us in the chapel that day, permission or not.
Wedding day, Hotel Nacional (Corinna Robbins).
I held his hand over Luisito’s lap in my best efforts to will him to relax. Gray clouds quickly turned into black as we rode along the Malecón. I hoped we’d make it to the reception dry, but really, I didn’t care. People cheered and clapped from the street and we waved and smiled back. The rain held and we quickly took pictures in the back of the Hotel Nacional.
In the reception area, a large room where Compay Segundo had played so many times, two bars were set up, gorgeous flowers were in place, and the wedding cake was on a stand. The musicians were onstage, testing their mikes, and as we learned later, chicken and fish with their accompanying rice, beans, and other dishes were all served well by attentive waiters.
After dinner, we headed for the dance floor. Barefoot with my skirt bunched in my hands, I celebrated as the sky fell in and water came in hard streams from various points of the roof. Men with mops raced across the floor in their best drying efforts, but none of us cared, Luis included by then, as we danced for the better part of the night.
Late into the night, Luis and I took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Rose petals in front of the door led through the foyer and into the shape of a heart on our bed.
Shoes off, Luis wriggled his cuff links loose while I looked outside the window and down onto the moonlit gardens.
Luis walked behind me and looped his arms around, folding his hands at my waist. He kissed the back of my neck.
“Te amo,” Luis whispered in my ear.
My left hand raised and stroked the side of his head, which was resting on my shoulder. A slight turn of my neck and we were lip to lip.
“Te amo también,” I returned, water in my eyes. “I love you too.”
Chapter 45
Tobacco, Mangoes, and the Horseback Cafecito
Many of my American guests headed back home the next day while a few traveled on in Cuba. Luis and I spent the next three days in the countryside of Pinar del Río, on the western end of the island, in a small house situated on a finca, one of Cuba’s farms.
To go from the madness of the previous days to that felt like we were the only people on the planet. In our room of open-shuttered windows, we woke to chirping birds and roosters crowing. We rocked in chairs and swayed in hammocks on the front porch, which sat among an exquisite overflow of vines and bright red and violet tropical flowers with their clean and sweet scent.
Mountains created a long-distance panorama and a walk on a dirt path and small bridge over a pond brought the sound of a small rush of water. In front of the fall, we ate fried chicken and handmade, matchstick French fries under a mob of stars, a cool breeze off-setting the night. We were so happy it was ridiculous.
The second day in, Luis managed to get me on a horse, something I hadn’t done since I was a young child. My horse was mild-mannered, really a bit too slow, but that suited me just fine. We trailed slowly off the finca and down the paved road until our guide detoured through grassy fields and plots of corn, tobacco, and mango, littered with dilapidated, wooden homes. Chickens, pigs, and cows strutted and grazed their rows, but humans were scant.
Coming to a halt at the face of a straw hut, Luis put his hand out to help me off the horse and I slid with a thud to the ground. He disappeared inside, calling me to come in. Pitch-black inside, I turned on the bright light of our video camera. I nearly jumped at the sight of what looked like scores of bats hanging upside down. As my vision focused, I saw the outline of tobacco leaves, which, as Luis explained, were drying until ready to be processed.
We walked back outside and it began to drizzle. As we hopped back on the horses (I was starting to look like a real pro), we trotted back down the same trail until we hit a minor incursion with overgrown roots. My horse was not going to budge. Luis and the guide were instructing me what to do, but I wasn’t so polished in equestrian Spanish. Amused, Luis hopped off his horse to come pull mine down. But that old horse still was not going to move. I had to get off and let Luis ride him out, which he did with immense ease.
I asked the guide if he lived in the area and learned that indeed, we were going to pass his house at any moment. We veered off the main path and cut through a series of homes until we landed, quite literally, on his doorstep. His wife came out and handed us un cafecito, and we threw back the three sips sitting on top of our horses. Off we went.
Rain began to come down hard and my white clothes turned a nice shade of burnt orange with patches of dark gray. Starting to chill, with my ponytail matted to my head in various segments, I was reminded of being ten years old and sliding down clay mountains in North Carolina with my dad and brother. That was a happy, carefree time in my life and so was this.
On the fourth morning, we returned to Havana to see Luisito off to Guatemala. My heart ached for Luis having to say goodbye to his son. After spending several good hours with him at the house and the airport, Luis was quiet on our drive to Veradero, where we would spend the next three days. It rained most of the time, save one gorgeous afternoon at the beach, but neither of us cared much. I am always touched by the beauty of Cuba’s ocean and sands, regardless of the weather.
Chapter 46
Acceptance
Leaving Luis was torturous, and as much as I tried to integrate back into work, it was near shell shock. I functioned numbly in daily work efforts, feeling dismayed. Life seemed to be on permanent pause.
We survived the next nine months, emotionally and financially, with four kamikaze trips I made to the island, funded completely by the work of Cuban artists.
After meeting with our artist friend, Alejandro Montesino, I carried his bold and colorful canvases, rolled under my arm from Havana, through Mexico, and back to Savannah, in what was a test sales run. I unfurled the paintings on the floors of real estate offices and Savannah’s high-ceiling homes for Americans riveted by access to the oil-based, Cuban portraits. The pieces flew from my hands and the next couple of trips to Havana led me to the homes of various artists in search of more marketable items.
Alejandro, Luis, and I climbed dusty, beaten stairs in Old Havana to meet an artist living in a cubed apartment nearly wallpapered in lithographs and sculptures. We drove to the suburbs to view enormous, detailed countrysides by the prolific landscape artist, Ernesto Estévez, and spent time with him and his extended family, who to the contrary, had a large, modern home.
Melanie and Luis in Alejandro Montesino’s art studio (courtesy of Melanie Simón).
Further sales allowed me to eventually set up a couple of shows in Savannah and interest was high. But perhaps more than just needed funds, the art gave us something positive to focus on until Luis’s visa papers were approved and processed, whenever that was to happen.
And then, one afternoon in early January 2004, in one of my twice daily ritual calls to the US Visa hotline number, with the phone loosely holding on to the outer edges of my ear, I got a surprise: US immigration had approved our case. The phone went down, and I jumped and threw my arms around one of the girls at work. I swayed with her side to side, in crying, broken fits of laughter.
“What is it, Mel? What is it?”
I didn’t say a word, locked on to her, and eventually, she cried and laughed, too, absorbing my joy for what it was.
After work, I raced home to call Luis, who was out and unreachable, and then Walter. Carrying on, over the moon, I was in midsentence when a powerful wave passed under my nose. It could have knocked me over. I froze, my eyes watered. It was my mother’s scent—that distinct combination that belongs only to your mother.
I said to Walter, flatly: “Mom was just here.”
> He didn’t say anything back. Maybe he thought I was crazy. I thought I was crazy. I found myself sniffing around the kitchen, desperate to understand. It had to have been an apparition or my imagination. But I knew, with all in me, that it wasn’t.
Alone in the house, I was absolutely terrified, confused. I excused myself from the phone and went upstairs and sobbed. I came back down minutes later and sat at the kitchen table again.
A test of sanity, perhaps. Boom, in moments it happened again. Her scent, as vibrant as if she had been standing directly in front of me, whooshed under my nose again. I breathed in hard jerks, fighting to hold it because that time I knew my instincts were correct—my mother had just visited me. Yet she was gone just as quickly as she came.
I could only assume that she let me know that she was with me on that very big day, the one in which I knew that I had a real, tangible future with Luis.
I didn’t tell another soul for ages and I never brought it up with Walter again. At times I wrestled with what had happened and questioned its validity. I wondered if my senses had simply conjured up her memory in a quest to make me feel even better on that day, though I wasn’t consciously looking for her. But then again, maybe I was.
Yet, the same experience happened again and again, sporadically, over the next few years. Deep down I’ve always known it’s her, not just a fluke of the mind. And while her brief appearances, which typically come at mundane and downright boring moments in my life—cleaning my house or watching a movie—used to upset me, I now appreciate them greatly. Her presence in this different form doesn’t scare me anymore. I take her as she is and very much cherish her being near me. I do sink a bit and can’t help but miss her, but I will always welcome those fleeting moments.
They are a great gift from her. My gift back to her is acceptance.
La Americana Page 17