I was feeling so angry and humiliated it didn’t hit me straight away. But then I realised what Papi had said. “They’re leaving Cuba?”
“They’ve sold their house; he only got half what it’s worth. He’s bought an apartment in Miami. Can you imagine living in an apartment? What kind of life is that?”
“What’s in it for Esmeralda’s father then?”
“You’re like the son I never had,” he said, admiring my calculation. “It’s like this: they’re both hedging their bets. Angel’s father has an option in America if things go bad here. If things carry on like they are, Salvatore gets half of his casino in Marianao.”
“If things go bad?”
“There’s a lot of frightened people in Havana these days, they worry about what will happen if Batista goes.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“The same thing that happened when the last president was thrown out. We get a new dictator and carry on like we did before. It doesn’t matter whether they have a beard and a green uniform or wear a suit with a gardenia in the buttonhole. If it’s power they want, they’ll stop at nothing to get it, and that’s their political position. Why shouldn’t we have a president who wears a forage cap? I think it will make a refreshing change.”
“Would you ever leave Havana, Papi?”
“Why would I leave? We’ve been here for three hundred years. Our blood is in this country, there’s a dozen generations of our family buried here. I’m not like Macheda, I can’t walk away from the country that made me what I am.” He patted my knee. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.” He stood up. “Now I’m going to get ready for dinner. The smells from the kitchen are making me hungry.”
I waited until he had gone upstairs to his room before I stopped smiling. It was making my face hurt. I saw Maria watching me from the kitchen. She knew, of course; not the details, but a woman knows when another woman is lying.
I got up and went outside. The afternoon humidity was suffocating. There had been a brief shower during the afternoon; I remembered hearing the shutters bang in the wind while I was making love to Angel. But now it had passed, it only made the air feel even hotter.
Luis was polishing the car in the shade of the ceiba tree that dominated the driveway. He had stripped off his shirt, and his black muscles gleamed with sweat.
He had the car radio tuned to Radio Rebelde, and when he saw me he looked up guiltily and quickly tuned it to another channel. He frowned and stopped what he was doing, the polishing cloth twisting between his fingers.
I leaned on the bonnet. “You know where I was this afternoon, don’t you, Luis?”
He nodded.
“This is our secret.”
“I know what a secret is.”
“And you know I know yours.”
Another nod.
“Good,” I said. “We understand each other.”
As I walked away he came around the car and rubbed at the coachwork where the rich bitch had left her sweaty handprint.
I went back inside, dreading the ritual of dinner. I loved spending time with Papi, but tonight I didn’t know what to do with myself. Acting as if everything was all right was torture. Three years Angel had chased me, watching me through the window when I was at dance school, always pushing his way to the front whenever our drama class put on a play. Sometimes he would park his car in the street outside my window and play his radio too loud and stare up at the window.
Papi never let him near me, Angel had a reputation, and even if he didn’t, Papi wasn’t going to let me go out with a boy without a duenna. But I always knew I was going to be his one day, and it was fun making him wait. I was beautiful, I knew it from the looks I got in the street, but he was my perfect fit, the one I had chosen as the handsome prince for the lonely princess.
So how could he choose some other girl? How could he?
I had been a virgin before him, I had given him the prize every other man in Havana would have died for. He had thrown it back in my face.
This was not how it was meant to be.
Was it love or was it just pride? All I knew was there was only one man in my life, and I wasn’t going to let some skinny American puta get in the way of what was rightfully mine.
Chapter 3
Angel was undressing another girl, and she was beautiful, with blonde American hair and pink American nipples and big American breasts. He was kissing her and telling her how lovely she was and how much he loved her. He had her dress off, his hands were all over her, and she was unbuttoning his pants and I was standing over the bed screaming at her: “Take your hands off that, it’s mine.”
I opened my eyes. I glanced at my papi sitting next to me in the back seat of our Chevy Bel Air and smiled.
I stared out of the window. Whores in short pink skirts lounged in doorways, a mulatto in a straw trilby carried a sheet of lottery tickets, newsboys hawked newspapers, there was a fruit vendor selling melons with a huge cigar stuck in his mouth.
As always, there was too much traffic on the Paseo; trucks piled with pineapples and bananas and sugar cane bumping their way through the potholes, big American Fords and Chryslers honking their horns, goats and pigs wandering across the road. They never got above ten miles an hour.
I hated this crush; I just wanted to get there. I was nervous. I had spent all day getting ready, trying on dresses, putting on makeup. I stole a glance at myself in the rearview mirror. How could he say no to me?
Papi must have read my mind. “You look beautiful,” he said and smiled. “All the boys will be after you.”
“I don’t care for boys.”
Luis looked at me in the mirror. His eyes were hard.
“One day someone will come along and sweep you off your feet,” Papi said.
One already had. But how could I tell him that?
Papi was anxious and bad tempered whenever we went out. Men always stared and he didn’t like it. If they stared too hard he would walk right up to them and put his finger in their faces and warn them off. But today the ones staring would all be friends, or sons of his friends, and I had decided I would give them something to stare at. I would smile back at all of them and make Angel burn with jealousy.
I had dressed in white, bare shoulders but no cleavage, my black hair in a French braid, and my red tango shoes.
A woman could dress like a virgin, but you always knew her soul by her shoes.
I could see now what had happened. Angel’s father was a big pushy man who talked over the top of his wife and sweated too much and smoked fat cigars. I imagined how easily he could have bullied Angel into this. I would talk to him about it today, we would work something out, run away together if we had to.
I made the decision that I would forgive him. I would be his mistress if that’s what it took, all I knew was that I could not let him go.
But another part of me was screaming: Who are you fooling, Magdalena? Would you really shame your Papi like that? Could you go keep going behind his back, run off with some boy and leave him alone? Of course you couldn’t.
You are loca.
Can you really stand the disappointment on his face when he finds out about this? And he will find out, you know he will.
There were other things that were eating at me. The invitation to Angel’s engagement party had arrived the day after our last afternoon together. Yes, how would he explain that? He had waited until the last possible moment to tell me.
Papi was right: the boy had no cojones.
But I would give him the chance to explain. Angel please, please tell me there’s a reason for all this.
Luis slowed down.
“What’s wrong?” Papisaid.
“There’s a police roadblock.”
Papi leaned forward. There were police cars and an army truck up ahead, blocking the road, green-uniformed soldiers everywhere.
“They must have a tip-off,” Papi said.
As we slowed down, skinny kids in rags tapped o
n the car windows asking for money, holding out grubby hands and rubbing their stomachs with the other. Luis wound down his window and shouted at them. One of them kicked the car. Luis was about to get out and chase him, but Papi put a hand on his shoulder. “Leave it,” he said.
Luis twisted around in his seat, tried to reverse back far enough in the traffic so that he could turn our car around.
I remember saying “Can’t we just get there?” just as the bomb went off.
Flames poured out of one of the buildings, and the shock wave from the blast hit our car just a heartbeat later, rocking our Bel Air on its wheels.
I screamed. Papi put both arms around me and pushed my head into his chest.
“Get us out of here!” he shouted at Luis.
I forced my head up. Luis was grappling with the wheel, trying to turn around. I looked down the street. Black smoke billowed out of one of the office buildings into the street. A man ran out, his clothes on fire. Another was walking in circles, his clothes burned black, an arm gone. Papi threw a hand over my eyes.
“Drive!” Papi shouted at Luis. “Just drive!”
Luis gunned the engine and reversed into a side street. We roared back the way we had come. I clung to my father like a child, but even with my eyes tight shut, all I could see was the man with no arms walking in circles in the billowing smoke.
I had heard the bombs exploding in the city, it was happening almost every day. This was the first time I had seen it for myself.
“Fucking Castro,” Papi said. He never swore, at least never around me. I caught the look on his face. I had never seen him frightened of anything until now, but now it was plain enough, he was scared.
I couldn’t stop shaking. Papi kept his arm around me. We passed a clanging ambulance and fire truck coming the other way. When I looked back I saw a plume of smoke rising over the Rampa.
We drove out to the harbour. I was still trembling when we arrived at the Macheda house. Papi wanted to turn around and go home, but I insisted that I was okay. Even after the bombing and what I had seen, I didn’t want to miss this chance to see Angel, to stop what was happening.
Even though his father had asked half of Havana to witness the engagement of his only son to the daughter of a top Miami mafia don, I thought I could talk everyone out of it, just because I loved him.
That’s how I crazy I was then.
Chapter 4
The Macheda house was on Calle 30 in Miramar, just down the road from the president and the yacht club. The Spanish villa next door used to belong to Lucky Luciano, the gangster, or so Papi said.
Señor Macheda owned a sugar plantation. His family used to own a cattle station in the Pampa, they were old money in Argentina at least. Whether it’s old money or new money, they needed a lot of it to pay for the marble Tuscan columns on the portico, the black and white marble tiled floors, the dark wood marquetry on the doors, the team of gardeners that tended the lawns and flower beds.
But I was eighteen, and I thought it was all so vulgar. When your family has been in Havana almost since Columbus, even owning a sugar plantation can seem like just having a padlock on a few gaming machines at the corner bar.
Luis parked the car in the driveway and we made our way across the lawn. White jacketed servants moved among the guests with trays of champagne and boxes of Montecristo cigars.
I was afraid my knees wouldn’t hold me so I leaned against Papi’s shoulder. He tried to put his arm around me, but as we got close to the house I stepped away, I didn’t want to look like a schoolgirl in front of everyone. It was just one bomb.
It wasn’t even that close.
“Are you sure you’re all right, cariña?”
“I’ll be all right, Papi. What do you think happened?
“The Bacardi offices are down that street. Those communist ba ...” He stopped himself before he said the word. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
I nodded.
My nerves were finally settling. I wondered if anyone had been killed. It wouldn’t be in the newspapers. The government kept it quiet, but the Miami Herald would report it.
I looked around at the glitter, at the gowns. There was a Latin jazz band playing cubopop, they’d even hired Beni Moré for the day. How much did that cost?
I thought: This should have been my day. It was a mistake to come here. Did I really think I could stop this? If I couldn’t stop it, then what was the point?
I knew almost everyone but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Papi kept me close, escorted me over to a group of his friends and their wives, all standing in the shade of an ancient ceiba tree on the front lawn. I held tight to his arm.
Then I saw Angel standing on the front steps. He was wearing white cotton slacks and an open-necked white shirt. He looked like a god. I caught my breath.
I couldn’t lose him. I excused myself and went over. He still hadn’t seen me.
“Angel!”
As he turned around, I caught the hunted look on his face. “Hey, I’ve have been looking for you,” he said, the lie coming easily. “When did you get here? I was worried you weren’t coming.”
“I have to talk to you, Angel.”
“Sure, but I can’t right now. She’ll be here soon.”
“You’re not really going to marry her?”
He moved closer, lowered his voice. “I told you, I don’t have any choice.”
“You don’t love her.”
“This isn’t about love, this is about family. My father’s not like yours, he arranged this months ago - weeks ago.”
I felt the blood drain out of my face. Months ago?
“But I love you.”
Angel smiled.
“It’s true.” I searched his face, looking for the Angel I knew. “We’ve known each other since we were little. You know how I felt about you.”
“Did I? You’ve kept me dangling on a string since the first time I tried to kiss you. How old were we? Thirteen? You never loved me till now, you were just playing with me.”
“I was a virgin before you.”
His cheeks turned bronze with shame, but he put a brave face on it. “I’m sorry, Magdalena.”
“You knew, didn’t you? When you took me to bed, you knew about this!”
“Keep your voice down!”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t want people to know about us any more than he did.
He spread his hands, a helpless gesture. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought...I thought it was what we both wanted. I didn’t know you wanted to marry me. How was I supposed to know that?”
“You think I’m just a whore?”
“I thought you’d get over it.”
“But I love you!”
“I told you, this isn’t about love. This is about marriage, this is about children and families and connections. “
“You sound just like your father.”
“Hey, don’t say anything about my father. He’s a good man, he’s going to come out of this all right. He’s looking out for me, which is more than...”
“Go on, say it.”
He held up his hands in surrender, knew he had gone too far.
“I despise you. You’re a coward.
“And a minute ago you loved me. I haven’t got time for this. I’m sorry, okay, but you’ll be fine. This time next week you’ll have forgotten all about it.
“I wouldn’t have done any of it if I didn’t think you loved me.”
“My father wants me. I have to go.”
I looked around, saw a big man with a Montecristo clamped between his teeth waving him over. I watched Angel’s father wrap an arm around his son’s shoulders and draw him in to his circle of cronies while I stood alone on the top of the steps enduring my humiliation a second time.
Our talk hadn’t gone at all how I had imagined it, and I wanted just to escape somewhere, but then there was Angel’s sister, Lourdes, walking up to me and shouting my name as if I were her best ever friend. “Magdalena!
I’m so glad you could come. Dios mio, look at that dress. You look so beautiful!”
I was too choked to speak.
“Angel is getting married! I can’t believe it. If it was anyone, I thought it would have been you,” she added, driving another stake through my heart.
She must have seen the look on my face. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I’m really excited for him. What’s she like, this girl? I hope she’s passionate enough for him. You know now flighty Angel is. He needs a challenge.”
“Well, she’s certainly pretty enough. And her family is so rich! They own half of Florida. I can’t wait to go to Miami. They’re going to make Angel a partner in their property company! I hope you won’t miss him too much.”
You spiteful bitch. “Well, there’s plenty of young men in Cuba who have been begging to take me out. I won’t be lonely.”
I saw some of my old school friends, they were all headed towards me now. Havana is a small place, and everyone knew Angel and I had been seeing each other. I couldn’t bear it. I made some excuse and hurried into the house to get away from them.
The Macheda mansion was gaudy to the point of excess, designed by Angel’s great-great-grandfather. The entrance hall had two large windows with stained-glass scenes of knights and maidens. Every ceiling had pastel friezes of angels and cherubs as if the architect thought he could outdo heaven. There were gilt-framed oils on the walls.
A century ago, the Machedas thought they could buy their way to respectability. Now they thought they could marry their way to notoriety.
I took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and tried to hide behind a potted fern. I stared through the window, watched a red Pontiac pull up in the forecourt. Angel came down the steps with his father to greet these latecomers. A man dressed in a white suit got out, followed by a glamorous woman in a pill box hat who looked like Jackie Kennedy.
Now here was Angel kissing some red-headed girl with freckles. This cannot be her: this flat-chested sparrow just cannot be the girl he will marry instead of me.
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