At this, I draw a tube of lipstick from my purse and lean out the window, using the side mirror to paint my mouth red. My hands are shaking, but I manage to get the lipstick on evenly and pull my hair into a twist at the base of my neck before securing a small black hat—also taken from my purse—on my head. It’s cloudy, but I slide sunglasses over my eyes and rest an elbow out the window. A movie actress on vacation with her daughter.
I can’t believe my silly, old-woman costume trick worked, but it’s not a stretch for Chu Chu to think I sent someone in my place to get you back. Over the years, our brief phone conversations consisted of him accusing me of abandoning you to boarding school because I’d rather flaunt myself on stage than raise you. It’s not an entirely untrue statement. I would rather be on stage or in front of a camera than anywhere else, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Chu Chu is too narrow-minded to see that a mother’s heart can manage it all, and he’s too full of himself to believe I’d come here myself to bring you home.
He is, however, smart enough to have the roads north of the city blocked.
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
By Bus or By Foot
Mother,
From the back seat, I watch you hide your eyes and balance your elbow out the window, wondering if my silence is why you worry the lipstick off your lips with your teeth, nervously biting top to bottom. I want to talk, ask why you’re here and why we’re running and why Chu Chu would put out a search for me instead of just letting you have me back, but the blue-bottled tequila from last night has stripped me dumb, left me raw and wordless. I am afraid if I open my mouth I will throw up again, and so I let you believe my silence is a kind of punishment for sending me away.
Not until the car slows and I see two policemen up ahead does a gut-wrenching fear hit me. They are stiff and uniformed, holding rifles easily in their hands as they question the driver of the car in front of us. You snap your head around and say in English, “Nina, we have a long ride ahead and it would be best if you try and take a nap.” The sharp way you say nap makes me drop to the seat and squeeze my eyes shut. Adrenaline has replaced my exhaustion, and my lids tremble and threaten to pop open. I roll over and press my face into the scratchy wool upholstery. There’s a fusty smell to it that makes me want to gag. I feel the car inch forward, and the driver mutters something about the inconvenience of the roadblock.
There’s a thump as if someone has banged a hand on the roof, and I hear, “Where are you headed?” The voice is a man’s, throaty, deep. And then, in your fluid Spanish, “Señor, we’re going to see the ruins in Tula. Our driver has agreed to take us all that way. My daughter wasn’t feeling well so I’m letting her sleep. Have you been to the ruins? Are they much to see? We’re from New York City. Dilapidated buildings are the only ruins we’re privy to there!” You give a burst of bubbly laughter, and I think you should stop talking, it’s too much: they’ll be suspicious.
But your vulnerable charm does the trick, and the man whistles. “The ruins are something. New York City, huh? You on vacation? Your girl’s not in school this time of year?”
“She had a week off, and her father was on a business trip, so we thought we’d take a little trip of our own.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Gran Hotel.”
Another long, low whistle. “Never been there myself, but I’ve heard it’s something.”
“It’s quite lovely.”
A new voice, the driver’s, silent during this exchange jumps in. “Why are you stopping people?”
A fourth voice, closer, as if this man is leaning into the back-seat window just above my head. “Chu Chu Martinez’s little girl’s been kidnapped. It’s all over the news. We’re patrolling the airport and train stations and every road out of this city. Some old lady nabbed her. I’m sure we’ll get them before too long. How far can an old lady with a small child get, anyway?”
There is an oily smell to the man hovering above me, and the last thing I want to do is see his face, and yet it takes all of my willpower to keep my eyes shut. What is it about knowing I can’t peek that makes me so desperate to do it?
I hear you gasp. “What a shame! Poor man, losing his child. I can’t imagine.”
There’s another rap on the roof that echoes through the car like gunshot, then the throaty voice. “You have a nice trip, now, and you,” speaking to the driver, “get this lovely señorita safely where she needs to go.”
The engine revs gently, and there’s a slow kick of gravel under the tires as we ease forward. I roll over and open my eyes, my body unclenching, my limbs melting over the edge of the seat. You glance back at me and wink, a slight smile on your face. Your shoulders have relaxed, and you no longer bite your lips. The car picks up speed, and the oily man’s smell is replaced with the scent of dry earth and a warm wind that blows the hair around my face. The last thing I hear before falling asleep is the driver saying, “New York? I thought you were from Los Angeles?”
I sleep and wake in spurts, the bumps in the road making my head bounce against the seat, my stomach seizing at every jolt. After a while, I shake off my grogginess and sit up, rolling the window all the way down and sticking my head out. I am desperately thirsty, but the wind helps the nausea, and I stay pressed up against the car door watching the landscape fly past, red hills and brown earth, spiky leaves shooting out from thick-stemmed, silvery-blue yucca. No one talks, which feels strange, even though the wind in my ears and the roaring engine would make conversation difficult. Hours go by, and I wonder how far away Tula is. Every now and then, you reach a hand over the seat and give whatever part of my body it lands on—knee, forearm, finger—a squeeze. I want to hold on to you, but you keep pulling your hand back into your lap. I keep your profile in view, your curved cheekbone, thin nose and rounded lips. It’s not that I think you will actually vanish, but one can never be sure.
The driver fiddles with the radio knob, switching stations, music and chatter bursting in and out of static. I strain to hear any more announcements about my disappearance, but no more come. It’s shocking to think that my father could get a message over the radio so fast, but deliciously satisfying thinking of Señorita Perron, hungover and puffy-eyed, running to report it to him. Hopefully punished. At the very least fired.
When the car finally stops, it is late afternoon, and we are in a small town, the dirt road lined with flat-roofed adobe homes with dark, cavernous windows. An old woman, her face so shriveled I can hardly make out her features, sits in a purple shawl next to an open doorway watching us. I don’t ask where the ruins are.
“I can make a phone call here?” you ask the driver, and he nods and points to a building that says Cabrito al pastor and Buñuelos in red neon paint on a cardboard sign. “And the bus?” He points down the street where two girls stroll arm in arm. They wear flowy dresses that shift around their full bodies. They look cool and comfortable and make me overly conscious of my starched, belted dress squeezing my waist and the sweat trickling between my thighs.
We climb from the car and you walk around to the driver’s side and rest your hands on the edge of the open window. I notice now that the only thing you are carrying is a small, alligator purse. The driver looks at you with squinty eyes, his mustache twitching as he extends his hand, his fingers long and delicate and strangely manicured. Your hand disappears inside his and you lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek. Clearly, I missed something while asleep.
You pull your hand to your side. “I will send the money to the address you gave me, I promise. Thank you for your kindness and bravery. I will not forget this.”
The man slaps the side of his car, points a finger at me and says, “You look out for tu madre, si?” and pulls away.
“Now, let’s find a telephone,” you say cheerfully.
We cross the street toward the restaurant, and I watch a layer of dust settle over you
r shiny, blue pumps wondering why you haven’t asked me a single question or even tried to get me to speak. I have so many questions, but I am still too hazy to figure out how to ask them.
Inside, the restaurant is empty except for a single man sloppily eating a taco over his plate. A woman with a stained apron and open-toed sandals comes from the kitchen to ask if she can help us. A thick braid runs down her back with a ribbon woven through it, shiny red fabric winking between sections of black hair. She lets you use the telephone in the kitchen while I perch on a stool at the counter gulping down a lukewarm Mexican cola she’s given me in a skinny glass without ice.
The kitchen is separated by a half wall, and I can see a man with a pair of tongs dropping dough into a vat of smoking oil. The dough is twisted like rope, and it bobs, golden brown, to the surface, spitting and crinkling. You stand on the opposite side of the room next to a phone that is attached to the wall talking with animated facial movements, the hand piece held in both hands as if you’re afraid you’ll drop it. When you hang up, I can’t tell if you are relieved or troubled as you take my half-drunk soda from the counter and move us to a table near the window.
We sit silent, your arms folded over your chest as the woman serves me a plate of tamales wrapped in cornhusks. I pick one up, peel the husk back and bite into it, the cheese oozing hot into my mouth. At home, you make me eat tamales with a knife and fork. Now, you don’t even notice, and I wonder what else I can get away with. I set the tamale down and pinch an edge of it as a string of oily cheese leaks onto the plate.
“Don’t play with your food, Nina. Your hands are filthy,” you say, and all at once everything is weirdly normal. Suddenly, I don’t want to get away with anything. All I want is to go home. I think of sitting in the airport restaurant with Chu Chu months ago, how he didn’t order food either, just sat watching me eat like you are now.
You lean over and sip my soda, pull off a small piece of my tamale and place it in your mouth. I’m not particularly hungry, but the tamale is delicious, and a few bites takes the nausea away and clears my head.
As if you knew all along that food was all I needed, you say, “All right, it’s time for you to speak, young lady. I know you haven’t gone mute on me. I know you’ve been through a lot, but I’m here now, and we’re getting you out of here come hell or high water. I’ve put a call in to my manager, and his personal assistant is meeting us in Laredo. All we have to do is get over the border.” You slap the side of your purse secured between your lap and the table. “If the directions I’ve been given are correct, we’ll be back in the United States the day after tomorrow. Funniest thing, did you know Laredo’s near the real Texas town of Rio Bravo? Isn’t that a coincidence? Uncle Duke will get a hoot out of that once we tell him about this little adventure.”
“Where are we?” I ask, my first question.
You glance around with a light laugh. “In a restaurant, in a town I’ve never been to and don’t even know the name of.”
“I thought we were going to Tula.”
“That wasn’t far enough away. Our cabdriver said that from here we can take a bus to Real de Catorce.”
“Why couldn’t we fly home? And why are we running away?”
“Because your father would like to stop us.”
“Why? He doesn’t even want me. I hardly saw him. He was just doing you a favor.”
A curious look crosses your face. You scoot my soda glass aside and lean forward with your elbows on the table. “What do you mean he was doing me a favor? What did your father tell you?”
“He said you asked him to take me.”
“Bastard,” you hiss, dropping back against your chair, arms folded over your chest.
“You didn’t ask him to?”
“Good God, child, no! Why would I do that? For what earthly reason would I suddenly ask your father to take you? A man who has never cared one bit for you?”
This new thought is like a sharp-toothed crane, lifting the sadness but still pinching. “Then, why did he take me?” It is clear to me now, but I want you to say it.
You blanch for a brief moment before recovering with a quick reply. “I have no idea.”
I look down at the table. Have you forgotten about Alfonso? Have you choked and strangled and buried this truth? I want to tell you that my father does care about me. In his own twisted way, Chu Chu was trying to protect me, which is more than you did. I look up, prepared to ask you if Alfonso has come back, if you ever sent him away in the first place, but I can’t. I can’t say his name out loud. I don’t even want to think it.
We look at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, and I know you understand what I’m trying to ask, what I really need to say, but your face is closed off, your expression begging me not to bring it up. If we speak it, we give it life. Only, you don’t seem to understand that strangling something into silence doesn’t make it go away. It just shuts it up for a while.
“You going to finish that?” You reach over for my tamale and say, “Your father’s a snake,” because this is easier said than the other.
You finish my food and drink the rest of my soda before paying our bill and heading us into the street. There are so many things I want to tell you: how relieved I am knowing you didn’t send me away; how bold and brave and clever you are; how shocking it is that you are here on your own; and how important this makes me feel. But I don’t know how to express these emotions any more than the sad ones, so I say nothing. Instead, I pretend great interest in the women who kneel in front of many-colored blankets, their wares spread out before them: pottery, folded shawls, turquoise jewelry, carved wooden bowls and tiny animals polished to a rich brown. The women gesture and smile, asking us in gentle, pleading tones what we’d like. You smile back, sympathetic and polite, but you don’t buy anything until we are at the last blanket where you stop and pick up a carved wooden spoon. “Cuanto?”
The woman holds up two fingers, and you hand her two pesos, turning to me and placing the spoon in my palm. It is tiny, like a baby spoon, the wood almost black and smooth as silk. You are beaming at me. “It’s for your coffee, when you learn to drink it,” you say, and I know this is your way of apologizing for what you cannot say. “You are going to grow into a beautiful woman, Nina.”
Embarrassed, I slide the spoon into my skirt pocket and mumble a thank-you, but I keep my hand wrapped around this memento and imagine sitting with you when I am a grown woman, sipping coffee stirred by this tiny spoon. I will not be beautiful, but I will not need to be. Even in old age, you will be beautiful enough for both of us, I think.
At the end of the street the buildings and sidewalk drop off into a bumpy dirt road with the desert stretching away to an empty, blue sky. A white bus is parked on the side of the road. On the roof, a man crouches behind a metal rail tying down duffel bags. He eyes you as we approach, his hands continuing to loop the rope in big swirling motions, and I realize how out of place we look, me in my starched, white school uniform and you in a fitted, dark blue dress that hugs your rump. The bus door opens, and we climb aboard. You push your hair off your sweaty forehead and smile. “How much to Real de Catorce?”
The driver barely glances at us, his eyes searching the empty road ahead as he puts out a hand. “Three pesos.”
You retrieve the money from your purse and drop it into his palm. “And how far?”
He shrugs. “Four hours, if we’re lucky.”
What does that mean, if we’re lucky? We turn down the aisle. Women in colored blouses with children on their laps and men in rough, brown shirts watch us from under straw hats and pulled back hairdos. You nudge me into the nearest window seat, squeezing next to me with your knees pressed tightly together. I’d rather sit in the back where we’re not so noticeable, but I imagine you’ve chosen to be near the door for a hasty exit if necessary. The stillness is nerve-racking, and it’s strangely quiet. Even the baby o
n the woman’s lap across the aisle doesn’t make a sound, looking at me with curious, wide eyes.
A young girl climbs aboard holding the hand of a smaller child. Their mother appears, nudging them from behind. The driver starts up the engine, and we move forward, the bus picking up speed, swerving around ruts in the road, the landscape slipping past with a steady motion that eventually rocks me to sleep with my head against your shoulder.
I wake up to a loud bang and a jolt, which nearly sends me flying off my seat. It is dark, and through the blue light of the moon, your face is a mask of terror. The bus sways, and I am thrown toward the window where I can see a fat moon shifting in and out of mountain peaks. We are climbing upward, tipping precariously on the narrow road toward a sheer drop into blackness. You have one hand pinned to the seat in front of you, the other planted firmly to my chest as if that small extremity will save me from a drop off the side of the cliff. I curl my hands around the edge of the seat, holding on as the moon and mountains suddenly disappear with a loud whooshing nose.
You gasp, and from across the aisle the woman with the baby on her lap—asleep, his arms and legs hanging every which way—leans over and pats your leg. “It’s just the tunnel, love. It’s a mile and a half long, so don’t hold your breath for it. This road used to be where the mining train went right through the mountain. No other way in or out.”
I don’t like the idea of being inside a mountain, and from the look on your face you don’t, either. I think of stories I’ve heard about mines collapsing and blowing up, and it feels like an eternity before we come out on the other side, rock formations emerging under moonlight like ancient artifacts.
Before long the bus screeches to a halt, the door bangs open and people shuffle quickly to their feet. I step out in clear, cool air. The bus has dropped us at the foot of a town made of stone structures that look, in the dark, as if they are carved from the hillside. People spill around us, gathering luggage tossed from the roof, their footsteps and hushed voices disappearing quickly into the dark, narrow streets. The driver cuts the engine, and the bus sighs and sinks down for the night. He snaps off the lights, climbs down the stairs, secures his hat on his head, his bag over one shoulder, and tramps off, his footsteps pattering away into the night.
Find Me in Havana Page 11