Find Me in Havana

by Serena Burdick

  My burlap sack must not be enough for him.

  I tell him we were visiting friends in El Brasil. “The girls loved our dresses so much we left them behind.” I give my skirt a seductive twirl. “And we loved theirs.”

  The man’s face doesn’t move, his bristly cheeks as fixed and rugged as the landscape. “That is a long way. Why not take a bus?”

  I kick myself for not preparing answers to questions like these. If not this soldier, border patrol will certainly ask. “We were robbed,” I blurt out, knowing how ridiculous I sound and grateful I stuffed the last of my pesos in my garter belt before falling asleep last night. If he searches my bag, hopefully he won’t search me.

  “Why walk past and not report this to me?” His tone is accusing, as if missing this blatant practicality offends his authority.

  My mind races trying to think up something when you step forward and say, “It happened while we slept so we think our friends robbed us, but Mamá didn’t want to report them.” It’s impressive, and slightly disturbing, how quickly and cleverly you lie.

  The soldier frowns and retreats a step, wiping the back of his hand across one cheek. “I see,” he says, clearly unconcerned about tracking anyone down who has robbed us. “Well, take better care, and get yourself safely to Nuevo Laredo.” He steps off the road, resuming his post, body rigid as the cactus at his feet.

  When we are out of earshot, I say, “Well done, you,” and you give me a triumphant look, the child curled under my arms this morning vanishing with your aura of confidence. I notice the maturing shape of your body, and how your face, in just a few months, has lengthened and eased out of its baby fat. “If you’re not careful, one of these young soldiers will scoop you up, and I’ll have to rescue you all over again.” I nudge my elbow into your arm, but you step abruptly away looking as if I’ve hurt you. “I’m just teasing,” I add quickly, but it’s too late. You snap back into your shell like a poked crab, direct your gaze to the horizon and walk slightly ahead of me, the crack of misunderstanding widening between us.

  You think I don’t get it, but I do. What happened with Alfonso makes you feel vulgar and disgusted with those budding breasts, as if your body is to blame. You think all men are like this. They aren’t, Nina. It’s not that there are good ones or bad ones: it’s not that simple. It’s more a matter of which ones are damaged and which are not. Watching you stride ahead, your arms swinging, I wonder how I can keep you from making the same mistakes I made, but you can’t know a mistake before you make it.

  Within the hour, Nuevo Laredo rises up in the distance, and we leave the vast desert and drop into a city that makes me feel claustrophobic, everything tight together and old and dilapidated. I thought I’d be relieved to be around people again, but the parched, windy desert was more hospitable than the lopsided buildings packing us in, the sun edging through in paper-thin slats. A snot-nosed boy runs up with a tray of cigarettes and shoves them toward me with a desperate plea, as if he’s selling emergency medical supplies. I shake my head, push past him with my eyes down, ignoring the street vendors hawking toys and clothes and food, their voices loud and urgent. I am disgruntled at the people sitting on benches with their feet stuck out on the sidewalk, at the children racing around throwing balls that whiz by our heads, at the nauseating smells of exhaust and sweat and oily food. As soon as I see the Rio Grande bridge, I grab your hand and hurry across the street, almost careering into a boy who jumps onto the running board of a slow-moving car, waving his goods through the window at the passengers.

  Light-headed, I lean up against a cool clapboard building and pull off my hat, fanning my face with it.

  “Are you okay, Mamá?” You put your clammy hands on my cheeks, and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears.

  I drop my hat to my side, cupping a hand over yours. “I must look a sight.”

  “You look sunburned,” you say.

  “I’m sure I am.” I right myself, smooth my hair and put my hat back on.

  “What’s going to happen? What if they take me?” Your face is open with fear, and I try hard not to show mine. I brush the front of your dress with the flat of my hand and tuck a piece of your hair under your hat. “No one is taking you. We are walking home across that bridge. Do you hear me? Shoulders back, head high.”

  “What if we can’t? What if they take me back to Chu Chu and throw you in jail?” Your voice is slightly hysterical.

  “Shush,” I say, harshly. “Do you think I’d get us this far and not make it through? We’re crossing that bridge. That’s all there is to it.” I draw my shoulders back, push out my breasts and beam a smile. “You have an American accent, use it. If you are asked any questions, speak English. Tell them you don’t know Spanish. They’ll never believe Chu Chu Martinez’s daughter can’t speak Spanish.” You frown at this, and I continue. “You may not be the actress in this family, but you’d better put on a better face than that. I don’t know about you, but I’d do just about anything for some orange sherbet right about now. If I have to eat one more tortilla I’m going to roll myself up like one and die a slow death.” I give your chin a shake and a reluctant smile creeps across your face. “That’s more like it. Now, let’s go take in a view of that mucky river.”

  The customs building is a barrack of rough stone that sits directly on the water at the bridge’s entrance. No cars can cross without stopping to claim whatever goods they’re bringing into the country. Even on foot, with nothing to claim, we have to make it past the Mexican officials to US customs on the other side of the river.

  As we approach, I see two customs inspectors pulling valises from the trunk of a car and opening them on the sidewalk. A square case holding a typewriter seems to be of great interest. One man pokes the keys and speaks in a quick, low voice to the other before snapping the case closed, lifting the handle and carrying it into the building as the driver, an elderly man with tufts of white hair circling the ears of his otherwise bald head, is escorted in after him.

  Walking steadily, I take your hand, and I fix my eyes on the line of cars moving slowly across the bridge. Ahead of us people are strolling down the sidewalk as if getting from one end to the other is the simplest thing in the world. For one glorious moment, I think it might be that easy. Then, a man steps from the shadow of the building into our path. He’s dressed in the same brown uniform as the others but stands a foot taller than any man I’ve seen in this country. He’s skeletal, with narrow hips and birdlike eyes, sharp and searching. I cringe as he slides them down my dress. “Your bag,” he orders, and I hand it over, reaching up like a small child.

  “Where are you headed?” He sticks his hand inside the bag, moving items around while keeping his hawk eyes on me.

  “Laredo, Texas,” I say in crystal clear English.

  He switches as well, his accent heavy. “You are US citizens?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you been in Mexico?”

  “Just for the day.” I keep my voice light and casual, but my words stick in my throat.

  “Your reason for visiting Mexico?”

  “Friends.”

  “Their names?”

  “Fede and Rubenia Espino.”

  He pulls my alligator purse from the bag, snaps it open and draws out my diner’s club card, driver’s license, checkbook—which, thankfully, means nothing to him—three pesos I seem to have missed when tucking money into my garter belt, and a tube of lipstick. He tosses everything back in except the money, which he slides into his pocket, and my driver’s license that he holds out, glancing from my face to the photo.

  “Estelita Rodriguez from California.” His eyes slide from my face to yours. Impressively, you gaze out over the river with a look of perfect boredom. “Is this your mother?” he asks you, and you nod and bite your lip, keeping your eyes on the moving water. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”
/>   “What’s your name?”

  Worried you’ll give your father’s surname, I blurt out, “Nina Rodriguez.”

  The man nods, slowly, a corner of his lip curling upward with a look of subtle satisfaction. “Come with me.” His voice is as slippery as his eyes, the tone falsely inviting. He moves toward the building, holding the door wide open as we pass through.

  Inside it is cool and damp. Bare bulbs hang from the ceiling. Typewriters click. There’s the whisk of paper pulled from carriage returns, the ring of a telephone. Behind the counter a clerk wearing thick-framed glasses leans over and whispers something into another clerk’s ear. Down the hall, I see the man whose valises were being searched sitting in a lone chair filling out a pink card. He looks fed up, as if he’s been through this before. The inspector leads us into a small office with no windows, and all I can think of is a jail-cell door clanging shut behind us. The room is stark, the overhead bulb flickering as if at any moment it’s going to leave us in total darkness. I find it hard to swallow. My bag is dropped onto an empty desk, and the man sits, propping his elbows on the scarred wood and webbing his fingers together.

  His eyes are on you. “Why is your mother lying?”

  I squeeze you to the side of my body, hip on hip. You are almost as tall as I am. “She will not answer that.”

  “Okay, you answer it.”

  I glare at him, keeping my mouth shut. Can one be jailed for silence? I’ve already been caught lying, although how do they know I didn’t give you my maiden name at birth?

  Again, to you: “You are Chu Chu Martinez’s daughter, Nina Martinez, yes?”

  “She’s my daughter, goddamn you.” My voice climbs up my ragged throat. “She lives with me in California, and I am taking her home. We are US citizens, and you have no right to keep us here.”

  It’s infuriating how calmly he looks at me, his watchful eyes barely glancing away as he picks up the phone. “Rosita, put me through to Salvador... Hello? Yes, she’s here, and the girl.”

  Your body goes taut, your fingers digging into my waist. “I won’t go with him,” you cry. “Can he make me?”

  “No, baby. I won’t let him take you anywhere.” This is not a promise I know how to keep.

  The dingy light bulb keeps flickering, and the air turns thick with the scent of this man’s sweat as he hangs up the phone and leans back in his chair rolling a cigarette. He taps down the tobacco, twists and tucks, licks the edge of the paper with the tip of his pink tongue. I think of Mamá, her hard eyes and deliberate tone, how she holds her ground when she’s angry, her shoulders tense and hunched forward like a cheetah ready to pounce. Everyone backs off. Even my father used to ease himself away when she looked like that. I’ve spent my life practicing a smile this man could care less about. The doorknob turns, and I suck air through my teeth, preparing to face Chu Chu with every fighting bone in my body when Edward Adelman steps through the door.

  “Sweet Jesus!” He claps a hand on my shoulder. His bulbous nose and swollen, pasty face never looked so wonderful.

  “Ed!” I throw my arms around him, his hard belly bulging between us. I’ve never hugged my manager in my life.

  “There, there. None of the mushy stuff.” He gives me a quick pat on the back and pulls out of my embrace, straightening the front of his gabardine jacket and looking pompously out of place with his slicked back, pomaded hair, scrubbed pink skin and manicured nails, rings flashing from every finger.

  I kiss his white, baby-smooth cheek. “You’re here.”

  “Don’t get sentimental. This is all business, and not any business I was willing to leave to some incompetent assistant. Young lady.” He tips an imaginary hat at you as you bite your lip and drop your eyes to the floor, looking like it’s taking everything you have not to cry.

  “Nina, say hello to Mr. Adelman.”

  “Hello,” you mumble.

  The inspector rises, smug and self-satisfied, coming around to the front of his desk and half-sitting on the edge of it with his unlit cigarette in one hand.

  “You all right?” Ed tips back on his heels giving me a once-over. “You still look like a million bucks. How do you pull that off?”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “Well, you don’t look it, thank God. Although you could use a little makeup, but this whole situation is going to be good for us. Publicity. I’ve already lined up a reporter. You’ve staged a real-life drama, Estelita Rodriguez.”

  “This is real life, Ed. I haven’t staged anything.”

  “You know what I mean. This is the stuff of Hollywood. Come on, let’s get you gals out of here. We good?” He looks at the inspector, who strikes a match with his thumb and lights his cigarette. Ed raises his hand, open-palmed. “We have an agreement, yes?”

  The inspector exhales a cloud of smoke, looking as if Ed is the most ridiculous man he’s ever dealt with. “We do.”

  Ed’s hand drops to his thigh with a smack, and he grunts, giving the man an incredulous look as he opens the door. “Bastard drove a hard bargain,” he whispers as I pass. “You’re worth a lot to some folks.”

  “Not you?” I manage to say, and he shakes his head at me and grins.

  Everything seems so easy after that, getting into Ed’s rented car and driving over the bridge as if we’d never hidden out like criminals, walked for miles or slept in an abandoned church. The US inspectors wave us through without a glance, and I twist around, looking at you as Nuevo Laredo falls away in the distance. “It’s over, love. We’re going home,” I say, and a trembling breath rolls through you, relief or sadness, and you press your lips together. A tear rolls down your cheek, and I reach over and wipe it away with my thumb. “It’s all right. We’ll never be separated again.”

  A ridiculous thing to say, but you perk up. “Promise,” you whisper holding your pinky in the air. I hook mine around it, your tiny nail bed reminding me when you were a baby and I’d have to bite your soft fingernails so you wouldn’t scratch your cheeks.

  “I promise,” I say.

  It is a promise no parent should ever make.

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * *

  Brown Bellies

  Mother,

  My fear does not go away so easily, even as we move farther from the border. I was sure they would take me away from you. Now, I shiver even in the heat through the open car windows, terrified someone will stop us.

  I wonder if love is a thing you grow into and out of, like shoes. If I’d stayed, maybe I would have grown into my love for my father. But I didn’t want to stay. Besides, you wanting me enough to risk everything to come get me means more to me than any father ever could.

  Watching the brown water swirl and surge under the bridge, I think if someone jumped in, they wouldn’t be in any country at all. Not Mexico, not the US. No one could claim you in water. No parent could tell you which side you belonged to or who got to have you in which country.

  At the US customs station, we slow down as a man in a stiff jacket, with a flashing silver pin stuck below his lapel, waves us through. Mr. Adelman shoots a hand out the window to salute his thanks and steps on the gas.

  I never liked Mr. Adelman, and he’s never liked me, either. On the rare occasion when you’d take me to his office, I’d spend the whole visit slouched in his overstuffed leather chair glaring at him. He’d glare right back. Kids getting in the way of business negotiations annoy him, and grumpy old men who tell me to stop talking annoy me, so we’re clear with each other.

  Even now, he’s as dislikable as ever: loud, arrogant and demanding; ordering us into the car, telling me not to put my shoes on the runner and muck it up with dirt. The car, like everything else about him, is annoyingly white and shiny. My shoes have already left dirt marks on the rug, and he’s already grimaced at me.

  And yet, technically, he’s our hero.

  The bridge d
rops from view, the road in front of us as narrow and torn up as the one we left behind, curving through the same brown, sandy soil that devours the landscape. I had this idea that when we crossed into the United States, I’d feel the divide as distinctly as one moves their finger over the line on a map, but as Mexico falls away in the distance, nothing looks or feels different.

  The shift, I realize, is not in our surroundings, but in you, Mom.

  When you look back at me, the determination in your face is gone. Your eyes have that too-bright, LA quality, and you smile your abashed smile. “It’s over, love, we’re going home,” you say, and I feel overwhelmed at the thought of things going back to how they were. A tear escapes, and you reach over and brush the soft edge of your thumb across my cheek. Wherever we are, you assure me, we will be together. Then you slide your suntanned arm back over the seat, and you rest a hand on Mr. Adelman’s shoulder, your alluring, charming character intact. “How did you do it, Ed?”

  He pats your knee. “Money, darling. Those brown bellies are easily paid off.”

  I have never heard the term brown bellies, but from the way your smile tightens along the edges, I’m sure it is an insult. You’ve told me how men assume they’re right about everything and how it’s a waste of time trying to convince them otherwise. “Smile to their face, and laugh about their stupidity later,” you coached me.

  This must be one of those times, I decide, hearing you say lightly, “Well, then, money really can buy anything.”

  “Good ol’ capital knows no borders. Paperwork and lawyers don’t mean a damn thing down here. But money...that always closes a deal.”

  “Didn’t know I was worth that much to you, Ed.”

  “You’re not.” He grins, slanting his eyes at you and then back onto the road. “But you have friends in high places, little lady. One cowboy, to be precise.”

  “Duke did this?”

  “He sure did. Told me I was to get my big behind down here and get you and your girl out any way I could, at whatever cost.”