by Rosa Jordan
Suppressing a skeptical retort, Joe dropped behind Celia and ran his eyes over her firm buttocks. “I can see that. She was about your age when they met. She might’ve been kind of cute in a bikini too.”
Celia either second-guessed his intention or remembered the habit because as his hand moved to pat her on the behind, she deftly caught it and flung it aside.
“Or maybe he was looking for something more in a woman.”
Joe grinned. “Like brains? Could be. Smart women always turn me on.”
Celia gave him an exasperated look and picked up her pace. Near the back of the cemetery she turned into an open-air mausoleum reserved for the Revolution’s most notable military leaders. Joe would have laid bets that if Sánchez wasn’t the only woman whose remains were interred in this company, she was one of very few.
Marble vaults lined the mausoleum to a height of about two metres. Celia stopped before one with no name, its polished white surface interrupted only by the number of the vault and a bronze handle. Stuck through the handle was a bouquet of wilted red roses. Celia removed them and inserted the sunflowers.
It struck Joe as unseemly that a final resting place would be without an identifying name, even if it was that of the president’s mistress. “If Fidel thought so much of her, why the unmarked vault?”
Celia shrugged. “Everybody who cares knows where it is.”
“Still, you wonder why.”
She half-turned so that her clean brown-skinned features were profiled against the white marble. In a husky smoker’s voice he did not recognize, Celia said, “She wanted it this way.”
TEN
CELIA was aware of José chattering cheerfully beside her as they walked back to the car. She may have made appropriate responses, but the visit to the cemetery had left her feeling oddly alone. She paid no attention to which way he drove when they left the parking lot and did not notice her surroundings until they drove past the sentry post at the end of Calle 11. Looking out the car window, she saw a soldier in the kiosk. The soldier frowned. Celia remembered him from when she had last passed this way; remembered because that was the instance of her first hallucination.
It had been a Sunday afternoon. She and Liliana had lunched at the Lagos. Afterwards Alma and Liliana went across the street to visit a neighbour. Luis wanted to use their few minutes of privacy for lovemaking. Celia, while not saying no outright, had been nervous, fearing that they had not enough time and might be interrupted. Luis had become annoyed with her. Not verbally abusive—he was never that—but stonily silent.
Celia, feeling both guilty and resentful, had gone out for a walk.
About twenty blocks from the Lago apartment she had passed by the street where Celia Sánchez lived during the last two decades of her life. The apartment Sánchez once inhabited was not visible because of the big trees lining the sidewalk, but gazing toward it, Celia had imagined herself inside, looking out the window through a screen of leaves.
She had of course been in Sánchez’s apartment, but only once, as a child. Perhaps she had even looked out the window, although she could not recall doing so. In any case, what happened in her head just then was not as an incident remembered. She had felt herself in the apartment, looking down . . .
The jeep barely stopped at the curb before long legs were thrust out, a nod of dismissal to the driver, his athletic stride across the sidewalk, a quick glance up at the window, at her—these details telling her he would stay the night; that they would wait, together, for the invasion. Despite his having been awake almost forty-eight hours, despite the morning’s long oratory at the funeral of those killed in Saturday’s bombing raid on Ciudad Libertad, they would not sleep but would lie in each other’s arms until the call came. They would not speak of those who died yesterday or the ones who would die tomorrow, but of how that battle would be waged—her throat tightened at the thought—without her by his side. While he ensured that the main invasion force did not establish a beachhead—he believed it would be at the Bahía de Cochinos but was not certain enough to go there yet—she must remain in Habana, at Punto Uno, so close to where Saturday’s bombs fell, to coordinate the defence of the rest of the island. This she knew already, and what assurances he would need of her before he left. She turned at the sound of footsteps as familiar as her own and moved toward the door.
Celia had unconsciously turned, as if about to walk down the tree-lined street toward Sánchez’s apartment. That had brought a soldier out of the kiosk.
“No pase!” he said brusquely, even as he gave a nod of permission to another pedestrian, a man pushing a pram.
Celia, having grown up nearby, was not surprised. She knew that only residents were allowed on the short street. No explanation had ever been given to the public, but the rumour was that it remained a restricted area because even now, twenty-some years after Sánchez’s death, Fidel often spent hours alone in the apartment that had been hers.
Looking past the soldier to the leaf-laden trees that screened the building from view, Celia had said, “You can’t see Celia Sánchez’s apartment from here.”
“No,” he said, without turning around. “Move on, please.”
“Those trees must be at least fifty years old. They never prune them, do they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said and gestured with one finger, like a traffic cop, for her to continue on in the way she had originally been going.
She had complied, of course. Her attempt to engage him in conversation had not been meant as resistance. She respected the Cuban military, without which she did not believe Cuba could have remained as independent as it was. She was only trying to fasten on some solid detail that she could legitimately claim to remember from the one time she had been in that apartment—something to explain away a vision that had occurred in broad daylight when, as far as she could tell, she was in full control of all her faculties.
But she could not, so she had hoarded the hallucination, secretly bringing it to the surface when she was alone at night. On the pretext of trying to understand it, she had in fact tried to relive it. Although she remembered the details, as she remembered details of the two more recent ones, she had been unable to evoke the accompanying sensation: that of she herself, but not herself, a participant.
“Weird,” she murmured and started when José spoke.
“What’s weird?”
She thought, Weird I forgot you were here. But what she said was, “Roaming around Vedado like we did ten years ago, as if nothing has changed.”
“Nobody had a car then. Or if they did, no gas. I’d call that a change.”
“Cuba has barely enough gasoline now,” Celia said tartly. “Not enough to be wasting it in aimless driving. I thought you wanted to go shopping.”
José grinned. “I was waiting for you to direct me to one of the new malls.”
“The closest is Juan Carlos II, on Avenida Salvador Allende.”
José made a U-turn and headed back through the residential area toward Centro Habana. When they passed Calle 11 again, Celia looked in the direction of Sánchez’s apartment but felt nothing, magical or otherwise.
ELEVEN
JOE was amazed how, once they reached the crowded Juan Carlos II shopping plaza, Celia seemed like a different woman. Or, rather, she became the quiet, task-oriented woman he remembered from college and as he imagined she now was at work. After two hours, she stuffed his list into her shoulder bag and said, “That should do it.”
“Good. Let’s grab some lunch.” Joe had in mind taking her to a good restaurant, possibly the one next to that old fort on Río Almendres. Back when they were dating they couldn’t have afforded a cup of coffee there. Celia probably still couldn’t. But before he could propose Restaurante 1840, as he now remembered the snobbish eatery was called, she motioned him into a hole-in-the-wall diner. He was too hungry to protest.
They ordered pizza, although Joe should have known better, life in the States having taught him, if nothing else, how extraordinarily inferior Cuba
n pizza was. It arrived shortly, two plate-sized slabs of hot baked dough gooey with tomato sauce and melted cheese. He did not voice his opinion aloud, though, and was pleased to see Celia eating with gusto.
When she finished, she took the shopping list from her purse and began ticking off items. “Cooking oil, toilet paper, laundry soap, bed linens, towels, toaster, blender, rice cooker, juicer. I have no idea where she is going to put all these small appliances, and with the rolling blackouts . . .” She shook her head.
Joe visualized his mother’s minuscule kitchen and shrugged. Cuba’s energy shortages and finding places to put things weren’t his problems. “She’ll manage.”
“I suppose.” Celia signalled to the waitress for water.
Joe watched her lips curl around the rim of the glass as she tilted it back and drank. Perhaps it was the sensuality of her parted lips that impelled him to ask, “You aren’t seriously planning to marry Luis?”
Celia set the glass on the table with a smack and picked up the list. “The shoes she will have to shop for herself. I think we have everything else.”
“If you were, you wouldn’t have gone two years without setting a date.”
Celia flashed him a venomous look. “Is that what he told you?”
“No, but that’s how I wrecked my own marriage.” Joe reached for her hand, but she snatched it back and confined it in her lap, out of sight and reach.
“By not rushing into it? Ha ha.”
“By not marrying the woman I really loved.”
“Loved?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “The one you walked out on? You seem to have forgotten—”
“Hey, you broke it off!”
“When you waved your emigration documents in my face!”
“And you slammed the door in mine!”
“Don’t you think it hurt—?”
“Hurt me when you wouldn’t let me explain! And along with the rest of them, called me a gusano! You never gave me a chance, Celia! I planned to come back!”
Simultaneously both became aware that other diners were listening to their exchange, small smiles denoting embarrassment or perhaps sympathy.
Celia lowered her voice. “Well, now you’re back. And I have news for you, Miami Joe. I am not the starry-eyed student I was then.”
“Ooo-kay.” Joe dropped his voice to match hers but refused to retreat from her cold stare. “So tell me, Dr. Cantú, who are you?”
Celia blushed. He could not know what caused the blush, but it crossed his mind that it might be because she was a woman hungry for something more than Cuban pizza.
As hungry, he hoped, as she had been back then. Not that she had been an easy lay, but once he taught her what her body was for, that resistance he found so stimulating had turned into something he thought was the girl’s total addiction to high-voltage sex. How she had managed to go cold turkey when he invited her to come with him to Miami he’d never understand, but one thing he was certain of was that she must be half-starved now to have accepted his plodding brother as a replacement.
When Celia didn’t answer, Joe offered his own scenario, couched in more tactful terms. “Don’t you think we might enjoy finding out who we are right now?” He smiled with confident hope. “I’m game if you are, Doctor.”
Celia sighed. “This is a waste of time, José. Even if things could go back to where they were, we would be right back where we were. You are not going to stay in Cuba, and nothing could induce me to move to the States.”
Joe recognized this as the first time she had bared her feelings to him since his return. He was on the verge of responding with something like never-say-never, but she was already gathering up parcels to leave. Joe dropped a bill on the table that included a tip as big as their check and followed her out.
At the car he asked if she wanted to go anywhere else. She said no, she had to get home. She remained silent for most of the ride back. Once, she started to say something but didn’t. Not until they were nearing her apartment did she come out with what was on her mind—or close enough that Joe picked up on it.
Glancing at the purchases on the back seat, she said, “Alma will feel a lot better about these things if she thinks you picked them out by yourself.”
“And Luis will feel a lot better if he doesn’t know we spent the afternoon together.”
“Sí.” From the corner of his eye he saw her lips compress. “Not that you give a damn about how he feels.”
“Not particularly,” he acknowledged candidly. “But if it matters to you, my lips are sealed.”
Celia looked miserable. Joe knew, and she probably did as well, that even in keeping something as insignificant as an afternoon of shopping secret, they had formed an alliance that shut Luis out.
It was all Joe could do to keep from smiling. Celia, by insisting that there was zero possibility of renewing their relationship, had thrown up a barrier that made it unnecessary to court her and would prevent him from becoming distracted from the business matters that had brought him back to Cuba. At the same time, he did not believe that all the passion they had once set alight in each other had been reduced to cold ash. He could relax, blow on the coals as opportunity presented itself, and deal with the resulting sparks according to his mood.
What Joe didn’t recognize in himself, but felt somewhere below the belt, was that it was not the woman but the chase that fired his jets.
Like a child stacking and restacking bright coloured blocks, Joe spent the drive back to his mother’s apartment playing with images of the varied and subtle ways he would pursue Celia. Not once did he form a mental picture of what the aftermath of a successful seduction would mean for her, his brother, or even himself.
TWELVE
LUIS looked out across the yellow-flowering thorn bushes, beyond which lay glittering blue ocean. The dividing line between land and water was not beach but jagged black rock. The view helped reduce the tension caused by José’s driving. Despite having already been ticketed once since they left Habana for failing to slow to the posted limit in a construction zone, he continued to drive over the speed limit. Luis must remember to mention the ticket to Celia when she got back from Santiago—a subtle reminder of José’s lack of concern for the safety of pedestrians and cyclists.
They were about twenty kilometres from Varadero when he saw the hitchhiker, a trim figure flaunted in tight white shorts and a red-and-white striped top that exposed her midriff. From a distance Luis registered only the head of lush brown curls whipping in the breeze of passing cars. José whistled appreciatively as they flashed by.
In the same instant, Luis saw the girl’s face. “Stop!” he shouted.
At José’s startled look, Luis repeated, “Stop! Pull over!”
José braked and swerved onto the grassy shoulder. Before the car stopped rolling, Luis was out and striding back to the girl. Without a word he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her to the car, ignoring shrieks that he was hurting her arm. He opened the door and shoved her roughly into the back seat.
“Puta! ” he hissed.
“Christ, Luis, take it easy!” José protested. “She’s just a kid!”
“Kid my ass!” Luis muttered, getting back in beside José. “Let’s go.”
The girl’s whimpering edged toward sobs. “I was just going to the beach!”
“Liar!”
“I’m not lying! Please, Tío Luis! Let me explain!”
“Tío?” José’s eyes left the road long enough to give his brother a look of incredulity. “Who is this kid, Luis?”
The whimpering ceased abruptly. “I am not a kid,” Liliana informed him indignantly. “And he’s not my real uncle. Just my aunt’s fiancé.”
José’s head swivelled around to stare at their back-seat passenger. “You’re Liliana? I don’t believe it!”
“Watch out!” Luis yelled, grabbing the armrest.
José swerved around a tourist-filled mini-bus barely in time to avoid a collision. To Luis’s relief, he slowed down to
the actual speed limit. Keeping his eyes on the road, José said over his shoulder, “Last time I saw you, you were barely out of diapers!”
Liliana instantly metamorphosed from a child in fear of punishment into a flippant adolescent. “Well, believe it. Because I am Liliana. And out of diapers. Who are you?”
“My brother, José.” Luis was surprised. “Didn’t Celia tell you he was here?”
“Tía Celia’s old fiancé? The one who ran out on her? No! She didn’t say a word! She never talks about you!”
“That’s nice to know,” José responded dryly.
“Where are you going?” Liliana tried to catch José’s eye in the rear-view mirror.
“Where were you going?” Luis demanded. “You’re supposed to be at school!”
“Just to the beach. But I’d rather go with you. Por favor, Tío Luis?”
Luis noted with satisfaction that she had addressed the question to him. She seemed to have got the message that even though José was driving, he, Luis, was the one she was going to have to deal with.
“In that ridiculous outfit? Absolutely not. You can wait in the car.”
“Ah, come on,” José intervened. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s a disgrace! She’ll be taken for a jinetera.”
“A jinetera?”
“A hustler. Or a hooker,” Liliana informed him in an exaggeratedly bored voice.
“I know what it means,” José retorted. He glanced at Luis for further explanation. “What’s the problem?”
“They want to keep us off our own beaches,” Liliana pouted.
“Luis? Have they segregated Varadero again?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Luis snapped. “You know the Revolution opened all beaches to all Cubans. Didn’t we spend our share of weekends here? And still do, when Celia and Alma and Liliana,” he added pointedly, “choose to make the drive. The government is cracking down on prostitution, that’s all. Especially young ones. If the police see us with a girl dressed like this we could spend the next hour answering questions. We’ll be lucky if they don’t give us a hard time at the toll booth.”