by Rosa Jordan
He merely shrugged. “They might this afternoon. Once the sun comes out things dry pretty quick. Most visitors are just as happy to hang out in the bar, eat, and maybe wander down to the museum.”
He turned and headed along the trail toward the cookhouse. Celia saw that he was not going to force her to go with him, and because of that, she followed. When they came to the long stairway down the mountainside, arched over with hibiscus bushes, she said, “Celia Sánchez planted these hibiscus. To camouflage the steps from the air.”
“Makes sense. Mar de Pacífico—that’s what they call them around here—grows fast.” He waited for her to come down the steps to where he was, but when he saw that she had stopped, obviously not wanting to come any closer, he continued on past the hospital and down the mountain, more or less the way she had come.
They had descended almost halfway when he stopped and pointed. “See that bohio?”
“The one in the trees?” It was a small thatched-roof cabin a short distance from the main trail, accessed by an almost-invisible footpath. Celia had not noticed it on her way up. “What about it?”
“A brilliant biologist lives there. Miguel Ortega Ramos. He has just published a study on fauna in the Reserva Sierra del Rosario. Which, as you probably know, was Cuba’s first UNESCO-sanctioned biosphere reserve. For the next two years he will be working here in the Gran Parque Nacional Sierra Maestra.” His eyes, light brown and flecked with gold, were just slightly mischievous. “This biologist and Dr. Cantú would very much like to meet.”
“Would they?” Celia tried to smile, but her face was tight with fear. “Why?”
“Because they are both scientists, and naturally curious. They’d like to compare their shadow selves with their ordinary everyday selves, to see which is most real. Or magical.”
Celia considered his words, liked his words. They were rational. At the same time they admitted to the possibility of the irrational, which she did not want to accept but had no choice, since irrational appeared to be part of what she had become.
“Maybe another time,” she said at last.
“Why not now?”
She wondered what his scientific conclusion about her would be if she said, “Because in my medical opinion, I’m certifiably crazy, that’s why!” Of course she did not say that. Instead, she replied with evasive honesty, “Celia Sánchez comes and goes as she pleases. Celia Cantú has obligations and some very unsettled personal relationships.”
He stood there a second or two longer, smiling wistfully, then continued walking. He did not speak again until they reached the car park. Her vehicle was still the only one in the lot.
“See?” he said. “Nobody has even thought of climbing to the Comandancia yet.”
She fumbled in the pocket of her pants. For one panicky moment she thought she had lost the keys. Then she remembered that Franci had given her only the single key and she had put it in the watch pocket of her jeans. She fished it out and opened the car door. She was halfway into the vehicle when she realized that once inside, if she slammed the door, she would be slamming it in his face. Half in, half out, she paused to say goodbye. Goodbye, she thought wryly, was the least you could say to somebody with whom you had just made love.
“Adios,” she said.
“Come back when you can. Will you?”
“I don’t know.”
She slid behind the wheel and closed the door between them. He stood gazing at her through the rain-streaked window. She saw his lips move.
She rolled down the window. “What?”
“Don’t be afraid.”
Despite her disappointment that the visit had resolved nothing, but had taken her further along a psychological path at least as slippery as the mountain trail they had just traversed, she forced a smile. “You may not be afraid of ghosts, Miguel Ortega Ramos, but I am.”
He laid his arm along the top of the rolled-down window and leaned toward her. Speaking so close to her cheek that she could feel the warmth of his breath, he said, “Even if it’s not her ghost? Just one of your own?”
Celia tilted her head away from him. The engine was already running. He drew back. She pulled away, the question unanswered.
EIGHTEEN
BECAUSE of the rain, which slackened but never entirely stopped, it took the better part of the day to drive back to Santiago. The steady hum of the car’s engine as she motored along a mostly empty highway might not have been the idyllic retreat Celia had envisioned yesterday—was it only yesterday?—but it provided the solitude she needed.
Alone in the car, the first order of the day was to regain her composure. She found a single mandarin rolling about on the seat beside her and ate it, which helped. Then, in as analytical a frame of mind as she could muster, she reviewed what had transpired.
Miguel Ortega Ramos seemed like an ordinary man, and a rather decent one at that. He had walked in on her in the middle of one of her hallucinations and she had incorporated him into it. He was real; her interpretation was not. She saw how the nature of his work, the quiet observation of wildlife, accepting unexplained animal behaviour rather than trying to interfere with it, would have predisposed him to go along with her. Oh yes, it was easy to explain his motivations—a lot easier than to explain her own!
But what had he meant about it being one of her ghosts? If she had not been so anxious to get away she might have asked; she was sorry now that she had not. Oh well. The answer could hardly have been enlightening, since she did not believe in ghosts, spiritual visitations, or anything of that ilk. Not for the first time, she felt the injustice of having to put up with something that she had never done anything to encourage.
She grimaced. True, she had never done anything to encourage the paranormal, but she had definitely done something to entice a total stranger into bed for what was possibly the best sexual experience of her entire life. The mere thought of it caused her body to tingle in a way that was both delicious and alarming. Mostly alarming, because therein lay what might well be another clue to the tangled mess her psyche had become.
A sexual need? Was she, Celia Cantú, so hungry for a certain kind of intimacy, not merely sexual but definitely including the sexual, that she was trying to extract it from a historical love affair that she was certain had been characterized by an all-levels, all-encompassing intimacy?
Celia ran through what she knew or thought she knew of Sánchez and Castro’s relationship, trying to recall what she had read, what she had heard from contemporaries like her mother who had known them as a couple, and what she herself had created, first on a purely psychological level and now, it appeared, on a physical level.
Many pieces were missing but she knew enough to conclude that the Sánchez-Castro relationship had been one between two people whose core beliefs, determination to change Cuba, and drive to action were so completely shared as to make them of one mind. That, combined with very different but complementary abilities, would have given them an extraordinary closeness. Toss in mutual respect and, very probably, a powerful physical attraction, and there you had it: an intellectual, emotional, and physical connection rarely achieved in real life.
Again Celia’s body quivered with memory of the intensity that had ignited it during those moments of what seemed a total, all-levels connection. Simultaneously and against her will, her mind produced an image of the quiet lovemaking she and Luis shared—if shared was the right word. Guiltily, she recalled how frequently she only went through the motions, not faking climax (well, not often, anyway) but not entirely there either. Had it been like that with José? She distrusted her memory, but she thought not. They had been so young, the attraction so physical. But that was just the point, wasn’t it? She had related to José on one level, to Luis on another, but on other levels, to neither. In truth, no intimacy she had ever known had come remotely close to being complete.
Of course not, she thought irritably. The whole notion of such a relationship was a fantasy, a fairy tale to encourage women to buc
kle under to the demands of domesticity and child-rearing, and men to give their lives over to support of same. She was not prepared to say that close relationships did not exist—after all, she had the example of Franci and Philip. But she entertained such romantic expectations for herself no more than she entertained expectations of winning a Nobel Prize for medicine.
Yet some part of her was more than entertaining romantic fantasies. Part of her seemed determined to turn fantasy into reality. Was that what Miguel had meant by “one of your own ghosts”? Was some suppressed part of her psyche beginning to assert itself? If so, she was not at all sure she wanted to face it. The last thing she cared to discover was that at the core of her being lay a thirty-five-year-old bimbo ready to go off the deep end in pursuit of a phantom “perfect love.”
• • •
She turned her attention to the traffic, which was heavier on that part of the Carretera Central that dropped out of the mountains down to sea-level Santiago. She followed the boulevard past Lecuy’s heroic statue of Antonio Maceo on a rearing horse, the Bronze Titan’s arm outstretched in a Vamonos! gesture to battalions of independence fighters who now existed merely as a blur in the nation’s collective memory.
Santiago was a city of memorials to fallen heroes—Frank País, Abel Santamaría, José Martí, Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, and only God knew how many others. But a memorial to Celia Sánchez? Maybe, somewhere in the city. Celia had never heard of it and hoped it did not exist. Men made war, and for that some were remembered. If that was what it took to inspire memorials, better not to have one. Sánchez did have memorials in Manzanillo, Media Luna, and Pilón, plus that bronze tucked away behind the museum in Parque Lenin. But those were for her life, not for taking part in some slaughter. They were for a woman whose courage she desperately wished she had.
NINETEEN
CELIA drove down Avenida de las Américas and past the medical school without a twinge of guilt for having cut out of the conference. She turned off the boulevard into a quiet suburban neighbourhood. It was early evening. Seeing no car in the Morceau driveway, she wondered if they might have gone out. Then she realized that she was driving the family car and smiled. Of course they would be at home.
Celia knocked on the front door. Getting no answer, she pushed it open and called, “Franci? Philip? Anybody home?”
Silence. Celia could see through the living room to the kitchen. No one was there. Maybe they were out back with the mothers. Or in the bedroom enjoying a pre-dinner intimacy? Celia hesitated. Should she knock again? Or go say hello to the mothers, to give Philip and Franci time to finish whatever they were up to? Just then Franci came from the hallway into the living room.
“Celia? I thought I heard you.”
Still Celia hesitated. Franci’s voice had a hoarse quality, as it did when she had been crying.
“Don’t just stand there, Girl! Come on in!” Franci reached down to flip on a table lamp. In the second her face bent low to the lamp, Celia saw that she had indeed been crying. Franci straightened up and headed for the kitchen. Celia followed.
“Where is Philip?”
“Working. A Venezuelan ship had to be piloted in this afternoon. He won’t be home till near midnight.” As she talked, Franci kept her back to Celia. “He made some great bouillabaisse before he left. We had it for lunch. I thought I’d heat it up for our supper, if that’s okay with you?”
Celia walked over and leaned around to look into her friend’s face. “Franci, did you and Philip have a fight?”
“No way!” Franci lit the gas burner under the pot. “Why do you ask?”
“I have never known you to spend a Saturday evening in tears. Not even when a date stood you up.”
“Oh that. It’s nothing. Las Madres just got to me. Again. What do you want to drink?” She opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of orange juice. “How about this? Squeezed with Mamí’s own sacred hands.”
“Perfect.”
Franci brought the juice and two glasses to the table and filled one for each of them. Celia suddenly felt famished. No wonder. All she had eaten that day was one small mandarin. She took a long, grateful swallow. “Um. Delicious.”
“Nice moustache you’ve got there.” Franci leaned across the table to wipe a skim of orange from Celia’s upper lip.
“So what is going on with the mothers?” Celia asked.
“The damned baby thing again.” Franci sighed heavily. “They gang up on me. Not when Philip’s around, but when they catch me alone. It’s getting so bad that I find excuses to stay at the office when he’s working late, to avoid having to deal with them. If I hadn’t been expecting you, I would have gone there today when he left for the harbour.”
“Gang up on you how?”
“Oh, they’re creative geniuses, those two.” Franci rose and crossed the kitchen to the stove. She tested the temperature of the bouillabaisse and finding it satisfactory, filled bowls for herself and Celia. Celia carried them to the table. Franci placed bread on the table between them. Celia could barely wait until Franci was in her seat before starting to eat. She could not remember ever being so hungry. She was about to say something about how good the food was when Franci spoke again.
“Today it was my mother who made the first pass. She came in with this vile potion that smelled like ditch water mixed with horse pee and wanted me to drink it. According to her it was a foolproof fertility enhancer. I’m sure it was. It would have enhanced the fertility of every amoeba in my gut.” Franci took a sip of the bouillabaisse broth but without showing real interest in the food.
“She made you drink it?” Celia asked, tearing off a hunk of bread.
“Oh, I got rid of the crap. Getting rid of her was the hard part. She couldn’t just hand it to me. She had to give me a half-hour dissertation on how fertile all my siblings have been, and all her siblings, and well, I know she’s just trying to reassure herself that it’s not her fault. All the same, it makes me crazy.”
Franci gave up trying to eat. She leaned back in her chair and went on. “She finally leaves and I’m just pouring the crap down the drain when his mother comes in. That’s another thing that drives me crazy. The redhead can get all the way down the stairs from the garage and into the house and be right behind me and I won’t have heard a sound, not a sound! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve turned around and found her standing there and nearly had a heart attack. I’ve begged her not to do it, even yelled at her. But it doesn’t do any good.” Franci stopped talking and sat there looking sullen.
Celia motioned to Franci’s bowl. “Eat. It’s wonderful.”
Franci smiled. “Yeah. He is, isn’t he?” She picked a shrimp out by the tail and nibbled at it. “Philip’s mother catches me dumping the stuff down the drain and knows exactly what it is—that’s how I know they colluded. They always do. She puts her arms around me and says, in that fake French accent she’s affected lately, ‘Ma chérie, I don’t blame you a bit. It is not your fault. Phee-leep, he just needs more encouragement, n’est-ce pas? Perhaps you have a little something, you know, like they sell in the boutique at Hotel Santiago? A little something for the boudoir? In lace, maybe, or black silk?’”
“No!” Celia, in process of swallowing a spoonful of soup, sputtered with laughter, sending droplets across the table.
“Damn, Celia! Don’t be such a slob!” Franci howled, but she started laughing too. “Have you seen that sex-tease stuff they sell in the boutiques of all the big hotels? Net stockings, nippleless bras, crotchless panties, all at the most outrageous prices! Those Italians pigs who come to Cuba for a sex holiday snap it up for their prostitutes.”
“Naughty, naughty!” Celia wagged a finger at her. “Mustn’t be racist.”
“Right.” Franci got up to get a butter knife. “I should have said male pigs. Wouldn’t want to sound racist when I meant to be sexist.”
“So what did you buy?” Celia teased. “Crotchless panties or a nippleless bra?”
F
ranci stood hands on hips, half indignant, half laughing. “I wish you could have seen her, Celia. Twitching her little behind and batting her eyes.” Franci twitched and batted her own in a parody of a sexy come-on and mimicked her mother-in-law. “‘Les hommes, they find such things très alluring, n’est-ce pas?’”
Franci flopped back in her chair and began smearing butter on her bread. “I felt like telling her, ‘Maman, this girl goes to bed in her very own silky black ass, and your son has never failed to find that alluring.’”
Celia, doubled over in laughter at Franci’s demonstration and commentary, finally was able to gasp, “Oh Franci! I am sorry. I know this is not funny for you.”
“Well, actually it is. Afterwards. It’s just that any joke you have to put up with over and over gets old. And annoying.’”
“What is the baby issue?” Celia asked.
Franci looked at her in surprise, almost hurt. “Why, you know I can’t—”
“Oh of course! I meant—” Celia interrupted quickly. “Well, having a baby is not the only way to get one. So I just wondered . . .” Celia let her voice trail off, suddenly aware of how tactless it was to ask such a question when Franci was already feeling raw. “I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. You’re right, there are other issues, and they’re no secret. Not between Philip and me anyway.” Franci gazed out the window to where children could be heard, but not seen, playing in the street. “He was ready for kids ten years ago, or even five years ago. But now, well, he’s older than me, you know. He’s almost forty-five. He thinks he’s too old to cope with an infant.”
“Oh.” Celia regretted having asked. Philip and Franci were her ideal couple. She did not want to know that they had something so serious dividing them.