The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

“Compared to my Josephine,” Franci insisted and introduced the girls.

  Crossing the street to the parking lot, Josephine held tightly to Franci’s hand, walking so close to her hip that a couple of times she almost caused Franci to stumble. But when Liliana slid into the back seat of the Fiat, Josephine slipped in beside her.

  Franci smiled over the top of the car at Celia. “Guess you’ll have to ride up front, hermana. The back seat appears to be occupied.”

  Philip was waiting with breakfast. It was largely wasted on the girls, Liliana having no appetite and Josephine apparently too filled with repressed excitement to do more than dutifully nibble at what was put on her plate. Celia satisfied her own appetite with healthy servings of soft-scrambled eggs, fruit salad, and coffee.

  “I’m surprised you could get away again so soon,” Philip remarked. “Did your boss give you a hard time?”

  Celia shook her head. “Not really. He made it conditional though.”

  “How long can you stay?” Franci asked. “And what are the conditions?”

  “I have to be back at work on Monday. And I must attend a three-day conference in Manzanillo. I didn’t want to go but that Leyva is a negotiator. When I asked for time off to come here, he said he could justify it only if I attended the conference while I was at this end of the island.”

  Celia spoke casually, but her eyes asked Franci, Will that be enough time ?

  Franci’s faint shrug said, I don’t know.

  Immediately after breakfast Philip rolled his Flying Pigeon out and cycled off to work. Josephine came around the table to hang at Liliana’s shoulder. Liliana smiled at her and Josephine motioned for her to come. Celia held her breath, fearing that Liliana might show the same lack of interest in the child that she showed toward everything nowadays. However, Liliana rose and followed Josephine out into the backyard.

  “Josephine’s going to show her off to Las Madres,” Franci explained. “She does that with every new thing. First my mother, who feeds her, then Philip’s mother, who gives her sweets.” She waved at the child’s barely touched breakfast. “That’s why I don’t worry too much about what she eats here.”

  “How is the mothering going? With Las Madres, I mean,” Celia asked.

  Franci shook her head in wonderment. “Unbelievable. Mamá loves her because she’s black and the redhead loves her because she speaks French. On top of that, the kid’s a natural diplomat. Whenever one or the other gets into a jealous snit—and they do at least twice a week—she finds a way to pacify them. They spend so much time doting on her that Philip and I have almost got our lives back.”

  “How wonderful! I can hardly believe that little mahogany beauty is the same waif you almost drowned in bubble bath less than a month ago. Health problems?”

  “None,” Franci said. “Except for parasites, which we got rid of right away.”

  “Is she sleeping well?”

  “Not at first. I’d check on her through the night, and if I found her awake I’d lie down with her. Sometimes Philip would wake up and find me gone, and he’d join us.” Franci laughed. “That’s why she’s got a big double bed—one that can hold all of us. I hope you don’t mind that I put Liliana in there with her?”

  “Of course not. That is a wonderful idea,” Celia said, although she worried about the effect it might have on the younger girl if Liliana lapsed into one of her hours-long uncommunicative moods. “What do you think about me going off to Manzanillo for three days and leaving Liliana here? If you think it might be a problem, I simply will not—”

  “Go,” Franci interrupted, pouring coffee into the cup Celia held out. “It will give me more one-on-one time with her. Josephine is with a tutor in the morning.”

  “Oh!” Celia set her cup down with a jolt. “Then Liliana will be here alone?”

  Franci reached out and patted her hand. “Not to worry, Mamacita. I have been off work since Josephine came and will be till the end of the month. I’ll overindulge and overanalyze yours same as I do mine.”

  • • •

  Celia took the train to Bayamo only to discover, when she arrived, that the one on to Manzanillo was out of service. She had no idea when the next bus ran, or how she would get to the bus station with the rain coming down in sheets. As she stepped out of the train station, a collective cab pulled to the curb. A young woman, also waiting for transportation, called out, “Where to?”

  “Bartolomé Maso,” the driver called back.

  Bartolomé Maso was not precisely on the route to Manzanillo, but it was fifty kilometres or so in the right direction. From there, Celia reasoned, it would be no more than an hour on to Manzanillo. It might be easier to catch a bus or truck from there than trying to cross town in this deluge and waiting for the next overcrowded Astro bus.

  She slipped into the back seat of the taxi between two passengers as rain-dampened as herself, one the woman who had called out, the other a silent campesino who rode with a machete between his knees. Celia wondered what he might have been doing with a machete in the city, until she noticed that it was new. He opened his legs a couple of times to look down at it like a boy with a new toy and carefully wiped away raindrops with a kerchief.

  He got out at a rural cottage and was greeted by joyous shouts from three small children who showed nothing of their father’s taciturn nature as they bounded toward him like puppies. The young woman remaining in the back seat smiled and waved at the children and they waved back, although she said later that she did not know them.

  Celia learned that she was a teacher in a school with only five students, ages six to ten. Celia had heard of such small schools but knew no children who attended them. “Is it difficult,” she asked, “teaching children who need instruction at different levels?”

  The woman ran her fingers through hair that dampness had caused to curl into tight ringlets and replied, “No more difficult than to mother five children, I expect. Maybe easier. We do have a video hook-up with educational programs from Santiago and Habana. The parents are very co-operative too. I feel so appreciated.” She glanced at Celia with open curiosity. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No. From Habana. I am going to Manzanillo for a medical conference.”

  “Oh!” the young woman exclaimed. “You should have taken a colectivo to Yara.”

  “I know, but I didn’t see one. Is it not possible to get there this way?”

  “Oh sure. Easy.”

  “Then I am not entirely lost,” Celia smiled. “Where is your school?”

  “Las Humanitas,” she replied. “Beyond Santo Domingo. Beyond the end of the road even. The last part I have to go on foot. I won’t make it back tonight. But I can overnight in Santo Domingo.” She smiled. “My boyfriend manages the villa there.”

  Celia only vaguely recalled the talkative young man who, on the night she stayed at Villa Santo Domingo, had deflected the unwanted attentions of an agriculture inspector by walking her to her cabin.

  “He’s a pilot,” the young teacher said proudly.

  “Really!” Celia wondered why a pilot would be working as a villa manager in an area far from any airfield. In the next breath the woman answered the unasked question.

  “When he was in the air force, that is. But he didn’t like the military.”

  “No? Why not?” Celia asked, more for conversation’s sake than because she was interested in the man’s background. It did occur to her, though, that if he had remained in the service long enough to become a pilot, that would have been voluntary. It was difficult to get into flight school. Carolina’s very bright husband had tried and failed.

  The woman was silent for a moment, then said, “Raúl is a hard man.”

  Few questioned Raúl Castro’s competence as a military commander, but there were many stories about his intolerance of anything that deviated from what he deemed politically and professionally correct. Celia had heard from Carolina, among others, that Fidel’s younger brother was more dogmatic and less forg
iving of infractions than Fidel.

  “Also, I wasn’t there; I was here,” the woman added. “I didn’t want to leave this area. So he came back. For me.” As she spoke she ran a fingertip lightly over her full lips. Celia wondered if she was thinking of the love she and the pilot-turned-villa-manager would make when she arrived in Santo Domingo. Rather than intrude on the woman’s private musings, Celia turned and stared out the rain-streaked window.

  In her mind’s eye she saw the small wooden sign in the parking lot at the end of the road, wooden arrows that pointed in different directions, indicating trails to Pico Turquino, Las Humanitas, and La Comandancia. Images of someone she had assured herself she would not see on this trip, or perhaps any other, formed in shadowy parts of her mind. They were not all that clear, but the longing was.

  I could go with her, she thought. Catch the same ride she does to Santo Domingo, and from there walk. But such spontaneous acts were for younger, freer people than she. Dr. Cantú was far too responsible to do any such thing. Instead, she reached for the bag under her feet, took out a notepad and pen, and scribbled a short note.

  I will be at a conference in Manzanillo on Thursday and Friday. Afterwards, that is, after three on Friday, I shall visit the Sánchez Memorial on Calle de Caridad. I must return to Santiago on Saturday. Celia.

  She folded the note and wrote “Miguel Ortega Ramos” on the outside. She had no envelope or any way to seal it to make it private. Did that matter? She hesitated, then turned to the young teacher and asked, “If I gave you a note, could you drop it off at the park office in Santo Domingo?”

  “Sure. I’ll be walking right by there.” She glanced at the name with no sign of recognition and stuffed the note into her purse.

  • • •

  Celia arrived in Manzanillo just before dark and just after the rain had stopped. The trip from Santiago, with its unpredictable transportation, had taken all day. She had not needed a bus from Bartolomé Maso after all, but had stayed with the colectivo that circled through Yara on its return to Bayamo. In Yara she had waited by the side of the road for a bus, but a truck stopped first and she accepted the driver’s offer of a ride. Within the hour he let her off on the outskirts of the Manzanillo, directly across from the Celia Sánchez children’s hospital. She bought a pork sandwich from a vendor on the corner and ate it before crossing the busy intersection to the hospital.

  She showed her credentials and was directed to the dorm accommodations provided for conference attendees. By that time neither professional challenges nor romantic possibilities were on her mind. All she wanted was to shower and sleep, which she did, with more pleasure in those simple acts than she would have imagined possible.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  LUIS’S heart physically ached. Celia’s telephone call to Alma to convey the message that she intended to handle Liliana’s crisis without his help was bad enough, but that was not the worst of it. The next day he accidentally ran into Captain Quevedo. The MININT official, who lived in the suburb of Nuevo Vedado, mentioned that on his way home he had he had seen Celia and Liliana boarding a Viazul bus.

  “How is the girl?” Quevedo asked.

  Luis told his friend about the possible suicide attempt, and that Celia was taking her to Santiago to spend time with a close family friend who was a psychiatrist.

  Quevedo could not have known that the expression on Luis’s face came from learning, in so casual a way, that while he had respected Celia’s request to leave them alone, his brother had charged ahead, grandly purchasing tickets for them to travel on the Viazul line.

  Probably supposing that Luis’s pained expression was related to Liliana’s problems, the captain laid a comforting hand on Luis’s shoulder. “May the bastardo rot in the mud of Honduras.”

  “Bastardo!” Luis echoed fervently, fully aware that the foreign bastard Quevedo referred to was not the homegrown bastard he was thinking of.

  When Luis came dragging into the apartment that evening Alma met him with news that, while not so crushing, was more unclear as to its meaning. “José is not coming home this evening. He is in Varadero. He wants you to meet him there in the morning.”

  She smiled hopefully at Luis, like a nurse, he thought, making a recommendation that she hopes might help a patient but is not altogether sure.

  “What for?” Luis asked, thinking he might do that, might drive all the way to Varadero just to kick his brother in the balls.

  “He has chartered a boat to take some socios fishing. He said some are men you wouldn’t know but others are government officials you probably do.”

  She watched Luis face anxiously. “Go,” she urged. “It will do you good.” And added, “I have been praying for you, mi hijo.”

  Luis was too depressed to offer a dismissive rejoinder along the lines of, if she was going to waste her time praying for favours, how about asking the Almighty to stop sending hurricanes ripping across Cuba every year instead of begging Him to intercede in the private life of a single individual. Luis merely nodded, excused himself from a good meal he had not done justice, and went to his room to brood.

  He could see no good coming out of a trip to Varadero. On the other hand, he had no clear idea of what his brother had been doing in Cuba. This trip might shed some light on his moves, past and intended. Maybe he would find out something about the bastard’s activities that could get him booted out of the country for good.

  • • •

  Luis pulled into the Marina Gaviota parking lot at 7:00 AM. He saw José standing at the stern of a fishing boat. As soon as José saw him, he waved and called, “Luis! Over here!”

  Luis strolled up the gangplank, not realizing until it was pulled up behind him that the boat was so close to casting off. A nice entrance, he thought. Dignified.

  José clapped him on the back. “Glad you made it, hermano. I thought you were going to blow me off.”

  Luis acknowledged his brother with a nod and turned to shake hands with the several officials he knew: Dr. Armando Portillo, head of Habana’s largest hospital, Dr. Juan Torres from the Ministry of Health, and Dr. Xaviar Lazaro, one of Cuba’s best-known scientists in the field of cancer research. José introduced him to the others.

  “Clifford Jones from the American Interest Section, Frank Sturgis with Sherritt International, and Guillermo Garcia with the Gaviota chain. My brother, Luis Lago.”

  Luis wondered briefly why a representative from the Canadian nickel mining company and another from Cuba’s most upscale hotel chain would be among those with whom José was trying to curry favour. Then he recalled that Sherritt had its fingers in a lot of pies in Cuba besides mining; maybe it was funding some new bio-tech research. Gaviota might be seen as a possible market for José’s medical equipment, massage tables and the like, since most resorts had doctors and professional masseuses on staff. Given the range of interests represented in the small gathering, it appeared to Luis that his brother was leaving no stone unturned. All this time and expense, and as of yet, it wasn’t even possible for Yanquis to do business in Cuba!

  Before the boat reached open water a muscular young man in a tightly stretched T-shirt began passing around a tray of drinks. The subdued conversation soon became more animated, but in Luis’s view no more interesting. The interesting thing was the ease with which his brother moved among these important men, none of whom he could have known very well. Luis overheard nothing that could be construed as either business-related or sucking up. Rather, José seemed to leave each man with the impression that he had invited him along purely for the pleasure of his company. Which left Luis wondering why he had been invited.

  “How many of you are fishing?” called a member of the crew.

  All of the guests surged forward to choose and test the gear on offer, except for Luis. When José noticed, he came back to him. “Wanna fish?” he offered.

  “No thanks. You?”

  José shook his head. “Bores me out of my gourd. The only good part is being on a boat. Remem
ber Papá letting us take the dingy out to paddle around Cojímar Bay?”

  Luis smiled at the memory. “And we would pretend we were pirates attacking the fort?” He avoided looking at his brother as he said, “I guess the real invaders do it differently. Nowadays, at least.”

  José pretended not to take his meaning and wandered off to see that his other guests got their lines in the water. Then he drifted back to Luis.

  “I kind of remembered that you didn’t care for fishing,” he admitted. “But I wanted you to see this.” He pointed to the prow of a sunken ship sticking out of the water. “Know what it is?”

  “Sure,” Luis replied. “A decommissioned Russian patrol boat. The Ministry of Tourism sank it there. Divers love posing for pictures astride the rocket launchers.”

  “Know what that proves?” José asked.

  “What?”

  “The Cold War is over.”

  “Hmp!” Luis grunted. “Tell that to the US Congress.”

  “They may be the last to figure it out, but the penny’s going to drop. Soon. The question is, will Cuba be ready?”

  “What are you driving at?” Luis demanded, impatient with his brother’s build-up to whatever sales pitch he was about to make.

  “People from other countries, the States included, come here a lot. They’re learning Cuban culture but Cubans aren’t getting a handle on theirs.”

  “Plenty of Cubans travel. I do. Celia does. Our scientists, doctors, teachers—”

  “I was thinking of the younger generation. Liliana’s age.”

  So that was it, Luis thought bitterly. José was going to come up with some pop psychology theory about Liliana being out on the balcony dreaming of new horizons. His brother was still talking, and Luis was not pleased with what he was saying.

  “I know,” José said in a low voice. “The government has almost stopped giving scholarships to study abroad because so many are defecting. There’s a reason for that.”

  “Yeah,” Luis grunted. “They’re gusanos.”

  “No,” José said evenly. “They’re kids. Being shut up on this island, they romanticize other places. If they had a chance to visit, to see the limitations of other cultures, well, sure, some of them would stay. But a lot of them would come home.”