by Rosa Jordan
Luis seemed nonplussed. “As long as it arrives on time,” he said stiffly. “I wouldn’t want to be late for work.”
“I was told that if it’s more than an hour late, the fare gets refunded,” Joe said.
“Goodness!” Alma exclaimed. “There’s a first! I don’t remember when Cuban trains ever ran on time!”
“So?” Joe queried again “Do we form a welcoming party? Luis, you want to be in charge of balloons and banners?”
“Sure.” Luis gave him a crooked smile, and Joe could see that whatever was gnawing on him had let go.
EIGHTY
CELIA was pleased to see Liliana return from the ballet in a good mood. She was still cheery on Sunday when Franci drove them to the station to catch the Tren Francés back to Habana.
“Pourquoi le Tren Francés ?” Josephine wanted to know. “Il va à Haití?”
“No,” Franci laughed. “It doesn’t go to Haití. They call it the Tren Francés because it used to travel from Paris to Brussels. There are people in both those places who speak French, just as they do in Haití.”
“Nous irons.” Josephine announced. “Dans ce train.”
“Yes, we’ll go on this train someday,” Franci promised. “We’ll ride it to Habana to visit Liliana and Tía Celia. And you’ll meet us at the station, won’t you, Liliana?”
“Here, Josephine. Let me lift you up so you can get a better look at the train.” Liliana pulled the smaller girl away from the adults and lifted her into the air.
Celia and Franci looked at each other, both aware that Liliana had not answered the question. The two women hugged one more time, then each reached for the hand of a child and went their separate ways.
Liliana became euphoric when she saw that their tickets were for Clase Primera Especial. She settled into the red vinyl seat with obvious satisfaction, and said, with a touch of defensiveness, “I like travelling like this.”
“So do I,” Celia admitted. “Now that the economy is improving, I expect the government will start upgrading all the island’s trains and buses. Needs of tourists just had to be met first in order to get the foreign exchange to make other improvements.”
“At the rate they’re going that’ll take the rest of my life,” Liliana grumbled.
Celia could have pointed out that Cuba might have recovered from the economic collapse much sooner if so many talented, energetic Cubans had not opted to go abroad in order to get back into an economic comfort zone sooner rather than later. But given that José was one of the Cubans who had taken his healthy, well-educated self and run, with no sense of obligation to the nation that had provided those benefits, and she and Liliana were travelling on his foreign-earned dollars, Celia said nothing.
For the first hour of the trip, the train’s smooth ride and semi-posh surroundings kept Liliana’s spirits buoyed. However, when a conductor came by to ask whether they would care for drinks or dinner and Celia declined, Liliana became withdrawn. She spent the next hour staring out the window. When it was too dark to see anything of the passing scenery, Celia opened the bagged supper Franci had packed for them. Liliana ate, but with an indifference that made it plain that a bagged supper, no matter how lovingly prepared, was not nearly as satisfactory as dinner served by a white-jacketed waiter.
Liliana then toured their car and several others. She was gone a couple of hours. When Celia, on the pretense of going to the toilet, went looking for her, she discovered Liliana socializing with some young foreign travellers. She was relieved that Liliana had found a diversion and slightly uneasy that the diversion she sought was with foreigners. There were also Cubans on the train about Liliana’s age. Liliana could as well have struck up an acquaintance with them, but she had chosen foreigners. Had it not been for recent worries Celia would have been pleased to see Liliana practising her language skills on young people from other countries, as she was not all that fluent in French and barely spoke English at all. As it was, well—Celia shrugged and went back to her seat. What could Liliana do now that wouldn’t cause her to worry?
When Liliana finally returned to her seat, she announced, “I met some girls from England. They’re going to Trinidad.”
“I went to Trinidad when I was looking for you,” Celia said. “We should go there together sometimes. I have friends we could stay with.” Celia glanced at Liliana for her reaction. She saw a spark of interest, followed by a weary expression. Then Liliana turned her face toward the black window and soon was nodding.
Celia slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. Unresisting, Liliana pillowed her head against Celia’s chest. But the movement had wakened her. Constantly shifting positions told Celia that she was unable to get back to sleep.
“Would you like to hear a story about your parents?” Celia asked.
Liliana’s face tilted up to look into hers. “What kind of story?”
“One you have never heard. One you were not old enough to hear before.”
“Is it a happy story?”
“No. It is sad. Possibly the saddest story you will ever hear.”
“Is that why you never told it before?”
“Yes, and because there are things in it a child would not understand but a nearly grown girl would.”
“Then I want to hear it,” Liliana said. Putting her back to the window, she turned sideways in the seat, pulled her knees up against her chest, and waited for Celia to begin.
“Just before you were born Carolina took maternity leave from the military. She remained on leave for a year. Your papá was away, stationed in Angola. Cubans went there to help the Angolans fight for their freedom, to help the government they’d elected stay in office, rather than be displaced by a warlord backed by the United States and South Africa.”
“I know all that; we studied it in school,” Liliana cut in. “But Papí and Mamí went to Angola together, didn’t they?”
“That was later,” Celia said. “First your father was there. He came home when the war ended.”
“Wait a minute!” Liliana held up a hand as if to stop Celia from making a mistake. “You mean they weren’t in the war? Wasn’t that how they were killed?”
“Your father definitely was in the war. But your mother, no. She stayed in Habana with you. Then your father came home. It was like a honeymoon. They were both just ga-ga over you.”
“You’ve told me that a hundred times,” Liliana said impatiently. “But—”
Celia took a deep breath. “But there were problems.”
“Like what?” Liliana narrowed her eyes, conveying a readiness to challenge anything that hinted at sugar-coating.
“Your father had had an affair while he was in Angola. Carolina was not a particularly jealous woman, but when she found out she took it pretty hard. Like our mother, she had lots of men friends and could have had lovers while he was away if she had felt like it. But for her, your coming changed everything. From then on nothing was ever about her, only about what was best for you. She thought risking her marriage was not in your best interest, and she felt betrayed that he hadn’t felt the same way.”
“She felt betrayed?” Liliana interrupted harshly. “She left me!”
“Yes,” Celia said. “She did. But you might not feel so bad about it if you understood why she made that decision. It was only supposed to be a six-month assignment. And not a battlefield assignment because, like I said, the war was over. Her job was helping the Angola government organize records related to people who had been killed or wounded in the war, so they or their families could be compensated. Carolina was good at clerical stuff, not just running an office but setting up systems so information was easy to retrieve. The data was to be computerized. Back then, in the early 1990s, not many Angolans, or Cubans, for that matter, were computer-literate. Carolina was, so she was a natural for the assignment, and the army wanted to send her. But that was not why she went.”
“Then why did she?” Liliana’s face, open as that of a small child, kept changing, reflecting
interest, then anger, then skepticism, and now uncertainty.
“Because your papá was going back. She talked to me a lot, about whether she should go or not. I can tell you, Liliana, it was not an easy decision for her. In the end, of course, she went. But not for career reasons. It was because she felt that to be separated from her husband again, for half a year, might cost their marriage. She did not want you growing up in a divided family. She was only eight when our papá died. She wanted to be sure yours was around. We both thought she was making the right decision. I promised that your grandmother and I would take good care of you. It was only for six months. The war was over. Carolina thought they would be coming back.”
Celia stopped speaking, allowing Liliana time to digest this new version of her parental history and hoping she would not ask for the rest of the story. Of course she did.
“You said the war was over. But you and Tía Alma and everyone always said she was a soldier in Angola and—”
“A soldier in Angola, yes. But not in a war.”
“Then how?” Celia could see Liliana’s lips trembling. “How did my mamí die?”
“It was a Sunday. They borrowed a jeep to go to the beach. Even though the war was over, people did not venture out of town very often. But this was a well-used route so they thought it would be okay.”
“You mean there was still fighting? Like guerrillas?”
“Well, yes, there was that because the United States was still funding the warlord and he was continuing to attack. But that was in another part of the country. There was no fighting around the capital. What made it unsafe to go into the countryside were land mines—tens of thousands planted during the war. The route your parents took was considered safe. But something . . .”
Celia was forced to quit speaking in order to hold on to her composure. So many times she had relived the last minutes of her sister’s life, had smelled the dust rising up from the dirt road on that hot day, had seen African women and their children walking to town because it was early morning on a market day, had heard . . .
“A boy screamed. His goat had run out in front of the jeep. Your father swerved off the road to miss the goat and the boy. Not even two metres, just to the outside of a path that people used all the time. The tire went over a land mine. Six people walking along the path were injured. And your parents were killed.”
For a moment Liliana sat perfectly still, swaying gently with the movement of the train. Then fell forward into Celia’s chest and sobbed, “I thought they were war heroes.”
“They were more than that.” Celia spoke into her hair. “They went back for humanitarian reasons. Not to fight, but to help people who had suffered most in the war.”
Liliana continued to sob, and although Celia trusted Franci implicitly she wondered if she had done the right thing. How could it be right to say anything that would cause a child such anguish?
Eventually the sobbing passed. Without raising her head Liliana asked, “Did they die right that minute?”
“No,” Celia said. “They were—” She paused, unable to say, Their lower limbs were blown off; they bled to death in minutes. “Their injuries were terrible and they died very quickly because you see, there was no way to stop the blood. Your father was not conscious but your mother was, for the few minutes longer she lived.”
“Was she screaming?” Liliana asked, which seemed to Celia an odd question. But she knew that however awful, Liliana needed to form a picture in her mind, just as she herself had needed to do when she first heard the news.
“No, she was not screaming. She would not have felt much, because the body goes into shock at a time like that. There is no pain. They said she kept repeating, ‘Por favor, mi bebé. Mi bambino.’ Begging people, in Spanish and in Portuguese, to take care of her baby. At first they thought there had been a baby with her in the jeep. Only later did they realize that she had meant her baby back home in Habana.”
She held Liliana’s head close to her chest, feeling the trembling aftermath of the girl’s sobs. Celia kept wiping away her tears to keep them from falling into Liliana’s hair, not wanting her to feel the wetness, or to look up and see her own enduring sadness.
But Liliana did look up. “It’s all true, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Celia murmured. “Would you rather I hadn’t told you?”
Liliana shook her head. “Knowing is awful. But when you don’t know you make up things that are worse.”
EIGHTY-ONE
CELIA watched Liliana anxiously over the next two weeks, evaluating skin colour, energy level, moods, posture, and anything else that might provide clues to her mental and physical condition. Some days Liliana was pert and flippant, almost like her old self. Other days she became uncommunicative and retreated to her room. Celia called Franci every day but became exasperated when she realized that Franci was paying more attention to Celia’s emotional needs than to Liliana’s problems. Finally, in frustration, she screamed at Franci to give her one, just one, suggestion for how she might get Liliana to return to school.
There was a long silence on the line. Then Franci said, “Give a party.”
“A party?” Celia echoed in disbelief. “What good is that going to do?”
“I expect she is still ashamed about what happened, and she is hiding from her peers. If you dunk her in a social situation, she’ll discover that the water is not as cold as she imagines. It will have to be a surprise, of course.”
Celia was too busy at work to arrange a party herself, so she appealed to Emily and Magdalena. They understood the purpose and planned with gusto. Magdalena got permission from her parents to host the party and recruited a hip-hop band made up of friends from Alamar. Magdalena also recruited José—something she informed Celia of only after the fact. José’s role would be to bring the band members from Alamar to Magdalena’s house in Cojímar, then go get the unsuspecting Liliana. When Celia got home from work, he would pick her up and bring her to the party.
Despite Celia’s uneasiness over continued dependency on José, she had to smile at Magdalena’s audacity in recruiting Mr. Me-First to play taxi for a swarm of teenagers.
• • •
By the time Celia got to the party things were well underway. To forestall complaints from neighbours, the entire neighbourhood had been invited. The street was cordoned off and filled with kids gyrating to music that Celia found totally alien. The only thing she had come to see, and did see, was Liliana dancing. From all appearances she was having a wonderful time. Celia stayed as long as she could bear the overamplified music, then asked José to take her home.
She was grateful when he did not make a pass at her, and more so when he said he would go back and keep an eye on the party to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. There was little possibility of that, since all of Magdalena’s family—siblings, parents, and grandparents—were in attendance. Nevertheless Celia was surprised and charmed by a level of thoughtfulness she still found it hard to believe was in José’s nature.
At two in the morning Magdalena phoned (waking Celia up, of course), to inform her excitedly, “It worked! Lili promised everybody she’d be back in school on Monday!” Celia hung up and fell asleep, the first sound, trouble-free sleep she had had in weeks.
• • •
The next day, Celia at the computer and Liliana humming in her room as she put together the things needed for school the following morning, José called. He said he would be heading back to Miami in a few days and wanted her to know that Luis had agreed to get the documents Liliana needed for the trip to México. Liliana deduced from Celia’s end of the conversation that José was leaving and shouted from her room, “Ask him to leave the convertible with us again!”
Celia ignored her, but José must have heard because he asked, “Shall I leave the car with you? It’s only in the way at Mother’s place.”
“No,” Celia said. “Absolutely not.”
At which point Liliana said loudly, “Our life is boring, Tía
. Boring! I’d rather be dead than live such a boring life!”
“Let me speak to her,” José said sharply, and Celia knew he had overheard that too. She motioned Liliana to the telephone.
José did all the talking. All Liliana said, twice, was, “Really?” She hung up with a beatific smile and told Celia, “He’s going to bring me a present from Miami. A surprise.”
That evening Celia called Franci to let her know that the party had been a success. Philip answered the telephone. “Tell her yourself,” he said with a smile in his voice. “She’s on her way to Habana right now.”
“Oh!” Celia was dismayed. “I can’t take off work tomorrow! I won’t be able to meet her at the station!”
“She didn’t expect you to. She has other things to do in the city. If you’re not at home when she arrives, a neighbour can let her in.”
• • •
Franci was in the apartment when Celia got home from work. Clad in shorts and tank top, she was sprawled in front of the television, eating chunks of pineapple from a bowl. She grinned and held the bowl out to Celia. “Hola, hermana. Want some supper?”
Celia kicked off her shoes and slid down beside her. She accepted the pineapple bits and polished them off. “Um. Have I ever told you what a good cook you are?”
“No, but I remembered what a bad one you are, so I brought my own snacks. I hear the party was a smashing success.”
“Totally! Liliana left for school this morning without a whimper. You are a miracle worker, Franci!”
“What was the point of all those years of shrink training if I can’t pull a miracle out of the hat once in a while?” Franci replied lightly.
“I never would have thought of a party. But you were so sure—”
“Not at all. That’s why I came. In case it didn’t work out and you needed help.”
“Ay, Franci! What a friend! Who told you it went well?”
“José, whom I called and asked to meet me at the station.”
“You did?” Celia was surprised. Franci had never been particularly fond of José.