The Cuban

by Kim Rodriguez

  “Me too,” she said, sounding far away, lost in her memories.

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “No, not really. It was all just a bunch of stupid little things. I remember he also had a thing about seeing my long hair in the bathroom, so he was always trying to get me to cut it off. He was relentless about it, really. At one point I seriously thought he was going to do it while I was sleeping—or worse—so I started locking my door at night.”

  I was aghast at what she was telling me, because this man truly sounded like some kind of serial killer. “Amada, how did you meet this creep, and why did you put up with it? Was he your first boyfriend?”

  “He was Kieran’s college buddy. I was only twenty-two and a virgin, and I got pregnant after only having sex with him a couple of times. He had some of those tendencies before, but after the baby he became unbearable. I think he felt like I’d trapped him, but I never asked him for a cent or for marriage or anything else. I only put up with it because of William. I hired a great nanny to watch the baby while I was at school, and we didn’t have to struggle at all, so I don’t understand why he was so miserable. It could have been wonderful. I was young, so I thought I had to stay with him, that it would be an unforgivable failure if I didn’t.”

  Once she mentioned her son, I knew it was time to change the subject quickly, but I had to let her know it wasn’t her fault. A total misogynist had been putting that toxic garbage in her head for years and she’d never known anything different. No wonder she thought I’d be the same.

  “It should have been a wonderful time for you, and I’m sorry that it wasn’t. Amada, that behavior is abnormal.” She stroked my arm and moved even closer to me, which was the loveliest feeling in the world. I wrapped my body around her and pulled her in as tightly as I could.

  “I can assure you that everything about you turns me on to the point where it’s physically painful sometimes.” I stroked the back of her head and inhaled the scent of her coconut shampoo. “If I saw your hair in the bathroom, I’d start thinking about you naked and it would make me very happy. I love seeing it draped all over my body when we make love, especially when you have me in your mouth—”

  She let out a breathy moan, picturing it.

  “Yes, baby,” I whispered, my voice low. “I love looking down and seeing your lips around me, hair everywhere. It makes me hard. Feel that?”

  “I do.” She pressed up against me, but instead of her body, this time her mind opened up and she began to recite poetry, a quirk of hers I adored.

  She put my arm about her waist,

  And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

  And all her yellow hair displaced,

  And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

  And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,

  Murmuring how she loved me —

  “Another favorite, professor? “What’s it called?”

  “Porphyria’s Lover.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Not quite,” she said with a giggle. “He strangles her with her own hair.”

  “Jesus,” I said, shaking off the image. “I never knew poetry could be so dark.”

  “Like life.”

  My sweet Amada been lonely for so long that my heart broke for her. I sighed as I rocked us both back and forth and held her tight, loving every last inch of her.

  “Do you have your phone there on the table?”

  “Yes, why?” she asked, reaching for it.

  “Put on some soft music, mamita.” She found a 1940s station and turned it down low.

  “This OK?”

  “Perfect. Sounds like Tommy Dorsey. My grandmother liked him.” I instantly relaxed, and so did she.

  “I had no idea you liked to fall asleep to music.”

  “I usually don’t,” I said.

  ***

  It didn’t take long before I drifted off and dreamed I was in Cuba at the Hotel Nacional dancing with my Amada to Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade.” There were at least a hundred couples on the crowded dance floor, but I only had eyes for my Amada, the most beautiful lady of all. She was nothing less than ravishing in her floor length, beaded red dress, and as I spun her around the terrazzo dance floor, she threw her head back and laughed, giddy like a schoolgirl. I reached out and touched her beautiful golden hair, now sculpted into the long, glossy waves of the era.

  “Amada, we’re here,” I said, pulling her toward me. “Look around.” I pointed to every exquisite feature of the art deco ballroom, spellbound by it all, from the frosted crystal lighting fixtures, to the carved stucco walls, all the way down to the geometric patterns on the gold lipped coffee cups. “That’s El Malecón, out there, past the balcony,” I said, gesturing toward the ocean. “Look at all the bronze on those elevator doors. Amada, look at the chandelier above us,” I exclaimed, unable to contain my excitement. We gazed at the work of art hanging above our heads, a colossal three-tiered structure of concentric circles, wrought iron and etched glass. “We’ve stepped back in time.”

  A flash of something familiar caught my eye, and I saw my mother across the room as I remembered her. I tried to get her to look at me, but she wouldn’t take her eyes off her partner, a tall, dark man I didn’t recognize. She felt distant, so I gave up, but he turned his blue eyes in my direction and blinked. I wondered if it could it be Miguel as a grown man. No, said a voice in my head, it was the love of my mother’s life, Lázaro, my father.

  I turned my attention back to my Amada, who was no longer in my arms but dancing with Kieran beside me. “Stay close,” I warned, as she blew me a kiss and let her handsomely dressed brother guide her across the floor. In her place, I found myself dancing with a new partner.

  “Dr. De Leon,” said the girl, a young, lithe woman with white skin and eyes of pure carbon. “Do you remember me?” While she seemed familiar, I couldn’t place her right away. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-one but had a very mature presence that was in direct contrast to her coquettish expression. I noticed that she was blushing, only one of many charming things about her.

  “I’m sure we’ve met before,” I said, as I gave her a little turn and caught her again. “Give me a hint. I certainly remember your beautiful eyes.”

  “You attended a performance of Les Sylphides at the University of Caracas and cared for me when I broke my ankle.” She turned her head to the side and smiled, as if recalling a pleasant memory.

  “Yes, you’re the ballerina!” The night we’d met she’d been in full costume and makeup, an ethereal vision in white. She’d looked so different for her performance, but her eyes and voice were exactly the same. “You had such a pretty name.”

  “When I fell, they called for a doctor and you came back stage. You were so dashing in your dark suit and tie. You asked my name and told me you knew it hurt, but that it would be better soon. Someone brought you scissors and you cut off my slipper and stocking, and then you told them I had to go to the hospital. I cried because I wanted to keep dancing, but you said “No, Filomena. Tonight is our night.’”

  “Of course I remember now. I spoke to your father over the telephone, and then we went to the hospital together.”

  “Yes, and your girlfriend said you shouldn’t go, but you took me anyway. You waited with me until my family arrived.”

  “That’s right,” I said, the memories of that night rushing back. “It was only a couple of blocks away, but we had to go in a cab because you couldn’t stand.”

  “You carried me all the way into the hospital, and everyone stared at us. It was so romantic.” She blushed again, unable to look me in the eye. “I kept the handkerchief you gave me for years. I never did find a man who could compare to you.”

  “You were a vision,” I said, remembering the crown of feathers in her hair. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been waiting to dance with you for a long time, Dr. De Leon,” she said, expertly following my lead, “and now I can.”

&
nbsp; “Are you dead?” I asked. Eres una muerta?

  “Yes,” she said matter of factly. “I starved to death.”

  “What happened?” I asked, shocked. “Your father was rich. He offered me money.”

  “Oh, nothing like that. I did it to myself.” She gave a little quickstep as we passed Kieran and Amada again, who gave me a look that let me know she was ready to go. “This ballroom is divine.”

  “You’re a wonderful dancer, Filomena.”

  “Listen carefully, Dr. De Leon,” she said, suddenly somber and unsmiling. “Tonight you’ll have a visitor named Achille. He’ll come to you as a friend, but he’s a bad man desperate for you to stay out of his way. Achille is vain, so he won’t like you from the moment he sees you. Keep in mind that his deepest desire is to make his father proud, and this is what motivates him to seek money and power by any means necessary. Achille’s black magic is strong because his muertos are unhappy troublemakers, but he has no love.”

  Somehow I knew she wanted me to give her another twirl and a low dip, so I complied, marveling at how her graceful dancers’ body arched perfectly over my arm. As she came back up in one elegant, sweeping motion, she added, “Keep your men and your woman close to you because there will be chaos. Fidel sold his soul, you know, and now the Devil is coming back to collect.”

  “You want to protect me,” I said, moved by her generosity. “What sort of gifts will please you?” Again, she blushed before she made her request. Instinctively I realized she’d died a virgin, or perhaps it was more likely she communicated it to me in some unspoken way.

  “It makes me happy when you come and dance with me, and I especially like to see you in a suit and tie, just like that night,” she said, bashfully fingering the lapel of the tuxedo I had only just realized I was wearing. “I’m not your madrina and we’re not related by blood, so remember that I can only speak to you in your dreams, but I’ll be watching over you. In fact, it’s one of my favorite things to do,” she said with a giggle.

  “I’m honored,” I said with a bow, as the dance ended. “Thank you.”

  “Remember, Dr. De Leon,” she said, fading away into the crowd, “love is everything.”

  ***

  Amada and I got up just as the boat was pulling into the dock behind Boxwood, arriving just before six as promised. I emerged from sleep lucid and clear-headed, my vision nothing like the chaotic, disordered dreams typical of the subconscious when it does nothing more than express its countless anxieties and desires. It was more like a deep meditative state, tangible and real. Doña Delfina had told me to expect almost all of my spirit guides or muertos to come to me in a dream or in a waking dream-like state, and to always pay attention to what they were saying, no matter how confused I might become. She’d prepared me well, explaining that I could only hear her voice in my ear, as she’d been the closest to me in life as my madrina. It might not sound like her, but she was the only one who could speak to me that way at any time, and I would know it was her.

  We were lucky that we’d had time together, because it had allowed us to make plans for the future. It gave me great satisfaction to know I had her blessing and that she approved of everything I was going to do. For that, as well as everything else she had been to me in life, I’d be forever in her debt. She said someone special had been her madrina, and she expected me to follow tradition and take on a godchild or ahijado when the time was right. She’d laughed that she’d lived to be so old because it took that long for me to find my way to her. We’d talked about so many things on her deathbed that when Amada came in to Doña Delfina’s bedroom, I still had very little sense of time and place. However, that night I emerged a changed man with a greater sense of purpose than I’d ever felt in my life, and Amada was the most significant part of it.

  Amada turned to face me in the bed and stroked my hair. “We slept all afternoon, handsome.” Her green eyes were wide and bright, full of life, and I was overcome with such emotion in that particular moment that all I wanted was to be inside her, but I kept my promise.

  “We did, but you’ll be glad later,” I said. “It’s going to be a late night.”

  “What did you dream? You were smiling.”

  “I dreamed I was in Cuba, dancing with you. My mother and my father were there, too.” I’d tell her about Filomena later, at the right time and in the right context. I was excited to have met a spirit guide, but I didn’t want Amada to think I was dreaming about other women.

  “That sounds lovely,” she said. “Maybe one day soon we can.”

  We disembarked easily, and while Kieran and Ken rushed upstairs to pack up, I stayed downstairs and made another pot of coffee. As I stood at the counter, I looked out across the grounds to the gargantuan vessel that was nothing more than a toy to Amada and her brother, and I marveled at the absurdity of stepping off a yacht and walking a hundred yards to the back door of the house. I thought of the brave men and women who crossed the Florida straits in little more than a floating tin can, fighting for their lives and their children’s lives, sometimes only to be turned back to face a punishment worse than death. If anything was a dream, it had to be this life. Nothing made any sense, and nothing was fair. It was, without a doubt, the luck of the draw.

  “More?” asked Amada, rousing me out of my thoughts as she passed through the kitchen to the back stairs. “I couldn’t have any this late. Won’t it keep you up?” As I appreciated her exceptionally tight backside, it took a moment to realize she meant the coffee.

  “In this case,” I said, removing the pot from the stove, “that wouldn’t be a bad thing, but no.” She grabbed the handrail and tried to lug the big bag upstairs, but it was easily half her bodyweight. It was cute how she tried to drag it up behind her. “Leave it there, mamita. I’ll bring it up in a minute.”

  I poured myself a cup and sipped the sweet, dark brew, sighing with pleasure. Nothing smelled or tasted quite like Cuban coffee. “I drink it all day, even late at night. My mother used to put cafe con leche in my baby bottle,” I said absently.

  “You’re kidding,” she said, now halfway up the stairs, pulling her top off to reveal a barely there pink bra.

  “No, I’m not. The taste of coffee is my earliest memory.”

  I watched her petite, shapely legs take each step gracefully, amazed by how something so simple could turn me on beyond comprehension, excited simply by how her perfect calf muscles flexed with each movement.

  “Amada, I want those sexy legs around my neck,” I said, taking another sip. She responded to something in my tone and in return teased me by unhooking the back of her bra and wiggling out of it. It was a lovely sight, but then I remembered we weren’t alone. I put the cup back in the saucer and cocked my head to the side. “What are you doing? They’re still here. Cover up.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, and let the bra drop, giving me only the briefest glimpse of her bare breasts as she disappeared out of view. “Why don’t you come make me?”

  I don’t remember going up the stairs, but I must have taken the steps three at a time because in a split second I was rounding the corner into our bedroom. She had stripped down to her lacy pink G-string and stood at the big bay window watching as the crew unloaded the boat. I came up behind her, pushed her long hair aside and rubbed her shoulders.

  “What, mamita?” I whispered. I knew she wanted me, but I wasn’t sure what she would allow me to do. Normally I would have just acted on instinct, which was to bend her over and take her right here, but after what she’d shared, I didn’t want to push.

  “I don’t know,” she whimpered, placing her palms on the glass and arching her back.

  “I do,” I said, deepening my strokes. I focused on the area between her shoulder blades where women tend to carry tension, and she moaned with pleasure. “Your mind says no, but your body says yes. You’re uncomfortable.”

  “Yes,” she moaned, dropping her head down.

  “You know, it’s a blessing and a curse to be so
attracted to each other.” I began to nuzzle her back and then stopped, reasoning that it wasn’t the best idea. “I can already tell that when we can’t be together, it’s going to be hell.”

  “Don’t stop,” she whispered.

  “Amada,” I said, resuming my massage. “There’s foreplay and then there’s torture.” I laughed, but I meant it. “We should just wait until we can do everything we want to do.” Obviously this little hang-up of hers wouldn’t last much longer, but the decision had to come from her. There was just no way we could stay away from one another so long.

  “Do something, please.” She leaned her head back on my shoulder and brought my hands to her breasts. I massaged the muscles just above, then let my right hand glide down her abdomen to the swell of her belly. Predictably, her body stiffened.

  “How about if I just touch you over the fabric?” I murmured in her ear, gently grazing her clitoris. “Nowhere else.”

  “Yes,” she hummed, responding to my touch. “I need you.”

  “Sit,” I said, and went down to the floor with her. I spread my legs and let her nestle into me, so that she leaned against my chest as we both faced the open window. I took off my shirt so that I could enjoy the feel of her skin on mine.

  “You can relax,” I said, placing a hand on her knee. “I know where you want me to stop.” She rested her legs against mine, a shift in position that allowed me to stroke the inside of her thigh with my left hand and slowly touch her with my right. I began to make love to her with my two fingers, steadily bringing them up, down and around her most sensitive spot.

  “Mm, Rafa, that’s perfect.” Her excitement surged, which always gave me enormous pleasure.

  “Let me see if you’re being truthful.” I placed my left hand over the middle of her chest, reveling in every flutter of excitement as I continued to lightly scratch and tease between her legs. “You are. Your heart is racing.”

  “Harder,” she begged, grabbing my knees.

  “That won’t help.” Keeping the same rhythm, I lewdly licked the nape of her neck and shifted to the other side, feeling my erection stiffen between us both. “What you want is for me to crush you with my weight and suffocate you with deep, rough kisses, so that we both lose every last bit of control.” I nipped at her skin, flattening my tongue as I glided my mouth slowly across her shoulder to the top of her arm. She shivered, mumbling something incoherent. “I’m right, aren’t I?”