Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  “Can Marta keep a secret for a week?” Alicia asked, with hands on hips and doubt lurking in her golden eyes.

  Marta jumped with every word. “I can, I can keep a secret for a week! For a whole week!”

  We made space for her behind the rose bush and settled ourselves down in the stillness of the late afternoon as we whispered our plans into her ear. She didn’t understand at first and giggled as we tried to whisper more loudly. Finally, after three more attempts, there was no doubt she understood because she started bawling again. “I don’t want you to go away, Nora. I want you to stay with me and Mami and Papi forever.” She threw her arms around me in a desperate display of affection.

  I peeked around the rose bush expecting to see Mami’s high heels marching toward us, but all was clear. Alicia rolled her eyes. “I knew we shouldn’t have told her anything.”

  I patted Marta’s back. “Marta, listen. You know all those times we fight because you want to play with my stuff? Now you can play with anything you want, and you’ll have Beba all to yourself too.”

  This possibility seemed to calm her a little. “I still don’t want you to go,” she said more quietly.

  “We have to,” Alicia replied for me. “It’s Nora’s life if we don’t. You don’t want her to become a nun, do you?”

  Marta shook her head and clasped my hand possessively. Normally I would’ve wriggled away, but it was very comforting to feel her warm hand neatly tucked into my own.

  The three of us walked back toward the house ready to begin the first phase of our plan, and Marta pulled on my arm to indicate that she needed to whisper something meant for me alone.

  Again, indulging her far beyond than what I was accustomed, I bent down and offered my ear.

  She cupped her hands. “How long is a week?”

  In the pantry we found an empty burlap sack that was normally used for raw sugar. We used it to pack the provisions for our escape. The happy sounds of conversation and laughter drifted in from the porch, along with the toasty sweet fragrance of cigars and strong Cuban coffee. Whatever hesitation I felt about our plan had quickly escalated into a quivering sensation, in the pit of my stomach, rolling like the sea before a hurricane hit. I stood paralyzed in the middle of the kitchen that still smelled of Tía María’s arroz con pollo with Marta clutching at my hand, taking full advantage of my unusual kindness toward her.

  Alicia hummed to herself as she tossed cheese, bread, and bananas into the open sack. “This should do it,” she said brightly, wiping her hands on her skirt. “We can’t make it too heavy, or we won’t get far.”

  I helped her move the sack from the chair onto the floor. “Do you really think you should go? I mean, you’re not the one they’re trying to make into a nun.”

  Alicia grabbed my shoulder and shook me a little. “I won’t let you go alone.” Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth twitched as she tried not to smile for she knew it would not be seemly at such a serious moment. Then she turned to Marta who watched us with a glum expression, almost on the verge of tears again. “Now, Marta, when they start looking for us you have to tell them we’re playing a hiding game. This will keep them from really looking for a while. You have to be strong, OK?”

  Marta nodded and tightened her grip on my hand.

  I squeezed my legs together for fear of urinating right there on the floor, wrenched my hand free from Marta, and ran to the nearest bathroom. Perhaps if I took long enough Mami would come looking for us before we had a chance to run away. But as I listened through the open window, I realized they weren’t going anywhere soon. They were in the midst of one of those conversations that had grown more animated as the cigars were lit and little cups of cognac passed around. I hoped Papi and Alicia’s father, my uncle Carlos, wouldn’t start arguing again. Last time they did Papi fumed all the way home. He kept talking about “revolutions” and “free elections” and that “bastard Batista” as Mami shushed him to be quiet. I asked him what a revolution was, but he refused to explain and only became more irritated that I’d been listening as Mami shot him a knowing glance.

  “This isn’t anything you girls need to worry about,” Mami had said in her overly soothing way that really meant I’d stumbled onto something only meant for grown-ups. “All you need to worry about is doing your schoolwork and being well behaved.”

  That was simple enough and sitting there with my cotton underwear around my ankles, I felt anything but curious. The next morning, as my fifth grade class was filing into the chapel there’d be a space between María Luisa and Carmen where I should be. Sister Roberta would wonder if I was sick, and she’d probably say a special prayer for me to Our Lady of Fatima. And instead of doing my arithmetic problems after lunch, I’d be sitting on the side of a dusty road in bare feet eating a banana or a few figs. Then I’d have to look for a place to sleep where the mosquitoes or the hairy spiders of the jungle wouldn’t get me.

  As I headed back to the kitchen, I ran into Mami. I’d never been so happy to see her in all my life, but when I glanced at Alicia, she was scowling with disappointment. “Get your sister. We’re going home,” Mami said.

  “Why?” I asked, merely out of habit because I wasn’t about to argue.

  “Tomorrow’s a school day,” she said, but I knew she wanted to leave quickly before Papi and Uncle Carlos started to argue.

  We drove back in silence, and Marta fell asleep with her head on my lap. I let my own head fall back on the seat, while I stared out at the darkness through the windshield. The lights bordering the malecón whizzed past like angry comets rising up from the sea as the motor’s drone lulled me into a semi sleep. I heard the rush of the waves and distant voices calling me from the deep.

  My parents spoke in hushed tones to one another. “Carlos doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” my father said. “People wouldn’t support a revolution right now. The economy is too strong, too many people are making money like they never have before.”

  “People like us are making money…but, Carlos wasn’t talking about people like us….”

  “I’m not saying it’s all perfect.”

  “Then what are you saying, José?”

  “It’s not enough…a few rebels in the hills making trouble. I want Batista out as much as anybody, but it won’t happen like that. I just hope that crazy brother of mine doesn’t do anything foolish.”

  “I hope not,” Mami said.

  A few more minutes of silence captured in the drone of the motor. Papi spoke again. “I think Nora spends too much time with Alicia.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Alicia’s a good girl. She’s very clever and pretty.”

  “Too clever and too pretty I’d say. I don’t like the way Carlos and Nina are raising her, spoiling her the way they do. She’s too free spirited for her own good, and I don’t want her to influence Nora. Maybe that’s what this meeting at the school is all about.”

  “Sister Margarita assured me Nora wasn’t in trouble.”

  It was my father’s turn to say, “I hope not.”

  Free spirited—what wonderful words. I closed my eyes and the lights of the malecón glowed against my inner eyelids, pink and purple and green bouncing balls, bouncing toward long sunny days at the beach with nothing to do, but swim, roll in the sand, and drink ice-cold Cokes. And there was the corner ice-cream stand, El Tropicream, crowded with laughing children who had ice cream painted all over their happy faces like clowns at the circus.

  I was there too, hanging in a bird cage from the highest palm, somewhere between heaven and earth, wearing a black dress all the way down to my ankles, and praying that a swift wind would come and knock me back down to the sand where I belonged.

  We passed under the gentle gaze of the Virgin. Her statue, holding rosary beads that light up at night, was perched on top of the main gate of El Ángel de la Guarda School and welcomed all who entered. After years of passing under her, this was the first time I prayed for her intercession. “Please, dear Virgin, let Sister Ma
rgarita be sick today. It doesn’t have to be a serious illness, just something small that can only be treated in New York or Chicago, or some place really far away.”

  Marta kissed Mami and Papi good-bye, then ran off to her classroom, the red ribbon in her hair streaming behind her like a kite tail. “Remember to walk,” a normally silent sister said when Marta whizzed by her. Marta slowed down to a brisk walk until she was inside, after which she raced to her classroom faster than before. The three of us were escorted past the formal salons where the piano recitals and graduation luncheons were held down a dark wood paneled hall. At the very end was Sister Margarita’s office, the only office in the school with double doors. I imagined it to be full of wondrous and exotic things. Instead I was surprised to find a simple, yet spacious room filled with hundreds of leather bound books on shelves reaching from floor to ceiling. The only thing approaching magnificent was the enormous arched window behind a large desk strewn with stacks of papers and the occasional candy wrapper.

  Through the beveled glass, students could be seen filing to class and for the first time I longed to be with them instead of sitting there on a straight wooden chair where my feet didn’t quite touch the floor.

  Mami and Papi watched me curiously as they pretended to carry on a conversation about our new neighbors that had moved in three floors down. They’d asked me several times what the meeting was about, but I didn’t have the nerve to tell them. I wanted to stall my fate as long as possible. I’d lost the battle of the piano lessons and the math tutor, but I wasn’t about to lose this one, and I needed more time to figure out my strategy.

  Sister Margarita entered the office through a small door between the bookshelves and floated silently across the floor. She sat at her desk and folded her hands in a smooth and commanding gesture of sacred authority. With sunlight streaming in through the window behind her, she looked like an archangel guarding the entrance to heaven.

  “Has Nora told you why I asked you to come in today?” she asked.

  “No, she hasn’t,” my mother replied.

  Sister Margarita turned to me. “Would you like to tell them now, child?”

  My throat was tight and dry. I gripped the seat of my chair. I couldn’t speak and could only shake my head and swing my legs back and forth.

  “Would you like me to tell them?” Sister Margarita smiled down on me and I was momentarily awestruck. A smile from Sister Margarita was a gift bestowed on precious few and for a split second I thought I should just go ahead and become a nun so as not to disappoint her. I nodded that she could speak for me and felt an intense heat rising up from the furnace in my stomach.

  She looked at my parents, glowing with pride. “It seems that little Nora has been called.”

  “Called?” Papi asked with a half smile.

  Mami leaned forward in her chair and touched my knee lightly to stop me from swinging my legs. “We don’t understand, Sister.”

  “I’ve been watching Nora for many months now, and I believe she’s been called to follow Christ in a holy life.” Sister Margarita’s words rang clearly like a bell striking the hour, and her eyes lifted toward the ceiling as if she were in ecstasy.

  I dared not follow her gaze lest I see the face of God himself confirming my appointment. I felt dizzy and gripped the chair tighter and looked straight ahead, past Sister Margarita’s smiling face and out the window toward the girls laughing in the sun. A bright beam of light hit my eyes directly, but I couldn’t even blink as tears began to well in them.

  All three were watching me. My parents appeared startled, as if they’d never seen me before. Sister Margarita looked as if she expected me to sprout wings and a halo.

  Papi broke the silence. “Is this true, Nora? Do you want to be a nun?”

  I blinked once and looked at him, then over at Sister Margarita whose smile had only intensified in sweetness. How could I disappoint her? She seemed so sure I wanted to be like her and not a chorus girl with bright pink feathers sticking out of my head or a wife and mother who dressed her babies in soft embroidered clothes.

  Mami’s neatly painted brows lifted in a curious arch, and she placed her hand on Papi’s arm when he was about to speak again.

  My bottom lip began to quiver. I tried to make it stop, but the more I tried the worse it became. No longer able to tolerate their probing gazes, I dropped my head and saw Mami’s high heeled shoes press down on the floor as she moved to stand, but I jumped down from my chair and ran across the room before she could reach me. Flinging open the office door, I raced down the main hall (which was forbidden) and burst out the main doors, nearly knocking over Sister Roberta in the process.

  “Nora, what’s the matter?” I heard her call after me as I jumped down the stairs two at a time, not stopping until I reached the grassy lawn below. I stood with my back to the school, panting and staring at the slim sliver of ocean that peeked through the pastel collage of buildings before me. I could keep running past the gates and under the Virgin and never again return. I could find my way to Alicia’s school and convince her to leave with me. The train tracks didn’t seem so bad after all. A few nights in the jungle wouldn’t kill me.

  I heard spongy footsteps on the grass behind me. With his long legs, Papi could walk almost as fast as I could run. He turned me around by my shoulders and crouched down so we were at eye level. “No one’s going to force you to do something you’re not happy with.”

  I looked into Papi’s dark eyes and breathed in the reassuring scent of his after-shave.

  “Do you really want to be a nun like Sister Margarita?” he asked with a slight shake to my shoulders.

  My answer came out with such force, that I almost knocked him over onto the grass. “No, Papi. I don’t want to be a nun ever! I think Sister Margarita wants to steal me away to a secret nun school.”

  “Don’t be silly. Even if you wanted to be a nun, you couldn’t really begin to study seriously until you were much older.”

  By now Mami had begun her tiptoeing journey across the lawn, careful not to spike her heels in. Sister Margarita stood by in the doorway of the main entrance, but she didn’t come down the stairs to join us, and although she was too far away for me to read her expression I knew she was no longer smiling.

  Mami looked down on us, squinting in the morning sun and searching for her sunglasses in her purse. “Nora, running away like that was extremely rude. I want you to go apologize to Sister Margarita immediately.”

  A huge weight began to lift off my shoulders as we made our way back across the lawn.

  “She doesn’t want to be a nun, Regina,” my father said.

  “Of course she doesn’t,” Mami snapped. “Who ever heard of a nine-year-old nun?”

  4

  TÍA PANCHITA, MY GREAT-AUNT ON MY FATHER’S SIDE, HAD BEEN a widow for many years, and never had children of her own. She had a great head of silvery hair she pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck and she wore thick cat eye glasses that made her eyes appear so huge it was possible to count the flecks of green in the brown, like leaves floating on a murky river. She lived alone in a sprawling house on a sugar cane plantation in the heart of the island near a little town called Güines. I always knew we were getting close when the car rattled over roads that were either unpaved or rarely repaired. Marta and I sang and laughed as our voices bumped along making us sound like tipsy opera singers while Papi cursed and predicted the need for new shock-absorbers when we returned to Havana. Trees hung dreamily overhead, occasionally stretching out their limbs to brush the ceiling of the car in greeting.

  In Güines everybody knew everybody and they liked nothing better than to lounge on wide porches for most of the warm days waving to friends and conversing with who ever decided to stop by for a cup of Cuban coffee or a cold glass of guarapo. The only problem with this was that Tía always insisted we look like we were going out for a party even if we were just relaxing and going no where at all. This way, she said, she could impress whatever visito
rs she had with her beautiful sobrinitas. Although we’d been visiting Tía Panchita since we could remember, it was only when I was twelve and Marta ten that we were allowed to spend the night without our parents.

  Like everybody else, Tía Panchita had a black maid, but unlike anyone else, it was hard to know who was the maid and who was the patrona. Lola, a slight woman about Tía’s age with wiry salt and pepper hair, came every morning before anyone was up and started the coffee. Sometimes she made bread, and sometimes she brought it already made from the bakery. Either way it smelled delicious, and Marta and I loved to sit in the kitchen with Lola and watch her make butter. First she skimmed the cream off the top of the milk, and then she’d add salt and stir it for hours.

  Lola wasn’t a talker like Beba. Mostly she liked to listen, which was great for Marta who’d chatter her ear off about silly things. But Lola always appeared to be interested, nodding her head and widening her eyes when Marta asked her, “And then guess what happened?” I’d lost interest long ago and figured Lola had too, but she really was listening because most of the time she guessed right.

  Often Tía burst into the kitchen and snatched the spoon from Lola, and Lola would snicker and shake her salt and pepper head.

  “Lola, I’ve told you before there’s no need to make butter from scratch. I buy it already made, and you’re too old to be working so hard.” Lola would keep shaking her head and chuckling, complaining that store-bought butter wasn’t the same. I agreed.

  Both women would sit out on the porch together for hours, each in her own wicker rocker, talking and laughing and greeting visitors like a pair of old hens. They’d take turns preparing refreshments, and if they were too tired, they’d enlist our help and direct us through the open window leading to the kitchen. We’d emerge from the house, feeling quite accomplished, as we balanced trays of coffee cups, spoons, sugar, cookies, and guava paste. When night fell and most of the visiting was over, Tía Panchita and Lola always ended the day in the same way. Tía went inside and took the wooden cigar box off the shelf in the dinning room and placed it on the little table between their rocking chairs. She insisted that Lola select first. They’d roll the cigars between their fingers and tap it next to their ears. Then they’d light each other’s cigars and puff and rock for at least another hour until the stars made their appearance in the blue black sky above.