Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  Before we left for the dance, Abuelo stood before us and smiled proudly. “Two beautiful princesses,” he said. “One as lovely and bright as the Cuban days, and the other as mysterious and alluring as the nights.” Then he turned to Abuela. “And let’s not forget the queen of them all, who graces us with her beauty, be it day or night, rain or shine.”

  Abuela laughed happily, and patted his cheek. She wore a navy blue polka-dot dress and her generous mane of gray wavy hair was molded artfully to her head. She smelled of soap and lavender and her black box purse hung neatly over her arm.

  “How about me, Abuelo? You forgot me,” Marta said, running in from the porch.

  “You aren’t merely a princess,” Abuelo said, putting his arm around her chubby shoulder. “You’re an angel from heaven, and your beauty is beyond description.”

  Marta smiled in spite of her bad mood.

  We walked to the dance along the sidewalk that followed the water’s edge. The sun hung low, wavering in the misty warmth of the tropics. The sea was a smooth silver tray that received its nightly offering of heavenly gold with unusual grace.

  Tiny lights started to blink in mesmerizing patterns along the distant shore. They reminded me of the glamorous parties my parents attended, Mami in her swirling skirts and Papi in white linen, crisp and cool. They’d kiss us good night in a haze of perfume and tinkling bracelets and slip out into the night, giggling like children. They were going out into those beautiful lights, and even though it looked like a fantastic carnival, children weren’t allowed in. But on this night we were entering that magical world for the first time.

  I was surprised that so many boys had asked me to dance. I accepted, a little awkwardly, and allowed them to lead me to the dance floor with sweaty palms that trembled ever so slightly when we touched. Cologne and perfume were applied with such vigor that I felt I might be overcome in a forest of exotic flowers writhing erotically at times, hesitantly at others, to the mambo beat of the orchestra swaying on stage. The chaperones, mothers and grandmothers, chatted along the perimeter of the room, pointing to their daughters and granddaughters as they held their purses on their laps.

  I hardly had a chance to talk with Alicia who was continually surrounded by a throng of young men who looked a bit older than the boys who asked me to dance, and Alicia wasn’t awkward at all on the dance floor. She smiled and moved with the grace of a woman born to royalty, at ease with being the constant center of attention. She was the star of the ball, and she left a wake of turned heads behind her when she walked out onto the dance floor, her companion beaming as if he’d just been declared king of the world. Other girls shot envious glances and quickly turned to see if Alicia had caught the attention of their partners, which of course she had.

  One of my dance partners, a tall pimply boy with sweaty hands, asked me if Alicia was my cousin, and his eyes turned glassy as though he was talking about Marilyn Monroe.

  On the walk home, Alicia giggled about the boys who’d professed their love for her, how they’d gone on and on about the beauty of her hair and her skin and her eyes. I was able to share a couple stories of my own, but nothing like the volumes Alicia shared. At one point a boy even tried to kiss her cheek when she offered him her hand.

  Abuela listened with a serious ear and slowed her footsteps considerably. Then she stopped in her tracks and turned to face Alicia, even though she was speaking to us both. “You’re very beautiful, and boys and men are naturally drawn to beauty, but you mustn’t be fooled by their flowery compliments.”

  “They’re just trying to be nice,” Alicia said, still smiling.

  “Nice,” Abuela barked as she pushed her glasses up her nose with a quick thrust of her finger. “A man would be nice to a mule if he were desperate enough. Never, never allow a boy who is not your father or grandfather to touch you or kiss you in any way. There are places men can go if that’s what they need.”

  I knew Abuela was referring to the brothels in the Barrio de Colón where the prostitutes were said to saunter around the streets wearing next to nothing while smoking long cigarettes. It was well known that this is where young men went to learn about the arts of love and physical pleasures. It was also understood that young girls didn’t require a similar education. They would learn from their husbands on their wedding nights. Chaperones were there to make sure that the education didn’t begin before then.

  We were almost home when I asked the question that upset my grandmother the most. “Abuela, who are those ladies, the prostitutes? Where do they come from?”

  Abuela stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me with incredulous eyes. “How can you talk about such things? That is nothing that a young girl like you needs to worry about. You shouldn’t talk about such things, do you understand me?” The color in her cheeks was clearly visible in the pale moonlight. “Those women have sold their souls to the devil. They’re worse than dogs. That’s all you need to know.” She was walking ahead of us now, as if she’d suddenly become self-conscious about being out at night with such ignorant young ladies.

  I dared not ask her about the men’s souls, but I could well imagine her answer. The men checked their souls at the door along with their hats and claimed them unharmed at the end of the evening. Once a woman lost her soul it could never be regained.

  8

  THE EXPLOSIONS STARTED AGAIN. AND THIS TIME THERE WERE gunshots too. Sometimes it sounded like the shooting was right outside our window and not far away in some other part of the city. More than once the shots came in the middle of the day, and we dropped to the floor below the windows like soldiers in a war movie trembling and waiting for the silence to return. One afternoon Beba and I dropped to the floor in our kitchen, and on the way down, Beba knocked over the tomatoes and onions she was preparing for our meal, and we lay in them for several minutes. When it was over, we carefully collected every piece of onion and tomato that had fallen and washed it off. With the shortages getting worse every day, we couldn’t afford to throw anything out.

  We crowded around the television set at all hours of the day and night trying to learn some new bit of information that might offer hope or alleviate our growing despair. The prevailing mood was cold and suspicious as if we were at a funeral for somebody who’d been murdered and whose killer was still on the loose, maybe among us, maybe next door or down the street. It could be anyone in this shifting and unpredictable climate, but one thing was certain: Castro was no longer the redeemer; the man who could save Cuba and put her on a level playing field with the United States; the man who would clean up the corruption of Batista and his superrich cronies, and paint the country new with a sparkling coat of democratic ideals. Suspicions and fear abounded that Castro’s promises were false and that his sudden sweep to power was being supported by the least democratic people of all.

  We knew that the explosions we heard in the day and night were caused by those against the Castro regime, and the discord between Papi and Tío Carlos began anew. Tío Carlos believed Castro’s militant position was necessary during these uncertain times and that it would change once stability had been established. He believed there was still a possibility of a democratic solution. But Papi had lost all hope. He sat in his chair in his immaculate suits and polished shoes as he listened to the demolition on the streets and watched Castro gesticulating on the screen. His eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said to Mami who had nothing to say herself, but who shared his vacant expression.

  In spite of the sounds of war, and the intolerable tension that ensued during discussions of politics between the adults and the inevitable choices some were bound to confront, we tried to live our lives as before and, on most days, I managed to forget that there was any trouble at all.

  Alicia and I returned to the beach as often as we could. And we talked about what would happen if we had to leave Cuba. We lay as we had as children on the white sands gazing up at the palms swaying in the wind. We swam to and from the pl
atform like a couple of dolphins, and laughed as we shook the wet hair out of our eyes, always composing ourselves when good-looking young men came into view. As usual, most of the glances and comments were for Alicia, whose voluptuous figure was a beacon for any male nearby. I was happy with the occasional leftover remark or compliment when they noticed the dark girl alongside the beauty.

  “I don’t ever want to leave Cuba,” Alicia said as we lay drying in the tropical sun.

  “I don’t, either.”

  “There could be no better place than this in the whole world. I could never be happy anywhere else.”

  If I hadn’t been on the verge of falling asleep, I would’ve told her that “anywhere else” was an impossible thing to consider. We were Cuban and this was our country. Things would get better because they always did. If you couldn’t count on the ground beneath your feet, then what did you have? But why say all this when the wind caressed our bodies with such perfect warmth? Why interrupt the chorus of the sea that said it all much better than I? We were home and this was where we’d always be.

  Papi arrived home early from the office and didn’t sit in his usual chair. Instead, he went straight to the bedroom without a word to anyone, not even a kiss hello for Mami who’d been anxiously waiting for him since early that afternoon. Mami followed him, and Marta and I went straight to Beba as we always did when we wanted to get the straight story about what was going on. Political issues weren’t discussed at school, in fact they were avoided, and Mami and Papi still protected us from the truth whenever they could. But Beba had a special X-ray vision that could see beyond the complicated surface of things and understand the simple and bare bones truth without fancy explanations or excuses. She’d say, “Your mama doesn’t want you to shave above the knees because no man should be looking any further than that. And if he doesn’t like what he sees, he isn’t likely to touch.” Or, “Your figure will fill out when it decides to. Besides, some men like their women skinny. No use worrying about the Good Lord’s plan. It’s always best.”

  We went into the kitchen and found her chopping onions with such force that it looked as if she might cut right through the cutting board. Her eyes were dampened by the onions, and soon my eyes began to water too.

  “What’s happening, Beba? What’s wrong with Papi and Mami?” Marta asked.

  Beba dried her eyes with the back of her hand and then wiped her hands on her apron. She leaned on the counter, like she did when her knee was hurting her from standing too long, so I pulled a chair over for her and she sat down with an audible and weary sigh. “The world we know is changing. Some people think it should change. Some people think it should stay the same.” She shook her head slightly, and I saw that the tears in her eyes were not caused by the onions.

  “What do you mean?”

  “While you were at school today that man gave a speech that lasted more than six hours. Holy Lord, how that man can go on for so long without losing his voice, I don’t know.” Beba had refused to say Castro’s name for weeks now, believing that simply uttering it would give him more power. “He said what I knew all along; that he was a Communist and that he would be a Communist until the day he died.”

  Marta and I were silent. Although we weren’t exactly sure what communism was, we knew from conversations we’d overheard that this was the worst outcome of all the possibilities debated during the past several months.

  Mami and Papi emerged from their bedroom. Mami’s face was tearstained and red. Papi sat at his place at the head of the table after placing a weary kiss on each of our foreheads. In the kitchen Mami whispered that we should refrain from asking any questions. “Your father is very upset, and I don’t want him to get more so.”

  “Mami, is it true? Is Cuba communist?” Marta asked and Mami turned on her suddenly as if she might slap her across the face, although I’d never seen her slap anybody ever in my life. But she pushed the hair out of her face and turned to help Beba set the table for dinner. She gave two plates to Marta and two to me.

  “Castro may be communist, but Cuba is not communist,” she said with a conviction that was chilling. “Cuba will never be communist.”

  “May God hear you, Doña Regina. May your words go straight to heaven,” Beba said from the other side of the kitchen, and we all prayed the same.

  Sunday dinner at Tía María’s had become a somber occasion, but one that became more meaningful as we held on to what we knew of the world that was crumbling around us. There was no laughter on the porch, with clouds of cigar smoke being generated by a circle of happy, back slapping men in guayabera shirts, and no domino sets being arranged after dinner with good-natured banter about who was the best player and who was the cleverest cheater. Although there was much less meat to go around, the chicken and rice was as delicious as always, and Tía María received her compliments with a sad bow of her silvery head and no promises of the feast she planned to prepare next week. We cousins didn’t separate ourselves from the adults like we usually did to make our own fun. Instead, we hovered nearby to learn about the state of affairs and about what would happen next. My cousin Juan seemed better informed than any of us, even Alicia.

  “The government has taken over everything,” he said authoritatively, “including the sugar mills and the banks.”

  I wondered how it was possible for a government to do such a thing. Did they simply stroll into all those hundreds of sugar mills and kick out the workers and assume control? Would they open all the giant bank vaults, where I imagined a little man with rolled-up sleeves lived counting money, and shove him off his chair so that someone else in green army fatigues could start counting where he left off? It seemed impossible and not at all real. And how about Papi? He was an important person at the National Bank. Surely they wouldn’t kick him out? The bank couldn’t run without him, of that I was sure. And he’d never wear one of those green uniforms. He’d die first.

  “I think we’re going to be leaving,” Juan said, as he took a big spoonful of flan.

  “Leaving where?” I asked.

  “To the United States, of course. New York or Miami. You’ll all be going too, sooner or later, I bet you.”

  We all looked at one another, shocked, some more horrified than others, but Alicia was calm and she smiled serenely. “I won’t ever go. If they try to make me go, I’ll run into the hills and hide like my father did.”

  “You’re crazy,” Juan said as he scraped up the last of the sweet caramel sauce with his spoon.

  I thought a lot about what Juan had said about going to the United States, and I listened carefully to everything Mami and Papi discussed and was relieved to hear no word of leaving Cuba. In fact, they seemed more hopeful that things would change. Everyone seemed to agree that the United States would never tolerate communism so close to their democratic shores now that it had been so clearly spelled out by Castro himself. They’d consider it a disease that could infect their capitalistic ideals. Everyone knew that Russia and the United States were the worst of enemies, and rumors had already been confirmed by Castro himself that he was collaborating with the Russians on his new socialist state. There were too many reasons to believe that Castro’s days were numbered, and we’d be back the way we were; too many days and nights spent glued to the television set as if our lives depended on its eerie glow. For the first time in my life, I’d grown pale from lack of sun. At least Abuela would be happy with my lighter complexion.

  Mami cried every day. At first she didn’t want us to see her, and she’d withdraw to her room and return to the business of her day with swollen eyes and a tremulous smile. But as the days went on she lost all concern for appearing weak, and openly sobbed whenever and wherever the feeling took over: on the couch while watching the news, in the kitchen while helping Beba put together a meal with scant provisions, or out on the balcony as she watched the sun disappear into the wide stretch of ocean before her. She avoided shopping as much as she could, and if she did venture out she’d return worse than sh
e left, the sour mood of her experience causing her face to wrinkle with disgust and her unpainted lips to pucker as if she’d been forced to suck on a bitter lemon all day.

  One afternoon, she came back from her marketing with a small bag of rotting potatoes and dropped them on the dining room table with a thud. “I stood in line three hours for these,” she said and then locked herself in her room for another long cry.

  Eventually she refused to do anything but stay home and talk to Beba. It seemed Beba was the only one who could calm her down with her straight no nonsense talk about government and society and the way things should be. All of this would go down very well with a cup of strong cinnamon tea. Mami sat at the kitchen table bobbing her head as Beba talked to the rhythm of her knife coming down on the chopping board. Sometimes Mami laughed through her misery when Beba said things like, “That man should be taken to the deepest part of the shark-infested ocean and sunk with a weight around his neck. Then we’ll pass out his bones, picked clean, and use them to play the drums during the big party we’re going to have because Cuba is free.”

  But there was one day when even Beba wasn’t able to calm her down. We were driving to one of the few restaurants still serving dinner, for many had closed due to the shortages. The string of lights that always blinked merrily along the malecón were blowing out one by one, leaving a silent gray sweep of ocean front. Where once music and singing could be heard, there was now an empty and silent stage strewn with the garbage of happier times.

  Papi said we had to spend as much cash as we could because it would soon be worthless. He spent it on anything he could, two full boxes of corn oil we could use for trade on the black market along with ten pairs of expensive women’s shoes of all different sizes he bought from an old toothless man in an alley of the oldest part of Havana. He also paid Beba twice her usual salary, which she accepted sadly while clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “I’d trade all the money in the world for that man to leave. Lord knows it’s true.”