Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  “I dare say my Spanish is as good as your English now,” he bragged with an impish grin.

  “Show me,” I challenged in Spanish.

  Jeremy’s eyes sparkled, and he began to chatter about the weather and about the different countries he’d visited and his hope to return soon. I listened politely and nodded with genuine approval at his fluency and accurate accent. Some words he spoke almost like a native.

  “I was looking for you,” he said, reverting back to English.

  “You were?”

  Jeremy finished his coffee and tossed the empty cup in a nearby trash can. “About a year and a half ago. I saw your name on the list of students invited to a reception of some sort, but you didn’t show up.” He looked past me as if trying to remember a dream, then shook the fog out of his head and laughed. I held my breath and waited for my life to change in the instant it took for his eyes to flicker and his chest to fall. “I remember that reception well.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It was just a few days before I got married.” Long seconds passed before I was able to congratulate him and smile, but it was far from a convincing smile and best attempted while sipping coffee and hiding behind my cup. “Any kids?”

  “No, not yet. Jane has a few health problems. She came down with malaria on our travels and it’s weakened her a bit.”

  I tried to express my sympathy, while concealing the fact that I was quite pleased his wife’s name was Jane and not Cindy.

  “Do you have a class now?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m late.”

  “Come on then,” he said grabbing my backpack and making a show out of how heavy it was. “I’ll walk you.”

  We chatted about academic life and how much he preferred travel and field work to the office. He asked about my family and my studies. I told him I was planning to be a teacher, and he was delighted to hear this. There was so much more I wanted to say, but we arrived to the lecture hall and he handed over my backpack. “You didn’t mention if you were married or anything like that.”

  As he waited for me to respond, I felt the spinning truth of the moment. It could be years before I saw him again, if ever. I had to seize the moment. What would Alicia do if Tony were about to slip through her fingers? She’d throw herself at his feet and declare her undying love for him. She wouldn’t care if he was married and had children and grandchildren even. She’d just look him straight in the eye and say what she had to say.

  “I’m not married,” I answered.

  “Of course, I forget how young you are. There’s a seriousness about you that fools me sometimes. It always did.”

  “My mother married my father when she was barely nineteen. I’m older than that.”

  Jeremy nodded politely and took a step back. “That’s right. I remember you told me before.” He raised his hand to say good-bye.

  “Maybe we could have coffee again when…when you’re not too busy,” I blurted out.

  His face lit up. “I’d love to, Nora.”

  When I got in, I found Mami and Abuela in the kitchen hunched over their coffee in the classic gossip pose. Mami straightened up. “Have you heard from Alicia lately?”

  “Not for a while.”

  Mami nodded her head in her solemn all-knowing way. Abuela folded and unfolded her napkin and added more sugar to her coffee, her eyes dripping with unspoken emotion.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “We called your Tía María in Cuba today. She told us she had a visit from Tía Panchita recently. She lives with Alicia you know, and her baby…”

  “What’s wrong with Alicia?”

  “It’s not Alicia exactly, it’s her baby. I forget her name…”

  “What’s wrong with Lucinda?”

  “They’re not exactly sure, but they’re fairly certain the baby is blind. They don’t know why…”

  I felt dizzy and sat down at the kitchen table. A heated anger surged within me when I thought of the way Alicia had been ostracized by the family for marrying Tony, the suffering she had endured, and now this. I pictured her wandering the dilapidated streets of Havana carrying her blind baby on her hip, looking for a left over crust of bread that some shopkeeper might give her for a smile. I winced at my own helpless frustration. It could take weeks for her to receive my next letter.

  Abuela shook her head sadly. “I knew nothing good would come of this marriage. It wasn’t meant to be, and when things aren’t meant to be and you do them anyway, this is what happens.”

  I swallowed my rage. I couldn’t be disrespectful to Abuela, but at that moment I felt as though I was being forced to be nice to Hitler himself. My jaw clenched as tears pushed through. I could burst, I could burst from the sheer inability to move.

  I hadn’t noticed Abuelo walk up behind us, and I didn’t know how long he’d been listening, but no doubt he was already well aware of the news. Abuelo never raised his voice. His disposition was as sunny as the tropical skies he’d lived under for most of his life, but when he spoke this time he seemed a different man. “Don’t talk nonsense, old woman,” he shot out. “You’re talking about your granddaughter and great granddaughter. Don’t forget that.”

  Abuela was about to protest, but he shot her down again. “You turned your back on your own blood and for what? Because you don’t believe white people should marry black people. When I told my family in Spain that I wanted to marry a Cuban girl, they tried to talk me out of it. They wanted me to marry a Spanish girl from my village. What if I’d listened to them?”

  “It’s not the same thing, Antonio. You can’t compare it.” Abuela waved her hand in the air like she was swatting a fly. “Black people and white people shouldn’t be in the same family. It’s not natural, and black people feel exactly the same way.”

  Abuelo crossed his arms. “Not natural? When I held that child in my arms, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.”

  Abuela’s mouth dropped open. “You saw her? Even after you promised me you wouldn’t?”

  Abuelo stood tall and proud, every bit the man I remembered at Varadero and at the airport all those years ago: “I did, and I don’t mind telling you that Lucinda is the most beautiful of us all.”

  18

  WE’D BEEN MEETING FOR WEEKS.

  Jeremy arrived at eight o’clock Wednesday mornings without fail and insisted on buying my coffee even though I protested. For an instant, when he approached balancing the tray with two large coffees and his briefcase slung over one arm, I could pretend he was mine. I wouldn’t dare pretend when he sat so close. At those moments I had to concentrate on remaining friendly and light, and avoid looking at him for too long for fear that my eyes would turn into two adoring hearts.

  Our favorite subject for conversation was Cuba. Jeremy had always wanted to visit, but hadn’t been able to because of the travel restrictions. I spoke freely about how going back was a forbidden topic with my family. This was the unspoken rule because the suffering and regret such talk would bring was too much for Mami and Papi to bear. Oh, we could talk about the beauty of the beaches, the unsurpassed quality of the seafood, and shopping at El Encanto. It was the sense of having lost our souls we had to keep quiet about, the pain of our transplanted roots craving their native soil. Nobody else would probably ever notice because we Cubans were so good at adapting and accommodating, but I told Jeremy that if you looked really close, you could see it, like invisible Scotch tape on a beautifully wrapped package, or the strings on Peter Pan when he’s flying across the stage.

  “Why can’t you go back?” Jeremy asked.

  I pulled my backpack up to my lap and zipped it closed. It was getting late. “My parents wouldn’t hear of it. They vowed they would never set foot on Cuban soil until Castro was gone.”

  Jeremy placed his hand on my arm. “We’re not talking about your parents, Nora. Did you make any promises like that?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Well, then.”

  “It would destroy t
hem if I went against their wishes…I know it’s hard for you to understand.”

  Jeremy removed his hand from my arm leaving a cold spot that missed his touch. “It just seems to me that if you want to go back and see your cousin who’s going through such a hard time right now, it shouldn’t be the end of the world.”

  By our third meeting, I was in love with Jeremy all over again. And every day, ten times a day, when my mind invariably wandered to him, I reminded myself that he was a married man.

  I contented myself with our once a week coffee meetings. Starting Monday I agonized over what to wear, how to do my hair, what book to be reading when he approached with his tray of coffee. When we went our separate ways, I replayed every second of our time together and filtered each word that came out of his mouth, every subtle expression on his face for the possibility, however fleeting, that he might consider me as something more than a friend who reminded him of his fascination with the Latino culture.

  My life revolved around Wednesday mornings from 8:00 to 9:00 A.M. And I was quite happy with it.

  Dear Nora,

  Forgive me for not having written in so long. I received your last letter, and it’s given me unimaginable comfort during these trying times. I thank you with all my heart for offering to help, but I don’t know what you or anyone could do now. After many nights of endless tears and self-torture, I’ve come to accept that I can only wait and see what happens with my precious Lucinda. I put her name on the waiting list at the Havana Eye Clinic.

  In the meantime, I try to be Lucinda’s eyes. When we go to the beach I describe the sand and the ocean and the palms that sweep the sky clean. I’ve learned how to keep my voice clear and bright while tears stream down my face. How to find the words to describe the beauty of our home? I struggle with this every day and feel like I’m trying to paint a masterpiece with a box of broken crayons. But Lucinda appreciates my effort; I know she does because she smiles more these days, and she tells me she loves me, as she touches my face and feels for my smile. Everyday she calls for her father and asks when he’ll return. For now I can only hope that soon she’ll feel his arms around her and hear his deep reassuring voice telling her how much he loves her. Tony knows nothing. As far as he’s concerned, our daughter is a normal and healthy three-year-old who’s saying the most adorable things as she runs around discovering her world.

  Instead of looking forward to seeing Tony again, I worry. I can no longer imagine his joyful face at the sight of his wife and daughter, but the horrible pain I know only too well. As strong as he is, I’m afraid this will destroy him. I can only hope that the love we have for each other will help him through this as it has helped me.

  The only time I feel free from my worries is when I go to the church on the corner of our street. Perhaps you remember it, La Iglesia del Carmelo with a little fountain in front where we used to throw coins as children and make our wishes. Abuela would scold us and say we shouldn’t make wishes to a fountain when we could be praying to God. I go to this place every day. It’s always empty, except for a couple of elderly ladies who sit in the shadows with their veils, lighting candles off to one side. Mass hasn’t been said for years.

  Hunger is growing, and many people have become starving hawks who take any opportunity to strike for a meal. I try to watch out for the desperate ones and most of all avoid becoming one of them myself. Desperation steals up in the night like a disease and creeps into the heart. The most honorable of human values is crushed under the weight of it, and when it’s taken complete possession of a person you smell it on them, like the putrid filth that collects in the alleys of Havana. This filth flows out to the streets and collects in the gutters. If you’re not careful you can step in it and carry it home on your shoes. I know it breeds most in the hearts of those who’ve lost all hope in the revolution and the ideals of change. Tony reminds me in his letters that we have to remain strong and understand that even for a single person to change, it takes an enormous amount of effort, so for a whole country to change…well, you see where I’m going with this.

  I’m closing my eyes now with happiness in my heart and thoughts of you and Jeremy finding a way to make the love you have for each other grow. I’m not advocating adultery, but I believe all things happen for a reason, and I hope the reason Jeremy is in your life is made known to you and him very soon. I pray for you every day.

  Alicia

  Marta and Eddie announced they were going to have a baby at about the same time I began my last year of college. Jeremy was fascinated to hear how Mami went to Marta’s new house almost every day to help with the details of her home and her preparations for motherhood. And I almost began to get used to the fact that I was in love with a married man, but he rarely spoke of his wife. The only thing I knew was that her name was Jane, they’d met in Peru, and that she suffered from bouts of malaria. I believed he was trying to spare me painful details, but he didn’t understand that I’d learned to manage my secret obsession for him very nicely. Whereas before it might’ve been painful, now I wanted to know everything about him…even his choice for a spouse and all that went along with it.

  Even so, I managed to meet somebody else. He was a business associate that Papi invited to Marta and Eddie’s house-warming party. His name was Greg, but Papi called him Gregorio. He was nice-looking with reddish hair, and a hard worker with a good future, which Mami and Papi liked most of all. What I liked best was that I could look him straight in the eyes without blushing, as I could never do with Jeremy.

  During the whole party, Abuela watched me talk to him. But her eyes were far away, and I know she was thinking about how it would be if we were still in Cuba. I don’t know if it was the wine, or the bougainvilleas blooming outside the window, but it was as if we’d never left.

  We were at a garden party at the ocean’s edge, not quite on the sand, but close enough to see the breeze sweeping translucent swirls out to sea. Everyone was vibrant with laughter and warmed by a good-natured sun that knows its place in the blue expanse above.

  The surf didn’t pound, it was the tempered beating of our hearts. The wind didn’t blow, it was the resonating essence of a lilting flute. All our worries dissolved in rainy intermissions that evaporated up to heaven three or sometimes four times a day.

  My hair was pulled back in a sleek bun at the nape of my neck. I wore coral lipstick and my face required no other adornment. I was not obsessed with being beautiful. I preferred to languish in the unequaled feeling of belonging to the beauty that surrounded me.

  Greg poured me another glass of wine, and I knew I must resist the temptation of another daiquiri. A lady does not drink too much. Mami and Abuela have always told me that a lady must be able to think on her feet and balance on slender heels while strolling, arm in arm with the man of her destiny.

  While I was imagining all of this, Greg asked me out to dinner. We began to go out most weekends and sometimes during the week as well. I had no choice, but to break a few coffee dates with Jeremy, saying I had to study for an unexpected quiz, or some such excuse. Although I knew I shouldn’t be, I was afraid to tell him about Greg, but soon I knew I’d have to find the courage.

  I saw Jeremy stretched out on a warm patch of grass with two coffees steaming next to him. But he hadn’t seen me yet, and I thought about walking away before he did. I was embarrassed for him to see me, not in my usual jeans and sandals, but wearing a new coordinated outfit with matching shoes and bag. I was planning to meet Greg after class for a drive along the coast, and dinner at our favorite seafood restaurant. He was expecting me to be at the university entrance in five minutes.

  I was stepping away when Jeremy turned and spotted me. Now I had no choice but to join him, and I felt my cheeks flush as I approached. He gave my new look a curious glance, but said nothing as he turned his face back to the sun.

  I patted the grass to make sure it was dry and sat down next to him. He handed me my coffee, but we didn’t say anything for several minutes. This was custo
mary for us. We were like a couple that had grown comfortable with our silences over the years.

  My eyes swept over him and I tried not to notice that he was still beautiful to me, nor did I want to feel the profound sense of belonging I felt when I was near him. I cleared my throat, breaking the warm buzz between us. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time today.”

  His eyes fluttered and he grunted his acknowledgement low in his throat. I knew that sound well. It usually made the lower half of my body grow warm and tingly, but I fought the sensation this time, and tightened my stomach.

  “I have a date,” I said. “And I need to be at the other side of campus in five minutes.”

  He sat up slowly and rubbed off the blades of grass that were stuck to his palms. He hardly looked at me, when he spoke. “You should probably go then.”

  I stood up and backed away as though it were some kind of trap. “Yes, I probably should.”

  He glanced up at me, his eyes kind and mild as I retreated. “Have a good time, Nora.”

  Dear Nora,

  My angel is home! It’s only been two weeks since Tony returned, but already our life has changed in amazing ways. He found us an apartment two blocks from the sea. In the middle of the night we hear the waves like distant sighs. And there’s so much more to eat. He brought boxes of dried milk and bananas with him that we trade for meat and toilet paper. You have no idea how long it’s been since we’ve had toilet paper. I think it’s far too fine for its intended purpose, so I’m saving it to barter with later if necessary.

  Lucinda loves bananas just like we did and she eats one every day now. The very sun shines brighter than it used to, Nora, and color is returning to a city that was fading under its glare.

  I heard him before I saw him, asking the neighbors which room was ours. I bolted out the door leaving Lucinda spinning on her feet and so confused about my sudden departure that she started to cry, and Lucinda hardly ever cries.