Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  “I’ve been waiting for you, little girl,” she says, without skipping a beat. “Where have you hidden yourself all these years?”

  “I was far away, but now I’ve come home.” I move closer to her. I want to see the polished smoothness of her skin up close. I want to smell the onions and the peppers on her hands and hear the deep and golden timber of her voice that is more reassuring to me than my own mother’s.

  I look into her eyes and she stops playing. They are as I remember them, alive with the knowing of a secret joke, poised on the verge of tears and laughter. She can make all the hurt and fear of childhood disappear with a single embrace, a wave of her hand, the wink of an eye.

  “Everything’s going to be OK, little girl. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Has Beba ever lied to you?”

  “No, Beba. You never lied to me or anyone. That I know as surely as I know my own name.”

  Satisfied with my response, she begins to play again and moves her enormous head to sway and dip to the rhythms floating around us, and through us. She’s no longer paying attention to me. She knows I’m here. She knows I’m safe.

  Lucinda takes my hand and brings me back to the fire. She leads me closer and closer to it. “It’s OK, Tía Nora. It won’t hurt.” She steps into it herself to show me.

  Flames shoot through her body, and she lights up from the inside out with the fire curling up in her eyes and her mouth like an oven of hot embers burning and smoldering. Her hair is golden light floating on the heat. She smiles a brilliant burning smile and holds her small hand out to me. It glows gently from the inside out so the veins are clearly visible. I reach out to take it, and the darkness sweeps me away like a quiet storm that silences the wind and the whispering of my mind.

  I trembled when the plane touched ground in Havana and when I stepped onto Cuban soil the prayers I remembered as a child formed on my lips. I was not alone. Many other passengers wept for joy, and thanked God and all the saints for allowing them to return to their homeland before they died. One older woman collapsed on her knees and buried her face in the earth. Her young companion, who looked like her granddaughter, was embarrassed by this emotional display, and attempted to raise her by one arm, but her grandmother refused to move.

  I walked past them and was preparing to tell the girl she should be patient with her poor grandmother when the tropical fragrance of the air forced me to stop dead in my tracks as well. After so many years of empty remembering, my heart jumped. Like words to a song I’d long forgotten, it was suddenly upon me, every chord, every phrase, every turn of the melody was singing to my spirit, “You’re home, you’re finally home where you belong.” I felt the petals of my heart shift and loosen; another breath and they’d be open completely. A few more seconds of warmth from the sun that hits this land from its unique angle and distance in the sky, and I would be as I was meant to be.

  My feet shuffled forward and I heard the sounds of Cuban Spanish spoken all around me, with its dropped s’s and slurred consonants that make every word sound like the erratic beating of a drum. Rhythmic and alive, broken with laughter and wild gesticulations, it said more to me than a thousand words.

  My head spun with the whirl of commotion. Entire families were at the airport to welcome their Americanized relatives. In their haste to get to them, they stumbled over each other, heavily laden bags of soap and toilet paper tumbling to the dirty floor, and quickly recovered by eager relatives whose emotions were momentarily suspended by the sight of such rare luxuries.

  I scanned the crowd, sniffing and waving my handkerchief in the air for Alicia to find me. Several people bumped into me as I made my way through the throng, looking into my eyes searching as I searched their faces. Although I didn’t know them, the expression of longing and hope was one I was all too familiar with.

  I spotted them leaning against the very wall where I’d waited to leave my country so many years ago. Alicia’s face had hardly changed. Her fine and perfect features, her almond shaped eyes dancing with intelligent light, full of inspiration and wonder. She was still a child. Her golden hair, back in a ponytail, wisps of curls framing her face like the most delicate lace. But she was thinner than I remembered and her shoulders slumped beneath her crisp shirt. Her skirt would’ve fallen to her feet if not for the belt cinched tight around her tiny waist.

  My gaze shifted down and I beheld one of the most beautiful children I’d ever seen. She was quite literally a golden child. Her hair was arranged in ringlets of dark gold and her skin, although lighter in tone than her father’s, still retained the burnished warmth that filters through the trees at sunset. Her turquoise eyes gazed straight ahead, but they were not vacant. They were mysteriously calm as though she were in constant prayer and meditation. She smiled brilliantly in response to something her mother said to her. Mesmerized by Lucinda, I hadn’t noticed that Alicia had spotted me in the crowd, and they were walking toward me.

  We stood for a moment, and I was in Tía María’s garden again. I was looking to Alicia for guidance or at least a funny joke that could transport us into a trance of endless giggles that irritated everybody but us. Yet this close up I could see that she had changed. The once fine texture of her skin had been degraded by time and although still beautiful, it was far from the porcelain perfection I remembered. Her hair that could once capture every beam of sunlight was dull and dry, and as she pulled me into an embrace, I realized that it was none too clean either.

  We held each other for a very long time, and in her arms my shock melted into tears that streamed down my face dampening Alicia’s hair. She was crying too, and her skinny shoulders trembled against mine.

  “You’re here,” she kept whispering. “You’re really here.”

  We stood at arm’s length, holding hands. Memories had been much kinder than this moment, for as I looked upon this fatigued woman approaching middle age, I was suddenly faced with a stranger. This wasn’t Alicia unless I looked at nothing but her eyes and their golden light that wavered with the shifting grace of the ocean.

  “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman,” she said. “Such a beautiful and elegant woman.”

  Lucinda stepped forward, and took my hand. She stepped closer still so that her head was next to my heart and hugged me tight. I let go of Alicia’s hand, wrapped both my arms around Lucinda and kissed the top of her head. I loved her instantly.

  “Tía Nora, you smell so good,” Lucinda said, and I held her even more tightly.

  Berta waited outside for us in a borrowed car. She was a large, attractive woman with thick black hair and full lips painted hastily in fuchsia. She wore a tube top that barely covered her ample bust and the smooth roll of honey colored flesh that escaped over her skintight athletic shorts. She drove a 1955 powder blue Chevrolet with a visor, just like Papi used to have, and she handled the oversized steering wheel and yelled profanities out her window at offending drivers with the same dexterity.

  Between shouts and crazy maneuvers, she managed to glimpse at me and my clothes and shoes. Her questions were pointed and not in the least bit apologetic. “I bet you paid more than twenty dollars for those shoes, didn’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “So, what do you do to make money?”

  “I’m a teacher. I work with young children who are still learning English.”

  She flung her head out the window for the tenth time and her raven hair streamed out like a flag, nearly blinding her in the process, not that this prompted her to slow down. “Get out of the road, you worthless piece of shit!” she shouted to another driver.

  “So, you have to go to school for a long time to do that or what?”

  “A little bit. It’s not that bad.”

  “How much do you get paid?”

  Alicia leaned forward from the back seat and placed a cautious hand on my shoulder. “I may have forgotten to tell you how forward Berta can be.”

  Berta cackled behind the steer
ing wheel, and I couldn’t be sure if she hadn’t just spat out the window as well. “That’s right,” she said, grinning from ear to ear and displaying a remarkable set of large and perfect teeth. “But you can tell me to shut up, and I won’t be mad at you, not even for a minute.”

  “We wouldn’t make it without Berta,” Alicia said leaning back again, obviously exhausted. I noticed perspiration lining her mouth.

  Berta yelled out the window again, this time at a group of young men standing idly in the street and blocking the flow of traffic. “If you don’t move your butts, I’m going to serve them up for dinner and your balls for dessert!” This brought a series of even more colorful comebacks from the young men and a sparkling eruption of giggles from Lucinda in the back seat who, until then, had been silent.

  I heard Alicia exhale from behind me. “I told you things had changed, Nora.” I knew what she meant. Never would vulgarity of this sort have been tolerated openly on the streets, but it now fell from the windows of once elegant buildings, like confetti. It was obviously the order of the day and fully available to women as well as men. Perhaps it was even necessary for survival, for Berta used it as one would wield a huge rifle, and her efforts cleared her path as well as if she’d strapped one to the hood of her car.

  We drove through the potholed streets of Havana, dodging young and old alike. Many rode on rickety bikes, sometimes two and even three at a time, their limbs splayed out in an effort to balance like a circus act on a high-wire. The majority of the buildings we passed had fallen to ruin and gave the impression of enormous wedding cakes decomposing in the sun, their former glory strewn about the sidewalks like so many crumbs. Colored glass that once graced the most elegant of windows, fell upon those below like heavy tears.

  I had walked this street as a child many times. The driver often dropped us off at the far corner near the pharmacy, and I had held on tight to Mami’s hand as we crossed the busy road. Could this be the same place? Yes, it was. And around the corner was the Woolworth drugstore where Alicia and I loved to sit at the counter and order our favorite avocado and shrimp salad. When Mami wandered off to look at this or that, we’d spin on the seats so that sometimes we were too dizzy to eat. Or we watched elegant ladies strolling in their high-heeled shoes with matching bags swinging from their crooked arms. We dreamed of how we would dress and walk when we were old enough to shave our legs and wear stockings. We listened to the street vendors who called out their wares with a dignity that blended nicely with the musicians serenading us.

  But now the skin was being stripped off my beautiful memories. People didn’t stroll anymore; they shuffled in ill-fitting shoes held on to their feet by a fraying strap. Many children were barefoot. They were at the age when feet grew quickly, and I imagine they were lucky if the one pair of shoes they received once a year lasted more than a few months.

  I studied the faces of my countrymen as they ambled about the decomposing city, their eyes turned inward as if they were lost in a dream from which they did not want to wake. They stepped over the garbage and debris without noticing. Perhaps they were, as I was, trying very hard to remember the way their city used to be so they didn’t have to see it falling down around them.

  I turned back to look at Alicia who was smiling a small sad smile. “Things have changed,” she said again with a slight nod of her head. “Don’t cry, Nora.”

  Was I crying? Were the tears on my cheeks my body’s reaction to the thick tropical weather so unlike the dry California climate? I rubbed my arms with both hands at once. I could feel the damp softness already, the sensuous experience of mild humidity that makes my skin feel as soft and smooth as the finest silk. I felt the creases around my eyes, and the corners of my mouth, even my scalp, begin to loosen and smooth out like glass. The air was heavier, but fragrant and soft.

  Lucinda was leaning toward me, and a smile had drifted across her face like the sun peeking out behind a cloud. “Mami and I have been dreaming of this day for so long. We talked about it since I was a little girl.” She reached out her small hand and began to stroke my hair. “Tía Nora?”

  I took her hand that had become tangled and kissed it. “Yes, my love?”

  “Don’t ever leave us.”

  At this Alicia straightened up and placed a gentle hand on Lucinda’s shoulder. “We talked about this. Nora has a husband and a job in the United States. She’s only coming for a visit.”

  “He can live here too. Jeremy even speaks Spanish doesn’t he, Tía Nora?”

  I smiled at the way Lucinda pronounced Jeremy’s name, with the J sounding like an H. I rather liked the sound of it. I took hold of her hand once again. “If there were any way we could live here with you, I would stay. But I’m afraid your Mami’s right. I’ll have to go back soon.”

  Lucinda settled back in her seat with a solemn nod.

  At this moment, the ocean appeared between two buildings like a jewel set inside two dry and molding pieces of bread. It sparkled and winked its turquoise perfection, and the waves rolled in graceful and gentle bands on to the beach beyond the malecón. I gazed at the sky and ocean as they floated together where heaven meets the earth. This point along the horizon where my Cuban soul lives, this place had not changed at all. It was exactly the same, and all the depressing ugliness I’d just seen faded away.

  “Stop the car, Berta,” I said and she nearly careened into the sidewalk of the malecón. I got out of the car and walked to the wall that held back the sea. The wind blew back my hair, and the ocean spoke to me as it rolled forward. The warmth of the sun reached in past the heat of the day and touched my heart and soul so that they glowed. “Welcome back to the only place your heart can ever truly call home. Go ahead, breathe us in. With every breath it becomes more and more difficult to deny that you’re a daughter of the island. The passion in your heart belongs here.”

  My knees were weak when I walked back to the car, as though I’d been administered a strong drug.

  “We’ll have time to spend at the beach,” Alicia said soberly. “Now you’re tired and we should go home to rest for a while. Berta and I made you some good Cuban food. You must be hungry.”

  I realized suddenly that I was. “I don’t think I’ve ever been hungrier in all my life,” I told them as Berta burst away from the curb and back into traffic.

  25

  THEIR HOME WAS ONLY A FEW BLOCKS FROM THE SEA. IT WAS actually a two-room apartment within what once had been a lovely town house with rose-colored walls and terraces spilling over with geraniums and lacey banisters of intricately worked wrought iron. With time and neglect, the walls had peeled off in large curling strips exposing the powdery flesh beneath, but the iron, like the teeth of a corpse consumed by fire, was true to its past.

  What Alicia referred to as the kitchen was in reality a small broom closet. It contained a double burner hot plate and a small refrigerator barely big enough for a couple of cartons of milk. Several boxes were arranged against the wall and served as shelves in which they kept two bags of rice and a large bag of black beans, a few onions, and a box of powdered milk. The only window, in the upper corner, had no screen and could only be opened during cooking so the kitchen wouldn’t be overcome by insects. The effect was a room so stifling hot that it was a wonder the rice and beans didn’t cook all by themselves.

  When Alicia and Berta disappeared into the kitchen to finish my homecoming meal, I sat with Lucinda and listened to her sweet singsong voice. She sat on the couch that also served as a bed and looked at me with such tenderness that I felt she could not only see my skin, but all the way through to my soul.

  “I always took care of Mami when she worked,” she said plainly. “Now that she doesn’t work, I still take care of her.”

  “Your Mami isn’t working anymore?” My delight at hearing this made me sound almost shrill.

  “Mami’s been too tired to work lately, but I make sure nothing disturbs her when she sleeps because rest is what makes her feel better. When she’s had a goo
d night’s rest, we go to the beach and that’s my favorite place in the world.”

  I nodded my agreement. “This country has the most beautiful beaches in the world. Back in California the beaches are beautiful too, but very different.”

  “Aren’t all beaches the same?”

  “My goodness, no. Over there the water is cool, even cold. And the color is dark green and so deep that the sun can’t light up the waters and warm it like it does here. If you could give the sea emotions, the sea over there is a somber and serious sea, but here it’s playful and rather vain. It’s in love with its own beauty reflected in the sky. But who can fault the ocean, when there is none who can even come close to her?”

  Lucinda nodded eagerly, and I thought sadly of how she’d never be able to look upon the blessing of beauty that was her own face. She showed me the books she kept underneath the couch. They were obviously her pride and joy, and she ran her fingers over the pages tenderly. She read to me her favorite passages from Jane Eyre and Oliver Twist with feeling and maturity. But I soon realized she had most of these passages confined to memory because her fingers no longer touched the pages as she spoke but hovered at least two inches above.

  With a call from her mother, Lucinda put the books away and set the small table in the center of the room, with no difficulty whatsoever. She knew exactly where the dishes were kept, every spoon and fork as well. It was quite amazing and for an instant, I doubted she was blind at all. Perhaps, I thought, she could see just a little out of the corners of her eyes, but when I studied her movements closely I noticed that her hands hesitated briefly to be sure they’d touched what she intended before she took firm hold of the object. In these three dreary little rooms, Lucinda wasn’t blind at all, but completely in control, and it was a joy to watch her.