Manuel stood at the entrance of the barn, smoking a thick Cohiba, his eyes hidden by the dark Ray-Bans, as he oversaw the brushing of a nervous filly. He chewed his Cohiba one more time, spat out the tobacco juice, and turned around to greet Mike.
“It’s about time you came to see the peons. How are the Americanitas treating you?”
Mike shook hands heartily with him. “Good morning, Manuel. Say, I think you need to work harder. You’re getting soft,” and lightly punched his stomach. “I see that everything here is in great shape.” Mike nodded toward the tied filly. “Who’s she by?”
“She’s out of Butaca. She walks like a dream,” Manuel answered as he inspected her. “You don’t need to be a good rider to win on this one. Rancho Boyeros will be her first show.”
“Do you have the key?” Mike asked.
Manuel fumbled with a key chain and picked out a large key. Going to the corner box stall, he opened its padlock and Mike entered alone. The stallion’s back had started to sway, although he was still jet-black with no trace of white in his coat, mane, tail, or fetlocks. Mike spoke softly to the stallion.
“How you are doing, Lucumi? Do you still have a bad temper? How many mares have you jumped this season, old boy? Don’t you ever get tired?” Mike touched his long neck, held his forelock, his fingers touching the stallion’s withers and massaging him, slowly, with a gentle pressure, whispering. Memories flowed back: White linen suit, black tie, and a crowd roaring . . . the final competition for Criollo stallions at the national show in Rancho Boyeros. He was riding the Criollo stallion that had never lost. The one his father rode. On that day it was his turn: a rite of passage, an obligation. He followed the commands of the announcer: “Paso,” “Marcha,” and “Guatrapeo.” He sat erect on the unstable ornate criollo saddle, his hands in contact with the stallion’s mouth. He was nervous; it would be unforgivable to be the first rider to lose a class on this horse. He had ridden Lucumi at the farm, but never in a show, and he did not want Lucumi to feel his apprehension. He had already ridden him for twenty minutes during the class, changing gaits at the announcer’s cue. The announcer asked the contestants to line up in the middle of the ring. The three judges came by and checked his saddle, the bit; they examined Mike’s short Cuban boots, their shine reflecting the powerful lights of the ring. The judges assessed the stallion’s braided tail and the checkerboard combed on his rump. Mike knew the judges well. He had carried their briefcases and taken their notes and acted as their assistant at other shows. But he couldn’t smile at them, and they did not show a single sign of recognition.
The crowd applauded and whistled each time the judges stopped in front of a horse. The judges, practical men, reconciled their knowledge of horseflesh with the taste of the crowd. The crowd went wild when the judges stopped in front of Lucumi. They took their time before giving their cards to a young girl dressed in a white cowgirl costume. Mike searched for his father in the crowd. He was sitting in the president’s box with the president himself, the minister of agriculture, the minister of the treasury, and one of the owners of the big liquor company that had sponsored the competition. His father was laughing and having a good time; he always had a good time. The announcer called the name of the horse that won fourth place, then third place, second place. He paused, then requested silence from the crowd.
“Now ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this year’s Bacardi Trophy, for the best Criollo horse is,” he savored the tension his hesitation caused, “Lucumi!”
The president rose to his feet and applauded, and the crowd followed. Lucumi, though a veteran of twenty years, became nervous from the applause and began to prance. Mike pressed his legs on the horse’s flanks and held him back with mild pressure on the bit. He walked the horse, still applying pressure slightly on the bit, to the front of the president’s box. The girl in the cowboy outfit offered Mike the silver trophy and the red, white, and blue rosette. He tipped his hat, and took the heavy cup and the rosette in his right hand while his left held onto the reins. The other riders had left the ring, and now he circled it. The air was full of applause and cheers as the army band played a military march. Lucumi had won one more time. The announcer described all of Lucumi’s triumphs, and mentioned Mike as the rider, but he called him “Miguelito,” a diminutive that Mike, then eighteen years old, despised. He reached the end gate where the rodeo chutes were located, and met Manuel waiting with a farm employee. He handed the trophy and the rosette and the reins of the horse to them, dismounted, and went into a chute and pissed, not caring if anyone saw him. His legs trembled; he was exhilarated and drained.
When he returned, Manuel gave him back the big silver trophy and the rosette, and Mike went to find his father. The spectators were drinking Hatuey beer out of paper cups. Mike’s starched white linen suit contrasted with the open shirts and the short-sleeved guayaberas of the crowd. He went to the boxes in the grandstand. The president, with his retinue of ministers and hangers-on, had left, but he found his mother and his sisters sitting in the family box. His family congratulated him when they saw him. A sister gave him an embrace. His mother said, “You looked so handsome,” and gave him a kiss. Mike, slightly embarrassed, asked, “Where’s Father?”
His mother replied with a resigned shrug, “You know how he is. He may be with the presidential group or with the minister. Why don’t you look for him at the Patrons Club? I’ve hardly seen him all day.”
Mike rushed through the crowd until he reached the club, and then entered a badly-lit bar filled with a dense fog of cigar and cigarette smoke. A multicolored Wurlitzer played a Benny More guaracha. The cocktail waitresses were dressed like Texan cowgirls with short culottes and tight blouses. The bartenders, imported from the Floridita restaurant in Havana, kept the blenders whirring with frozen daiquiris.
Mike found his father at a corner table, sitting with a mix of people, some of them important. At the next table were two army officers in tightly-fitted civilian jackets. Between them, drinking champagne, was a mulatto woman past middle age with gray hair and a nicely cut somber dress. She was Paulette, the famous madam who owned the Conga Club. Most of the patrons knew her, but they did not acknowledge her presence. Mike finally reached the table while his father talked, as always, with energy, laughter, and confidence.
“Papa,” Mike said, trying to get his attention. “Papa, here’s the trophy and the rosette.”
His father stopped, noticing Mike, and nodded. “Let’s have a drink, put it on the table.” Calling one of the waiters, he asked for champagne. “The one of the Widow,” he said, “let’s enjoy the win.”
Mike stood by the table with his white Panama in hand as his father resumed telling a story to his friends. Before he had finished, Mike left. He headed across the room as acquaintances congratulated him. He walked as fast as he could to his car. He did not want to go back to the house, to his mother and sisters. Instead, he drove to the old plaza in front of the cathedral. It was past midnight, and he had the plaza, its portals, its cobblestones, and colonial arches to himself. He lit a cigarette, and looked at the roughness of the cobblestones and the shadows cast by the streetlights. He sat on the steps of the cathedral. One of his friends had been married there. He laughed at the memory of how nervous his friend was before his marriage, and how he had fretted because he couldn’t play around for a little while. “No more Conga Club,” he had said. At last, Mike finished smoking his cigarette and went home.
A year later, Mike left everything behind. But now he was back, and as he stroked Lucumi’s aging head, he whispered “You, old friend, you caused the problem. Father retired you after our win. Maybe he didn’t like my riding you, but we won. Together, we did it.”
Mike had to admit that he had missed his horses and life on the farm. He liked the smell of the barn, the heat caused by the animals, the camaraderie of the workers, and the sense of working together to create something, but he thought, why now? Lustre could have waited. He was so close to completing his la
st paper, so close to earning his master’s degree, but he still had options. Mike stepped outside of the box and gazed out at the barns and pastures. He took a deep breath: He was home.
— 3 —
The Breakfast
THE TROPHIES WON by the farm animals were displayed on two walls of the dining room; on another, a large mirror encased in a mahogany frame seemed to increase the length of the room. The dining-room table, made of the cut halves of a giant mahogany tree, was flanked by taburetes covered with hides with the farm’s brand burned into them. The setting for breakfast was sophisticated, but there were no flowers; the only nods to formality were provided by the colorful pattern of the Limoges china, a remnant of Mike’s mother’s taste, and by a Mexican silver breakfast set. The table was set with mangoes, grapefruit, and papaya, thick-crusted white toast, orange and strawberry marmalades, farm-made butter, freshly made orange juice, coffee, and milk.
“I’d like to tour the pastures in the back. You can drive the jeep. I haven’t been there for a while,” his father told Mike.
Mike was glad to see signs of interest in the farm. “Okay, when do you want to leave?”
“Half an hour. First I need to talk to Manuel and select which animals we’re taking to Santi Spíritus. Have you seen them?”
“Yes, Papa, early this morning. Manuel gave me the tour. I liked Butaca’s filly.”
“She’s one of the best that I’ve ever bred,” he said proudly. “I’m giving her to Miguelito Quevedo, the publisher of Bohemia. He loves horses, and it’s always good to have friends in the press.”
“Why her? Lucumi is getting old. Shouldn’t we keep our best?” Mike asked.
“Don’t worry. Every year, mares have foals.” He noticed the frown on his son’s face. “Are you tired?”
“Not tired, confused. Lustre calls, says you are sick, depressed, not taking care of yourself, so I run back expecting to see you on your deathbed, and today, today you’re up having breakfast with me, and you look fine, and you want to ride around, and then you ask if I’m tired!”
His father laughed. “I’m becoming an old man, old and sweet. That’s what girls tell me.”
“But, Father, you’re not old. Look at you. You’re quite strong. The last time we went riding to check the pastures, I was exhausted before you. And that was only last Christmas! Please . . .”
His father laughed, but quickly his laughter turned into a cough, a persistent hacking, and his face reddened. Paulino, who was hovering near the table, grabbed Don Miguel’s arms and held them over his head. Angry, Don Miguel tried to whack Paulino, while Mike offered a glass of water.
“That’s enough! I can take care of myself. Bring me some honey!”
Paulino, accustomed to such explosions, left the dining room whistling a tune. “Yes, Don Miguel, honey from the bees,” and in a quieter voice, “Honey for a drone, coming, coming, coming, right away. You can have anything you want. You are my Jefe.”
Mike glared at his father. “You haven’t changed. Paulino was trying to help. He takes good care of you.”
“Bah, he likes the food. He is getting lazier every day. Besides, his ideas and the things he says . . . I never should have hired him. He acts like he’s a doctor of philosophy and letters—He only talks and disputes. He should have stayed in Havana. He doesn’t belong here.” Don Miguel took another piece of toast, covered it with butter, and dunked it into his cup. “How do you like our butter?” he asked in a milder tone. “Better than the ones you’re having up north, or those sold in the small tinajones.”
Mike ignored him and took another sip of his coffee and milk.
His father took another bite and said, “I’m getting older. Your mother is dead, God rest her soul. I have decisions to make about us, and the farm. Your duty is here, you know. Your sisters and their husbands can’t handle the job of running this farm. The girls hate the countryside, but worst of all, the farm.” He waved his toast slightly. “It’s my fault. I’ve made it too rough for them. Their husbands, especially Julio . . . bah! He’s a fake. When he comes here, he dresses like Tom Mix. But all he knows is how to play gin rummy, dominoes, golf, and go to the beach. He actually likes life behind a desk. Nine to five. He has no guts. Jose Maria is better, but he has his own family business to run.” Don Miguel chewed on a bite before going on. “So, you’re it. You have to continue what we started—my father, his father, and now me.”
Mike had heard it all before. He tossed his napkin on the table.
“Give me time. I love you, I like the farm, but I have my own obligations,” he said, pushing his taburete away. “I’m going to go check if the jeep is ready.”
At the machinery shed, Mike ran into Fernando.
“Good morning, Mike!” Fernando greeted him with a wide smile and its full set of beautiful white teeth. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, I did. Oh, before I forget, I was too upset and worried to thank you yesterday for driving all the way to Havana to pick me up at the airport. You had to be tired. I wasn’t good company. ”
Fernando was pleased by Mike’s consideration. “Thanks, Mike. Your father will be okay with you back.”
Mike asked, “Where’s Ricardo? I haven’t seen him this morning.”
“He left about two hours ago. He went to the Ceiba pasture.”
“Where’s the jeep?”
Fernando motioned to the back of the shed.
“Thanks, I see it. See you later.”
The jeep’s new coat of red paint was already badly scratched from his father’s excursions through the underbrush. His father treated the old jeep as if it were a tank. He had never liked new things—cars, tractors, or trucks—and was wary of trends. The shed was a museum of antique farm machinery: two Farmall Ms, one Farmall H, and a small Ford tractor with a gasoline engine. Mike checked the jeep’s gas tank with a stick. The gas gauge had broken years before and was never fixed. Mike had walked many times to fetch gas when the jeep, driven by his father, had ran out of gas kilometers away from the batey. His father didn’t take business risks, but he never checked the gas tank. Mike cleared the dust from the seat and turned the ignition key. Fernando had taught him to drive it, up and down the alleys, changing gears and playing with the clutch. Mike drove to the front of the house, where his father was already waiting. Don Miguel’s boots had the deep glow of good leather meticulously cared for with saddle soap and countless polishings. In his guayabera’s left pocket, he had tucked in a half dozen No. 3 H. Upmanns. Don Miguel smoked as he paced, arguing with Cuca.
“No, I can go. I feel very strong. You don’t have to worry. If I can’t smoke, I’ll know it. The doctors don’t know a thing about my lungs.”
Cuca was upset. “Don Miguel, you haven’t felt well. It’s a hot day, and it’s a long trip to the end of the farm.”
Don Miguel drew on his cigar, opened the left door of the jeep, and motioned Mike to move to the other side. “Let’s go, Son, let’s go. I’ll drive, you’ll open the gates.” Paulino waved good-bye and Cuca made the sign of the cross.
“We started too late,” his father complained, “We should have started at six o’clock, and it’s eight already. We aren’t going to have enough time to check on everything I wanted to see today.”
“Papa, it doesn’t matter,” Mike calmly responded. “It will only take us half an hour to reach the Ceiba pasture. We have nothing else to do.”
It was a slow start. They had pastures on each side of the alleys that crisscrossed the whole farm. Each alley was one hundred feet wide; three vaqueros could move thirty to fifty head of cattle through any of them from a pasture to the corrals at the batey.
Don Miguel sped down the dirt alleys while Mike eyed the cattle. His father talked and gesticulated with his cigar, “Here we’ll plant another pangola pasture. There, we’ll drill another water well. Do you see those white rocks? It is a sign that there’s water, good water at sixty meters deep.” He sighed. “The farm isn’t finished. It will never be fini
shed. We need better grasses to fatten more bulls per caballería. We need water wells in the back pastures. Without water, pastures can’t be subdivided. It’s cheaper to fertilize than to plant.”
Mike nodded idly. He had worked the numbers and had even discussed them with his father, but he knew how much the old man loved to talk about the farm, and so he didn’t interrupt.
“The manigua always wants to come back. It is a never-ending fight,” Don Miguel grumbled. “People don’t want to work anymore. They like to dance, play, screw, go to the valla, play baseball, but to work and save money—no, they’d rather eat mangoes and cornmeal.” He waved a dismissive hand. “This is ours, and it will be here for your children and your children’s children. It is not, and will never be, solely mine. God just gave it to us to improve. You have to continue to improve it. You do it for your children, and your children will improve it for their children, if they don’t lose it from gambling and screwing around.”
Mike pulled a cigar from his father’s guayabera pocket and lit it.
“Hey, you’re old enough to buy your own.”
“Yes, but the ones you borrow taste better. In the States they’re more expensive. Remember, I’m just a college student.”
“Yes, but you have expensive tastes,” his father laughed.
That inevitably led to coughing his hard, violent cough. “I know I shouldn’t smoke. Your mother always said so.”
Mike waited out the latest spasms. He knew his father had too much pride to say, “Mike, I’m quitting the farm.” Quitting wasn’t in his father’s vocabulary. He would never say, “Mike, come back.” No, that would be too direct, too open and clear.
Mike’s chain of thought was interrupted by the sight of a clump of gnarled fruit trees next to a windmill. A sugar farmer who dreamt of being a sugar king had planted them more than thirty years ago. He and his dreams did not survive the drop in sugar prices after the big crash of the late twenties. The big sugar companies wouldn’t finance small sugar plantations; they didn’t have enough money to take care of their own. There was too much sugarcane planted. The economic rotation of land on the island continued: forest, sugar, pasture; and then sugar again, if the prices were excellent. When small sugar farms went under in the 1930s, Don Miguel had bought farms adjoining his own from the banks that had foreclosed on them. He had cash and was creditworthy, and the banks wanted out of the sugar business. The times when the bankers of the house of J. P. Morgan visited the island were gone. The young bankers, graduates of Ivy League schools, had to work in a foreign land to complete their training until they returned to the more civilized north. They never walked the land that served as collateral for a loan. A flurry of bank lending was followed by a flurry of foreclosures, and then by more sales. Don Miguel bought farm after farm. The banks seemed to operate on the principle: “Lend to the big companies and to the ones who speak our language and drink our drinks.” Later, laws were passed to protect the small plantation owner, but for many, the legislation was too late. Each farm Don Miguel bought had a small batey and a house on it, but he always said, “Burn them down.”
My Lost Cuba Page 3