My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Mike shook Ricardo’s hand, “Good-bye, Ricardo. I’ll see you later. It looks great. Good job.”

  Once the jeep left, Ricardo climbed into his protected seat. He maneuvered the blade of the bulldozer next to the trunk of the small tree. He powered the engine, released the clutch, and moved the lever. The tree was sliced away.

  — 5 —

  Chirra

  CHIRRA WOKE TO the crow of a distant rooster and stumbled out of his scruffy cot. He searched the small room for his army boots. He was afraid of scorpions and hated burrs, so he never left his bohío barefooted. Chirra had slept in his clothes,and his shirt smelled of cheap Aguardiente. He remembered dancing. He was not that young anymore, but he really could dance and drink. His mouth was dry. Droplets of dew covered the short grass, the early fog was lifting, and a line of royal palms stood like Tropicana chorus girls waiting for a cue. It was another hot day. He walked to end of his yard, held himself up with one hand on a tree, and urinated. He felt better, but he was still thirsty and stumbled back inside.

  Chirra’s daughter, Consuelo, slept in her bed. Her delicate features reminded Chirra of the girl’s mother. One night when he had been too drunk to make love to Consuelo’s mother, she laughed at him. He slapped her with his open hand and then hit her with his machete, as he used to hit guajiros when he was with the Guardia Rural. He was boss; women must respect men. Consuelo’s mother cried and cursed him, and in the end, she left.

  Chirra looked around. There was not much to eat, and he had no credit left at the bodega. He had coffee and cornmeal. In his backyard, he had mango and papaya trees full of ripe fruit, but he was tired of eating fruit all day. He swore that his guts must be yellow from all the mangoes, papayas, and cornmeal he ate. Consuelo had to have milk. Girls always need milk to help them grow stronger and have better bones—at least this is what he had always been told. It didn’t make any difference that she was seventeen years old. She was still his baby. That meant he had to find work. He scratched his chest and smelled his underarms; he stank. He took a small bar of soap and walked to the stream to clean up. He could have looked for work at the farm, but it was too late now. The sun had long come up, and the batey was a half-an-hour walk away. He had to see Manuel, who always needed a body to brush horses and rake manure. If he got the job, he would ask for an advance from the farm; with it, he could go to the bodega and reestablish his credit. He knew that he could talk to Cuca about food “for Consuelo,” as he would say. He might borrow the old gray mule from the batey. He was soon going to have money, milk for Consuelo, transportation, and maybe, with the advance, he could get a small bottle of Pati Cruzao from the bodeguero. He felt better already.

  NANDITO OWNED AN old truck and worked sporadically for Don Miguel. He walked to the stream in good spirits. His team was going to play a baseball game against the Vertientes, the number one team in their league. It would be played in San Joaquin’s field, and he was optimistic. The girls and ladies were going to see him pitch. Now he had to borrow a tractor from the farm to mow the field that was used to play baseball. His speech was ready: “Don Miguel, you may know that we have the Vertientes team coming to play in our field. You know we are good and that we can win, but we need to see the ball so we can catch it. The grass and the weeds have grown too high. Yes, I know, we could have cut it with our machetes, but you know we have to be fresh and rested to play good ball. Cutting grass by hand takes time, and with a machete your arm gets tired and sore. I need a fresh arm. I’m the only good pitcher my team has. Yes, I will grease it well. I will put gas in the tank. No, no, I don’t have a girl right now. I’m married. I’m a serious man. No, no, I know you heard the drums last night, but I didn’t dance. I wasn’t at that party. I was resting. You see, I’m in training. I told you. I’m the pitcher.” It was a good speech. He felt confident.

  MARTINITO, WHO WORKED at the farm as a tractor operator, had not slept well. His baby girl had a horrible colicky night. He had spent the previous day in the seat of the blue Ford tractor mowing grass and weeds on the pasture next to the house. He didn’t mind the work, but it was a hot day, and the worst part was that Don Miguel watched him all the time, so he couldn’t stop mowing. It was easier when he was working in the rear pastures. There he could take a long lunch break, take a walk, wash his face, and refresh his body in a water tank and talk to the vaqueros as they checked the fences. It was a lot easier, with no hassles. Yesterday, it was rough: up and down the pasture, around and around, no stopping. The old bastard was even timing him! Now he wouldn’t have an excuse anymore if he spent more time mowing another pasture. He was running late. He couldn’t find a ride to the batey, and he still had to check his tractor, fill it with fuel, grease it, and check the tires for air and the radiator for water.

  THE THREE MET on the bank of the stream. Chirra was naked in a deep pool of water. Nandito watched Chirra with scorn. Martinito yelled to Chirra, “Hey, you got so drunk last night. Juanita said you tried to take her behind a tree and she laughed at you. She said when you’re drunk, you can’t get it up.”

  “Bah, she was just jealous because she couldn’t have this sweet thing,” Chirra said, thrusting his hips and grabbing his penis.

  Nandito laughed, “What? How can you call that anything! It looks like a worm. You have to be kidding, man.”

  The three finished bathing and headed down a red dirt road to the batey. Nandito was tall. Chirra was small, but not as small as Martinito, who was tiny. Near the batey, they heard the sounds of the milking shed, which was now full of cows, calves, and vaqueros. Arturo, the head vaquero, sour as always, was doing the milking with three other men. The old black stallion paced in his paddock, and in the employees’ dining room, Cuca had prepared breakfast—bread, butter, and coffee—for all the hands. Manuel and Paulino waited for the first bucket of milk to have their café con leche. Under a big Ceiba tree next to the show barn, the job seekers congregated, smoking their cigarettes, hats in their hands, sitting on their haunches, waiting to see if Manuel had work for them.

  MIKE HAD NOT slept well. He was not accustomed to the farm’s early morning sounds, the croaking frogs and the barking dogs. During the quiet darkness he had heard his father cough throughout the night. He needed to take his father to see a new doctor. Mike had tossed and turned in his bed, got up, and then walked around on the porch until he finally felt sleepy again. That morning, Mike dressed slowly in old work clothes. He had heard that Manolo, the mayoral, was going to brand, vaccinate, and dehorn. Mike looked like a broke vaquero, his straw hat no better than his threadbare shirt. He went to the employees’ dining room.

  “Good morning, Mike. How did you sleep?” Manuel asked.

  “Not too well. It’s so quiet around here.”

  Paulino, who enjoyed jumping into every conversation, said, “Yes, you’re a big city man now. You need big lights, the sound of buses, the clinking of the glasses, and mucho mambo. We are monks here on the farm. We pray for rain. We have had enough of skinny cows. We pray for fertile cows and strong semen for bulls, diseases and hurricanes in every cane area except ours, and a world war or two. We need Libertad! You want coffee, sir?”

  Mike nodded absently as he caught sight of Nandito, Chirra, and Martinito as they walked to the show barn. What a trio, he thought. Manuel, having finished his coffee and milk, got up from his taburete, picked up his crumpled hat, and left. Paulino and Mike followed to meet the group.

  “Good morning, Mike, it’s been a long time!” Chirra called out with a wide artificial grin. He held his hat in his hands like a supplicant. “Mike, I had a good dream about you last night. I’ll throw the shells for you. I know they’ll tell me good things!” And when he saw Manuel, he turned to him, “Good morning, sir, I’m ready to work.”

  Manuel relished the power of his position. “Maybe. Let me see what we have to do today.”

  Mike greeted Nandito, “It’s rather early for you. I thought you’d still be asleep. I heard the drums last night. Did you dance a
ll night?”

  “No, I didn’t. I’m in training,” Nandito replied. “Hey, Mike, we have a game next Saturday. Do you want to play? Ricardo may. I want to talk to your father about the game.”

  Mike laughed and shook his head. “Nandito, you haven’t changed a bit,” he said, and patted his back.

  “What?” Nandito said, feigning shock, though he knew what Mike meant. “I really need to talk to your father. It’s important!”

  “Okay. I’ll tell him you’re here,” Mike said, and left with a half grin on his face. He walked past Chirra, who, with quivering hands, trailed Manuel, laughing nervously at everything Manuel said. Mike knocked on his father’s bedroom door.

  “Father, are you awake? May I come in?” He heard a noise on the other side of the door.

  “Yes, I’m very awake,” Don Miguel, answered gruffly. “You know I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Well, come in!”

  Mike opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. Don Miguel stood shirtless before the lavatory, rinsing his mouth. The father spat, patted his mouth with a plush white cotton towel, and then reached for his red silk robe. His father had not lost all of his muscular build. He was the same size as Mike, but his belly had begun to show the lack of exercise. He still looked younger than his age, which was fifty-five.

  “What were you doing last night walking all over the house?” Don Miguel snapped.

  “It seemed almost too quiet for me, at least until the dogs started barking early this morning,” Mike answered.

  “You know it’s very quiet around here. What? Do you miss the city lights and women? I don’t want you to go with Ricardo to the whorehouses.”

  Mike sighed and sank into his father’s oversized leather chair. “Father, you know I don’t go visit whores.” Mike glanced around the room. “Paulino hasn’t brought your coffee yet? I’ll check with him about that. But first, I want to know how you’re feeling this morning. Are you okay?”

  “I’ve never felt better! . . . Paulino? Ha! He’s getting too big for his breeches. He thinks that because you’re here and because you’re his friend that he doesn’t have to be a servant. It’s ridiculous! That’s what happens when we help these guys. They forget everything.”

  Mike, accustomed to his father’s dramatic pontifications, calmly sat with his left temple resting on two fingers. A smile slowly appeared on his face. Mike knew full well how much his father liked Paulino, especially for his independence and cockiness.

  Diverting from the topic, Mike said, “They just brought milk from the shed. Arturo looks old and tired. I didn’t see him yesterday. How are his children?”

  His father replied, “You would look old, too, if you had to milk cows every day, had five children, and a wife who complains. Did you get up on time for the milking?”

  “No, not today. I heard the vaqueros singing when they brought in the cows. I want to help Manolo in the corrals. I’m riding La Nina. Do you plan to ride?” Mike said.

  “No, I have to inspect the show herd. If I don’t, we’ll be late with the registrations.” He groaned as he added, “Manuel wants to take too many animals—it’s not his money. He thinks he knows more than I do.”

  Mike headed toward the door. “Oh, and Nandito wants to talk to you. He’s waiting outside.”

  Don Miguel bristled. “I know what that character wants! I heard they’re going to play next Saturday. He wants the tractor because they’re too lazy to cut the field by hand. Mike, mi hijo, please tell Paulino to bring me my coffee, then I’ll deal with Nandito. Later, I need to call Havana. We’ll go to the pueblo and make phone calls. Cuca wants to order more food for you, anyway. You eat more than I do. I also need Scotch. Dr. Castillo said I should have at least two drinks before each meal to help my circulation.”

  Don Miguel left his room wearing his comfortable slippers, holding a cigar in his mouth, and a gold lighter in his left hand. The silk robe flowed gently behind him as he walked down the hallway. Paulino rushed toward him with his demitasse of coffee.

  “Don Miguel, Arturo was a little late today. I didn’t want to use the milk from the refrigerator. It smelled sour. You want your breakfast in the dining room or on the porch?”

  “Paulino, I’ll have breakfast later. Now I just need coffee.”

  Don Miguel stood on the porch and had taken his first sip when Nandito approached with his red baseball cap in his hands. “Nandito, what do you want?”

  “You know, Don Miguel—” Nandito began.

  “Yes, I know. You’re the pitcher. You’re playing the Vertientes, the best team in the league. Your playing field is a mess. Your arm is your weapon, and you can’t afford it to be tired. You need a tractor to cut the field you lazy people should have cut and cleaned a week ago. You come to me because you like me? No, because I have the tractor, the mower, the gas, and I’m a fool. Yes?”

  Nandito gaped at him with an open mouth, nervously touching his cap.

  Don Miguel continued, “Who’s paying for the gas? Who’s going to fix the machines if they break?”

  “Don Miguel, we are responsible people. I know how to take care of your equipment. You can trust me. I—”

  “Yes, if my grandmother had wheels, she would be a bicycle. You forget, you’re talking to me. You think I’m just an old man. I may be, but I’m not a fool. This is what we’re going to do.”

  Don Miguel motioned to Martinito and said, “Come here.”

  Martinito approached the men, puzzled, and started to babble. “Don Miguel, I tried to clean the tractor. I needed to talk to Ricardo, so I had to ask Cuca where Ricardo is, and I had coffee because—”

  Don Miguel tried in vain to contain his laughter. “Hold it,” he ordered as he held out his right palm. “I was very happy to see you working the way you worked yesterday. Now, this is what you’re going to do. Martinito, you check the tractor—the old gas Ford—and see that everything is okay. You give it to Nandito with the mower. He’ll mow his own field. He’ll bring back the tractor to the shed. Clean. Nothing broken. You will report to me—not to Ricardo, to me—that the tractor and the mower are in the same shape as when they left. Nandito and his team will help clean around the house and the batey. They’ll weed the flower beds, cut the grass and weeds with their machetes, especially around the fences and the garden, the week after the game. Okay, Nandito?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be here the day after the game. I’ll bring my team with me. Thank you, sir.”

  “Nandito, you better win!” Don Miguel finished his coffee. Paulino took the empty cup and saucer, and left for the kitchen, singing his latest song.

  Nandito and Martinito left for the tractor shed. Martinito mumbled, “El Viejo made a fool of me. What does he know about working? He’s never worked a day in his life. Walking around in slippers and a red robe, he looks like a maricon!”

  Nandito thought, “He won. I’ll still have to work Monday. He’s a tough old bird.”

  •••

  MIKE AND HIS father walked to the show barn. Chirra tried his best smile as they approached. “Good morning, Don Miguel. You’re looking very well. I’ll throw the shells for you tonight. Everything looks great. The horses look excellent.”

  Don Miguel looked at Chirra and smiled. He turned to Manuel and asked, “Manuel, is Chirra in trouble again? I expect he’s out of credit at la bodega. Can you use him?”

  “I always need to have stalls cleaned, and I could use more help preparing the animals for the next show.”

  Don Miguel continued, “Find out if Chirra owes any money to the farm. If he does, please pay him half the wages and withhold the other half until he repays everything he owes us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Manuel replied.

  “And, Manuel, no advances to Chirra, just let Cuca give him enough milk for that daughter of his. No money advances until he has earned some. He’s much too fond of the Pati Cruzao. Be sure he does not drink liniment as well.”

  And turning to Chirra, “Do you understand? Do we have an
agreement?”

  “Yes, sir. You know I work well. Thank you, sir.” Chirra’s mind was still clouded by the bad Aguardiente, but he knew that it was better than nothing, and he needed money. “I’ll take good care of the stables. You’ll be able to eat off the ground.”

  Manuel said to Chirra, “Start with Lucumi’s stall, and bring him in from the paddock. It’s time for him to be out of the sun. I don’t want his coat to be sunburned. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Thanks, Don Miguel.”

  Don Miguel led Manuel to the stables. “Manuel, let’s see what we have.”

  “Father,” Mike interrupted him, “I’m going to saddle up. I’ll see you at lunch. When do you want to leave to make the telephone call?”

  “Let’s do it at one-thirty, during siesta time. It’s going to be too hot for them to work in the corrals. You can drive.”

  Mike left to catch and saddle his cutting mare. La Nina was a good size, fifteen hands or better, a product of one of the Kentucky cavalry mares he had bought from the army and Don Miguel’s Arabian stallion. She had an expressive face, a wide-dished forehead, small ears, good solid leg, and a short-cut cow-pony mane. The fierce sun had dulled her chestnut coat. Ricardo had trained her, and Monito, Manolo’s oldest son, wanted to ride her, but Don Miguel had ruled that only he or Mike rode her, so she grazed fat and lazy in a pasture next to the batey.

  Mike brought a halter and a rope. He knew that when La Nina saw him, she would move to the foremost end of the pasture to wait for him, and then sidle away as soon as he drew near. Instead, Mike held out a bucket of oats, shook it, and when she ate a small amount, he placed a halter rope around her neck, rubbed her mane, and put on the halter. He led her back inside. The saddle room was small and crowded with trunks and show equipment, criollo saddles with silver ornaments, three English hunt saddles used by Mike’s mother and sisters, one old sidesaddle owned by a niece, and a few “Texan” saddles, all with the patina of old leather that was often cleaned with saddle soap. A few faded pictures hung above the tack hooks: his father stadium jumping, Mike riding his first pony, and Adelaida, his mother, riding a white horse. Mike selected a black Texan saddle with a comfortable seat, and by the time he left the room, he found Chirra busy cleaning up his mare.