My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  “Chirra, I can do it. You have other things to do.”

  “No, Mike. I’m happy to help you. She was very dirty. You wouldn’t want a beautiful girl to be filthy when she goes with you to a party, would you?” He continued his currying, then asked, “How is life up north? You know, I have only been to Havana once. I’ve never crossed the sea. I don’t believe in moving around. Me? I like it here, yes, sir.”

  Mike watched Chirra with disbelief. He was a bundle of energy. He finished brushing the mare, and then raised each hoof and cleaned its frog with his small knife.

  “Mike, the hooves are dry. Should I put some black stuff on her hooves? You have some in the tack room, and it helps the pastern. You see, when you were gone, nobody took care of your horse. You should hire me to keep her in shape. You know I’m the best.”

  “Thanks, Chirra, but Manuel has taken good care of her. See how fat she is?”

  “I can do it better,” Chirra offered. As he went on, his voice took on a doleful tone. “Mike, I know you’ve been gone for a while, but things aren’t good. My daughter, Consuelo, you know her. She’s grown so much, she’s almost a young lady, but she’s very, very sick. She needs medicine badly! I haven’t been able to take her to see a doctor. I’m out of money. Manuel is angry with me. I couldn’t work again here until right now, and that’s only because your father told him so. Can you lend me a little bit of money? I’ll pay you on Friday. I need to get medicine for her badly. I’m desperate. You know I work hard.”

  Mike knew he was lying, but he wanted to help Consuelo.

  “How much do you need?” Mike asked. “ I’m going to help you, but only for medicine.”

  Chirra tried to act nonchalant. “I don’t need that much, five pesos. I’ll repay you. I knew I could count on you! Here, let me saddle your horse.”

  Chirra joyously shook Mike’s hand as Mike slipped Chirra a five-peso bill, while from a distance Don Miguel watched the transaction.

  He turned his attention back to the cattle. Monito was at the head of the herd. They had started at five o’clock in the morning. The cattle were kept in a pasture near the outer limits of the farm. It took four hours to reach their destination, round them up, and bring them to the batey. Monito was at the front of the herd pacing it, while Manolo and the others pushed the herd from the rear. The maneuver required a delicate balance between the lead man and the back. If the lead man rode too fast, the herd would disperse, and if the back men pushed too hard, the lead man would not be able to contain it. The voices of the vaqueros and the thumping of the hooves on the hard ground composed the music for a dance between the nimble horses and the riders who coaxed the cattle into a long, not-too-wide column.

  MIKE JOINED THE vaqueros at the main gate of the corrals. He sat on La Nina with a big smile on his face, hat in his hand, his spurs shining in the sun as he soaked up a rare, powerful moment. He was riding his favorite mare out in the open. He enjoyed the sun as it warmed his body. The moment brought on an inexplicable bliss. Mike knew that life rarely allowed pleasures this great, and already at twenty-four, he had lived long enough to know that such moments in time left as suddenly as they appeared, and that such times would help sustain him until his last breath. La Nina, who until that moment had been lethargic, became alive, her ears pointing backward, her eyes and body following the movement of the cattle in the corral, ready to bolt at the slightest transfer of Mike’s weight. The bawling of the calves, Manolo’s shouting, and the vaqueros’ curses created a chorus of exciting sounds.

  It was hard work, but for Mike, it was like a sport, requiring the same skills as the ones needed to anticipate the next jab of a boxing opponent or the block of a rider on the opposite Polo team. Mike had a great time. The vaqueros joked with him. He laughed as he cut a calf away from his mother to force him to the gate held open by Monito. Time passed fast as they sorted the cows, calves, and bulls into different corrals until it was well past noon. Manolo then decided to break for lunch and a siesta. They all tied their mounts to the hitching post. The horses were hot and sweaty, not watered yet, but the riders loosened their cinches, took the bits from their mouths, and hung them from the horn of the saddles. Cuca had prepared lunch for all the vaqueros. Mike sat with them as he drank his first glass of water, and they chatted about their horses and their work. The vaqueros ate their rice, beans, jerky, fried eggs, and fried ripe plantains, while Mike ate plantains from the big tray in the middle of the dining table.

  Paulino came into the employees’ dining room. “Mike, your father is waiting for you to have lunch. It’ll be served soon.”

  Mike got up slowly from his taburete. He was sore and stiff already. The riding in the corrals had strained the muscles of his legs and back. The vaqueros noticed Mike’s stiffness and hooted.

  “Man, you’re getting soft! Those books don’t help you much out here, do they?” Monito said.

  The vaqueros broke out in laughter. Mike smiled as he felt the soreness in his muscles and touched his back, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back riding with you in the morning,” and left to meet his father.

  Don Miguel was on the porch. He had his first Scotch and water, and now he was nibbling on saltine crackers and Gouda. “I wish you wouldn’t ride in the corrals. Any vaquero can do that. I didn’t send you to college to be a peon,” he said critically. “And what were you doing with Chirra? You’re too soft. The man’s a drunkard. You should know by now that drunks will play you like a fiddle, and that’s exactly what Chirra did to you!” His voice rose as Mike ignored him, and poured himself a stiff drink. “Do you really think that Consuelo will see a dime of that money? Do you think she’s sick? He’s probably laughing at you right now.”

  Mike took a sip, tasted it, added a splash of water, took another sip, and stretched his legs in front of the white rocking chair.

  “Dad, I know what I’m doing. Chirra will be okay. He’ll pay me back. He has too much to lose. Look, if I’m coming back, I need to know these people again. I’d like to find a way to help the people that need help, like Consuelo. I want to know, really know, all the workers, what they need. See how I can help them. Come on. Let’s have lunch. Paulino said it’s served.”

  His father sighed. “Okay, you may work in the corrals, but only this time. We’re branding purebreds tomorrow.”

  Their lunch was simple with beef tenderloin, mixed canned vegetables, one baked yam each, and fruit for dessert.

  Paulino brought the coffee and the cigars. “Don Miguel, the jeep is outside. Fernando just brought it over, and he said it’s full of gas.”

  “Okay, it’s time to go to El Pueblo.”

  Paulino added, “Don Miguel, Cuca wants you to buy these groceries from the warehouse. Plus, you need more Scotch whisky. We’re running low.” He took the list, finished drinking his coffee, and grumbled about the poor quality and manners of the help.

  Mike went to ask Monito to put La Nina away.

  His father waited in the driver’s seat only a few moments before he honked impatiently “Let’s go, Mike. If we don’t call soon, we’ll miss the people in Havana. They may have left their office. They don’t work like we do.”

  The red dirt road was dry, and the dust caused by the car contrasted with the blue sky. The pastures on each side had the best animals on the farm. Don Miguel honked when he saw Nandito mowing the San Joaquin baseball field. Nandito waved back with his red cap.

  “He’ s a good boy, but he doesn’t have guts. He’s afraid of throwing the right ball when it really counts,” Don Miguel commented. “He has speed and that’s good, here in the boondocks. But he’ll never pitch for the Almendares team. If I thought he could, I would have talked to July Sanguily to give him a try.”

  Mike was surprised. “I knew you liked baseball, but I never thought you followed the players down here.”

  He laughed. “I need to know about them, too.”

  — 6 —

  The Family

  DON MIGUEL HAD worked at the family bank
for five years, but he never wanted to be a banker. He loved the land, horses, cattle, and the outdoors. He was born into a large family that honored loyalty and had traditions. Among the many unspoken rules and expectations, it was acceptable for a family member to become an attorney, a banker, and a dry-goods salesman, to sell paint by the bucket, refrigerators by the gross, or machinery by the ton. The family approved of a career planting or harvesting sugar, rice, or sisal. They gave a nod to work in the cattle industry. A Rodriguez was never to be a politician, a judge, or a member of the armed forces. The family, like many in their position, offered bribes, but did not accept them. Mike had been raised hearing family stories about the land, who bought it and when, who worked, who played, who lost, who was good, who was bad, and who kept his word.

  Don Miguel drove the jeep over a small bridge that spanned a crystal clear stream. The water moved slowly towards the south. Big trees shaded the stream, and on its way through the pasture, the road curved gently. Don Miguel slowed down, since he nearly always stopped to enjoy a view of the water before it flowed into the blue sea. He looked toward the small beach, which was lined with dark sand and crowded with children at play. He honked. The children looked up and happily waved back, unashamed of their nakedness, which was as common as the midday heat. They drove a few hundred meters past the bridge, where Don Miguel and Mike reached the main gate to the highway. The pueblo was due east, a short drive away. Don Miguel liked to check on the cattle in the neighbors’ pastures, and look at their cane fields to see how tall and green their sugarcane had gotten. He did not talk as he smoked his perennial cigar, and to Mike’s annoyance, he kept the radio volume low. Mike was starved for Cuban music. He wanted to hear everything: guarachas, boleros, and mambos, even décima contests.

  The highway was a straight line from the gate to the pueblo, no curves to break the monotony, no interesting hills or beautiful mountains. Mike took over the wheel in front of the telephone office and drove to the warehouse. The telephone exchange was a small utilitarian building. Four telephone operators sat in cane-backed swivel chairs in front of the telephone equipment. A dark wooden counter separated them from the public. There was no magazine rack, and the only reading material was the phone books from other cities. Their only way to pass the time was to talk to the operators. They welcomed Don Miguel’s visits. He had spent hour after hour waiting to talk to his family, a buyer for his purebred stock, a friend, or his banker, and he enjoyed flirting with the girls. They, in turn, enjoyed his encouragement, advice, and tantalizing stories about places he had visited around the world. When he placed an international call to Houston or McAllen, Caracas or El Salvador, San Jose or Miami, they asked him to describe the foreign cities. He obliged with a storytelling prowess that briefly transported them to those faraway places.

  “Don Miguel, we haven’t seen you in a long time. Are you feeling better? We know that Mike just returned from the United States. How is he?” It wasn’t a single voice; it was like a quartet of acolytes singing High Mass. The voices changed and came from different directions, mixed with laughter, promises, innuendoes, gossip, and expectancy.

  “Oh, he’s okay. You’ll have the chance to see him, and I feel great! Now, how about some service, and then we can talk.” Turning to Carmencita, he said, “How’s your new boyfriend? Is he still bringing roses, and are you still telling him perhaps, perhaps, perhaps?”

  “Don Miguel, please! That’s between him and me. He’s been traveling a lot, but he’s coming next week.”

  Adela laughed. “Yes, he travels. He’s never here. Maybe that’s the way to keep a romance going—never close, never near, always waiting.”

  Carmencita responded, “No, Adelita, that’s not the way it is.”

  Don Miguel noticed the strain in Carmencita’s voice. “We need to have a long talk,” he told her. “Let me get these calls out of the way first.”

  She gave a slight nod.

  “First, I need to talk to this number in Havana, B-3779. Then, I’d like to talk to my office at F-2081.”

  In the meantime, Mike headed to the warehouse. The sugar harvest was getting started. No matter how much work there was to do, the street corners had idlers, who would rather watch the girls, talk baseball, and discuss sugar prices than work. He found a parking place next to the warehouse, and swept into the spot with a quick turn, unwittingly cutting off a battered army jeep. The military vehicle screeched to a halt. A portly army sergeant fumbled out of the driver’s seat.

  “Halt!” he shouted. “Who do you think you are? Didn’t you see that I was parking here?”

  Mike had just turned off the ignition, and he turned around, unsure whether the aging military officer was addressing him. “I’m sorry, officer. Are you talking to me? I didn’t see you.”

  The sergeant’s eyes grew wider and his breathing more rapid. He stepped toward Mike and boomed, “How dare you question me! Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Certainly not,” Mike firmly answered as he exited the jeep, and slamming the driver’s door, stepped in front of the officer standing squarely before him.

  Passersby noticed the confrontation and gathered.

  “So, how can I help you?” Mike asked, looking directly into the sergeant’s eyes.

  The army officer smiled, and with eyes fixed on Mike, suddenly fetched his machete from the front seat of his jeep and flung it up over his shoulder. Grabbing Mike’s hair, he forced him to double over. He lashed the machete, flat side down, across Mike’s back with all his strength. The men gasped, and the women looked away.

  Mike grimaced from the force of the blow. He felt its stiffness against his spine. Images jerked before him: the pavement, the machete’s glint, and the sergeant’s arm waving back the horrified onlookers.

  “You better have more respect for authority!” he shouted as he put down the weapon. “Who do you think you are?”

  Mike managed to break away, taking three steps back, red-faced and angry, while he tried to take a steady view of his attacker.

  “My name is Mike Rodriguez Fernandez,” Mike said in a firm voice. “I live at Las Guásimas farm. Who do you think you are? I’ve done nothing to deserve this.” He pulled himself up tall and took a deep breath. “You don’t have the right to hit people. I demand an apology from you. Now!” Mike roared.

  The sergeant’s countenance slowly shifted from rage to fear when he realized he had struck a member of a powerful family. He knew this mistake made him an excellent candidate to join the forces now deployed against the Castro guerrillas in the Oriente province. Mike was dressed in his old ratty clothes, but he realized his mistake now. Yes, it was Mike, the son of Don Miguel. The crowd became silent. The officer did not want to lose authority by apologizing to Mike in front of the lookers.

  “Miguelito, sure, I know your father very well,” he mumbled. “I haven’t seen you since your mother died. You’ve changed so much, and your clothes—” With a half-smile, the sergeant looked around at the crowd, then leaned in toward Mike and suggested in a hushed voice, “Do you have time for a beer?”

  Mike glared back. “No, thanks,” and turned his back and walked toward the warehouse. The sergeant looked at the gathered crowd. “Keep moving!” he ordered with the sweep of an arm. Quietly, the people went back to their business. The sergeant, panting and sweating, waddled back to the jeep, threw his machete on the front seat, and roared away.

  Mike walked slowly, and gingerly touched his stinging back as he entered the warehouse. The floor was made of rough wooden planks. In the corners, wooden barrels stood open, full of rice, red and black beans, chickpeas, and lentils. Slabs of jerky hung from the ceiling, and rectangular boxes of imported dried codfish were piled on the floor. Behind a wooden counter at the rear, canned goods were stacked high: albacore tuna, soups, tomato purees, sardines, olive oil from Spain, and peanut oil from the island.

  Mulato, the clerk that serviced the farm’s account, saw Mike and approached him with a smile and an open hand. “
Mike, you’re lucky, it could have been worse. Welcome to the new era. It certainly wasn’t a nice welcoming party. When did you return from the States? What do you need?”

  “It’s nice to see you. I’ll be here for a few days,” Mike replied, trying to mask his anger with a smile as he gave him Cuca’s list.

  Mulato whistled. “Boy, Cuca really wants to take care of you. I haven’t seen a list like this since your mother visited the farm. All your father wants these days is blue cheese, whiskey, and corn flakes.” He looked up from the list. “I’ll have the order finished in half an hour. You want me to put it in the jeep?”

  Mike nodded as he reached his arm around again to rub his sore back. Mulato leaned slightly toward him and said in a hushed tone, “Yes, he thinks he’s hot stuff. His time will come. Things are changing. Soon he’ll be gone. ”

  “I know, but I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

  He shook hands with Mulato and left to wander the streets. Mike stopped at a street stall close by to buy fruits. The farm had limes, avocadoes, mangoes, and papayas, but his father liked mameys, sapodillas, and custard fruit as well. The fruits had been arranged, as if by a painter, to show their contrasts. The rough texture of a brown mamey was next to a Philippine mango, its pendulous phallic form accentuated by its yellow color. The green and black apple custard fruit, looking like small hand grenades, were piled next to the brown sapodilla, and the large pineapples were surrounded by the vibrant green of the small criollo limes. A mamey that the fruit seller had sliced open displayed its red-pink color, contrasting in texture with the large watermelons and in color with the large green and gold plantains in different stages of ripeness.