My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  “Here, young man, what do you need? Look at these papayas. They’re so sweet, they beg to be eaten. These mangoes are from El Caney. I have honeyberries, and if you buy one of the mameys, see how good and ready to eat they are, I’ll give you the honeyberries for free.”

  Mike smiled as he remembered the fruit stands near his college in the little Italian neighborhood—apples, grapes, pears, oranges, grapefruits—but the color, the variety, the textures of the tropical fruits! Each one brought back memories of his grandmother arguing with the fruit vendor about the price of a mango, and how she tested the ripeness of a pineapple by pulling on its leaves. The honeyberries brought memories of swimming pools, girls, and laughter as he pressed the fruit with his fingers, seeing the green skin break, sucking the juice with his puckered lips from the small, hairy pit.

  “Yes, I want some mameys and sapodillas. I want a good, large pineapple, ready to eat. I like that Hayden’s mango, the big red one. Yes, yes, I want the honeyberries and the melons.”

  The vendor was happy to find such a willing buyer. “Yes, Doctor. I have specials for you. How would you like some real apples from New Jersey? You want red grapes? I just picked them up at the railroad station. They’re from California.”

  Mike smiled. “No, no, I have enough already. Just give me what I asked for. I appreciate it.”

  Mike paid and walked back to the jeep, both hands weighed down with paper bags. Then he remembered that his father loved grapes and returned to buy some. Mike got into the jeep, and dropped the fruit-filled bags on the front seat. He stopped in front of the telephone exchange and honked the horn. The heat in the cab had become oppressive. His back ached, and his dirty clothes made him even more uncomfortable. He grew irritated waiting for his father and wondered, once again, why they didn’t have a phone at the farm. Why drive to the pueblo every time they had to call Havana? Wasn’t their time worth something? He parked the jeep and entered the exchange, where he had previously spent hours waiting for telephone lines to be free to call his father at an agreed-upon time, only not to find him. He remembered those calls to the United States to find out how his mother was doing, the hesitancy in his father’s voice and the softness of his mother’s.

  “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. The doctors are great. New York is very pretty in the winter, all this snow. I’m seeing a very good doctor at Sloan-Kettering. He’s the best. Don’t worry. Take care of your sisters. We’ll be back soon. I’m going to see a musical tonight. I found another horse print for your collection. I love you.”

  The next time he saw his mother, she was gaunt and lifeless. Her hair was gone, reduced to stubble, and she wore a wig.

  He entered the small front room, trying to veil the pain he felt on his back as his father shouted on the phone.

  “That’s stupid. That’s not the way to handle the problem. I have to call the minister. There’s a difference. Meat is so cheap it’s not even fashionable. A steak on every table, meat is cheaper than chicken. No. No. Don’t they understand? I can’t help it if some idiot doesn’t know how to write a law! That’s why we should write it ourselves!”

  “Vintage Father,” Mike thought with a smile. Perhaps the company of the young beautiful women lifted his spirits, if only for a while. Rita, the youngest operator, was the first to notice that Mike had entered the exchange.

  “Mike, what’s happened to you? You look so serious! Come here, you know I don’t bite. I bet you all those Americanitas can’t leave you alone.”

  Mike smiled. He had always liked Rita’s sassy style. “Rita, you look great!” Mike said, admiring her beauty, from her long, slender legs and lean build to her flowing blonde hair. “What have you been eating that makes you look so good?”

  “Flattery from men like you! I heard that you only have time for your studies. No fun, eh? It’s about time you return to this hot land of passion.”

  “Hey, you little doves, it’s not time to flirt. We have a business to run.” His father said, holding his hand over the receiver. “I know he’s good looking—like his father!” He turned back to Mike, “Mike, son, come here. I need to know if you can find where Dr. Andres Comillas is right now. You can use that station. Here’s my little black book. Call his office. You remember the doctor. He’s the mercantile notary, and has all those exotic chickens and rabbits. I need to talk to him and set up a meeting with the minister. I may have to go back to Havana. The politicians are destroying everything.”

  He nudged Mike toward the unoccupied telephone booth. Mike asked, “Rita, please see if you can connect me to F-6162 in Havana. No, I know he was joking. We can talk later.”

  Dr. Comillas’s secretary answered the phone. It was three o’clock. The doctor might be at the Floridita, she said, but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know if he would come back to the office that afternoon. Yes, he might have gone to his farm. Yes, she would give him the message. Maybe, he could be at the American Club. No, she didn’t know where his chauffeur was. Yes, she would tell him. Mike left the booth and tapped his father’s shoulder as Don Miguel flirted with Rita. Mike’s touch surprised Don Miguel. Rita looked up and winked. She knew she was part of a game.

  “You couldn’t find him?” he asked Mike.

  “No, sir. I spoke with his secretary. She didn’t help much.”

  “I may have to go back to Havana. I need to talk to all of them. It was a bad time to call him. Do you have everything we need?” his father asked.

  Mike nodded “Yes, I’m ready to go. Good-bye, Rita. It’s nice to see you. Good-bye, girls.”

  Father and son left the office. Seeing that Mike had left the bag full of grapes on the middle of the seat, Don Miguel promptly took a handful and started to eat them.

  “These are good. I haven’t had grapes in a long time. You know, I think Eve gave Adam grapes instead of an apple. They’re more inviting. They always paint Bacchus with grapes in his mouth,” his father said as he savored the fruit. “My Son—a word of advice. Don’t play with the merchandise unless you plan to buy it. Rita is charming, but she’s not for you.”

  Mike was upset by his father’s suggestion. “Dad, why did you tell the girls that I’m staying at the farm? You know I have to get back to the States. I have to finish my master’s. What are you thinking? And why do we waste time taking these trips to the pueblo to make phone calls? It’s such a waste of time. You should get a phone at the farm.”

  “Yes, sir. These grapes are good.” His father drove, all the while ravishing the grapes as he kept one hand on the steering wheel. With the other, he made forays into the paper sack, searching for more of the plump grapes.

  — 7 —

  Martinito and Havana

  AFTER MIKE AND his father left, Manolo continued to work the cattle in the corrals. He was the foreman, the mayoral. He had taught all of his sons, including Monito, to be vaqueros. He did not know about tractors, but he knew about bulls and cows, horses and saddles, pastures and fences. Manolo munched on the last of his Cohibas while he worked among the cattle of three pastures, vaccinating and branding more than ninety calves, dehorning and vaccinating one hundred ten cows and nine bulls. Finally, it was time to leave for his bohío. He would have been home if he lived at the batey, but he did not like to have to answer to Don Miguel’s questions every night, like Ricardo and Manuel. He liked to drink his rum in peace.

  Monito followed his father to their house. He was thinking about La Nina and Mike. She was the best mare at the farm and she could cut cattle. But she was out of shape. He had watched her, lathered with white sweat, breathing hard. Mike shouldn’t have ridden her so hard. He wasn’t in good shape, either. He laughed when Mike dismounted, because he was so sore he could hardly walk. Plus, his skin was so pale that the morning sun had colored his face a glowing red. Was that why people went north? To get pale and soft and to hurt when they rode a good horse?

  For his part, Chirra was happy. He had finished the day without a major fight with Manuel. He did not like to muck s
talls and carry the wet, smelly hay to the compost pile. It was tough work and his muscles were sore. He wanted Manuel to hire someone else to do his job, so he could supervise the other guy. “Is that not the way the El Viejo does it?” Chirra put a blanket on the gray mule as he said to Manuel, “I want to be here very early in the morning. The walk of this mule is faster than my trot. I don’t trot well, as you know. And the only time I run is away from husbands.”

  Manuel laughed and let him use the mule.

  Chirra, with a smile on his face and thirst in his throat, left the batey. “I have cinco pesos in my pocket and a mule for transportation. Now, let’s see how I do at the bodega.”

  After he left, Martinito went to talk with Cuca. His baby girl had diarrhea and his wife knew very little about those things.

  Paulino was cleaning Don Miguel’s boots, polishing them while the radio played. He was whistling along to the tune, a conga.

  Si te vas al Cobre,

  If you go to the Sanctuary of the Cobre,

  Quiero que me traigas

  I want you to bring me

  Una Virgencita de la Caridad . . .

  A small Virgin of Charity

  Martinito approached Paulino and asked, “Is Cuca in? I need to talk to her.”

  Paulino shouted, “Cuca, Cuca! Martinito is here to pay his respects to you. He forgot his visiting card, though. He didn’t bring flowers, either.”

  Cuca, with her white apron snug around her body, came out. “Paulino, I’m not deaf. Yes, I’ll see the gentleman. Madame is receiving today. Martinito, what do you want?”

  “My Anita was very sick last night. She has the runs and she cried all night. This morning she finally went to sleep. Ana doesn’t know what to do. My baby had the runs so many times that she has to be hungry and weak. I don’t know what to do. I’m pretty nervous. Can I borrow milk from you?”

  “No, not milk, she needs to be hydrated. Have you given her water?” Seeing how dumbfounded he looked, she went on, “Please borrow the car and bring her over here. Don Miguel and Mike should be coming shortly, and I don’t want to leave. Paulino, why don’t you give Martinito the keys to the Ford? I know Don Miguel wouldn’t mind.”

  Cuca went back inside the house to see what medicines she had in the medicine chest.

  CHIRRA RODE THE old gray mule to the front of the bodega. He tied the mule to the hitching post, and strutted inside the dimly lit store. When Carlos the bodeguero saw him, he was not pleased. He knew that Chirra was not working.

  “Hey, bodeguero, you have a customer who is very thirsty. I have money.” With a flourish Chirra threw his five-peso bill on the counter. “Now, let’s see what type of rum you have that I may wish to drink. Matusalen? Bacardi? Or maybe I should start with a cold beer? Hatuey? Polar? Cristal? Or maybe a soft drink like a Materva, a Coca Cola, or an Orange Crush? Oh, how many decisions when you have money!”

  Carlos, who hated Chirra, had to smile. The man had style. He had not been able to buy food in weeks, and now he just appeared with cash in his pocket, acting like he owned the place. “Yes, Chirra, how can I help you?”

  “Well, Carlos, let me see. I have this list of things I may need, but I would also like to celebrate being back in the world of high finance and employment as the newest and most experienced member of Don Miguel’s team. Let us start with a small glass of Aguardiente—a good brand, not a Pati Cruzao—and then I can reflect on what I should have next.”

  Carlos pulled a shot glass, filled it to the brim, and put it in front of Chirra. He smelled it, caressed it as if it contained a thirty-year-old cognac, and with a rapid motion, gulped it. “That feels good. Now, let’s see, I owe you ten cents for this elixir. It’s lonely, so let’s have another to celebrate the start of a great relationship. I’m employed, you see. I can afford to buy goods from you. Let’s see, I need coffee, black beans, and rice, and do you have some cornmeal? No, no cornmeal, I don’t want to buy anything that’s yellow. But while you look for those things, how about another drink? My body feels tired, and it really could use a lift.”

  Carlos poured, then took the five-peso note from the counter, and started to weigh the beans in a paper sack.

  MARTINITO CAREFULLY DROVE the Ford home. He stopped the car on the dirt road, crawled under the fence, and ran to his bohío. His wife was holding the baby. “Hurry, let’s go. I have Don Miguel’s car outside. Cuca will treat the baby. Leave the others behind. You don’t have time to dress them. Hurry, Cuca is waiting!”

  “Should we call a neighbor?”

  “Yes, do it in a hurry.”

  Don Miguel was driving on the road to the batey when he saw his Ford parked at the roadside and stopped. Mike got out of the jeep. He saw a small procession with Martinito in front, his wife, Ana, right behind, holding a small child in her arms, and the rest of her brothers and sisters, some of them naked, others with only shirts, accompanied by a woman neighbor.

  “Martinito, what’s happening?” Mike asked.

  “My baby is sick. I’m taking her to Cuca to see what medicine she may need.”

  Don Miguel crooked his finger, “Let me see the baby.” The mother offered the foul-smelling baby to him, and Don Miguel touched her skin. It was dry and lifeless. “Don’t take her to Cuca. You’d better go to see a doctor right away. This baby is dehydrated. Mike, you take them to Dr. Paco. He’ll know what do to.”

  Ana climbed into the backseat with the little baby, while Martinito sat up front. Mike took off, driving quickly. The Ciego de Ávila clinic was half an hour away.

  Don Miguel asked himself bitterly, “When are they going to learn?”

  Mike wanted to sound hopeful for Ana, but he was afraid that his voice would betray his concern. Martinito sat twisted around, facing the back-seat. “She’ll be fine. Don’t worry. We’ll be there soon.” Ana held the baby tightly to her bosom.

  The clinic was located in the middle of the town, on the south side of the highway. There was no emergency entry. Mike pushed open the door for Ana, and said, “Martinito, go and ask for Dr. Paco. I’ll meet you there.”

  Martinito, bewildered and nervous, took the lead and entered a crowded reception room. A nurse sat at a small desk. Small benches were filled with patients waiting to be called.

  Martinito exclaimed, “I need to see Dr. Paco. My baby is very sick. Where can I find him?”

  The nurse told him sit down and wait, but seeing Ana and her small bundle, realized that it was an emergency.

  She called another nurse, “Come, come here. Take them inside.”

  They were taken in a hurry to a room as a pediatric nurse came and took the baby and held her in her arms. She touched her dry skin and asked how many hours she’d had diarrhea.

  Ana replied, “Six to seven.”

  “What have you done? What have you given her?”

  “I tried to give her some milk. She didn’t take it well. Is she sick?”

  “Yes, she’s very sick. We have to give her fluids right away.”

  She went to fetch the IV equipment and electrolytes. She was an older woman who had seen so many of these babies, malnourished, sick, with their tummies distended, full of parasites. Their mothers didn’t know any better. They were afraid to ask questions, unable to read instructions, and were unfamiliar with the basic tenets of health and prevention.

  “Are you the father?” she asked Martinito. “Hold her down, against the table. We have to find a vein. Near her foot is the best place.” And talking to Ana, “Hold this bottle high so the liquid can go into her veins until we can set it right. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Ana started to cry. “Is she going to die?”

  The nurse didn’t answer. She was busy finding the vein.

  Out in the waiting room, Mike asked about his group and found them. Dr. Paco had just entered and went directly to touch the baby’s skin.

  “Your baby girl is going to be okay. She’ll have to spend the night here, though. I want to be sure she’s well-hydrated.” To
Ana specifically, he added, “You and I have to have a long and serious talk. You can’t wait this long to come here. This was a close call—another hour and your baby would have been dead.”

  He turned to Martinito. “I don’t know how many children you have, but you better stop, unless you want to be a widower and have orphans. This child has to eat better, and you have to fuck less. Do you understand?” Martinito nervously nodded. “Okay, now you keep holding her, and we’ll see if she needs another bottle of electrolytes.” As he continued to examine the baby, he broke into a smile. “What a pretty little girl. What’s her name?”

  Her mother answered with a half-smile, “Anita, doctor, Anita.”

  Dr. Paco left the room to speak to Mike privately. “Mike, I’m glad you came. That baby could have died.”

  “Yes, it was close.”

  The doctor relaxed, knowing a patient had been saved. Smiling fondly at Mike, he changed the subject. “Boy, I haven’t seen you since your mother died. I know how well you’re doing by the stories your father tells me. He’s really proud of you. Do you know that I see him at least twice a month?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware. I thought he didn’t like doctors.”

  The doctor didn’t acknowledge the remark. “I’m a bit worried about his depression and his breathing. I told him not to smoke another cigar, and then he comes and brings me a box of Larrañagas. Now he wants me to give him some Swiss injections of B-12. He thinks this will keep him young and help him with the way he feels, but he doesn’t take care of himself. He can’t relax.” The doctor reflected, then frowned. “He misses your mother very much. It’s hard to believe that more than five years have gone by since she died.”

  Mike seized his cue, saying, “I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes about how he’s doing.”

  Dr. Paco nodded. “Let’s go to my office, where we can talk privately.”

  He guided Mike through a maze of hallways. Every few steps he stopped to say hello to a patient or a family member. His office was small, cluttered, and full of medical periodicals published in the United States and France. The pictures of his family were the only nonmedical intrusions. Among the photos, Mike recognized Rosarito, Dr. Paco’s oldest daughter, whom Mike had briefly dated when they both were attending bachillerato in Havana. He offered Mike a seat, and then he sat behind his cluttered desk. Dr. Paco looked tired. He took off his eyeglasses and rubbed his face.