“I was afraid it would be too late,” Mike said, shaking his head. “That poor baby looked so fragile. How often does this kind of thing happen?”
“Too often. They don’t take precautions, they don’t use clean water, and they usually come too late. We don’t educate them, and they surely aren’t educating themselves. Your father tries, but most people? They don’t care. Yes, they breed, party, drink, fuck, and have babies, and their babies have babies.”
“Yes, then once the kids get strong and old enough to work, their parents want them to leave school to help them. We don’t allow that at the farm.”
Dr. Paco nodded. “Many of the children who come here actually get hurt on the job, but many don’t come in because they don’t have medical insurance.”
Mike answered, “We carry it.”
“Yes, your father does. It’s the law, but few farms carry it, and the law isn’t enforced. Most workers hardly know how to read. They’re too afraid or nervous to come see us, and they listen to that lousy singer on the radio who sings décimas telling them they’ll be cured if they put their hands over a glass of water next to the radio. They drink the water and believe their ailment has miraculously disappeared. It’s ridiculous! Or, they go to a curandero for a despojo, a cleansing.”
“Ha!” Mike laughed. “Yes, Mando, our curandero, is very good at that. He’s always asking Father what new medications may be available to mix in his potions.” Mike continued, “He’s a good man, though. Some workers are just afraid of coming to you. They know that at least this curandero is not going to hurt them.”
Dr. Paco shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m here. I should quit and go to Havana to be with my daughter, who’s growing up without me at her side. Her mother and aunt are with her, but I hardly see them.” He left off his complaining, turning to a related subject. “Say, you’re friendly with Rosarito. She says she wants to get married. I think the boy is one of your school friends.”
“Yes, I know Manolo very well. We played basketball together.”
Dr. Paco continued, “She’s still too young. They’re always too young. I wanted them to be educated, and that’s why I sent them away. Our educational system is a mess. Everything is Havana, Havana, and Havana. Here, we are at the asshole of the world.”
Mike had known Dr. Paco as far back as he could recall. He had diagnosed his mother’s cancer before the Havana doctors understood what was wrong with her. Yet he would grouse, unless someone got him on the topic of medicine.
“Doctor, Father has changed. He coughs a lot and smokes at least five cigars a day, not counting the cigarettes he pilfers from the help. He has this crazy diet of meat and potatoes at lunch, one or two Scotch highballs before each meal, and pound cake, cheese, and ice cream for dinner. He tells me that you recommended he have two drinks before each meal. ‘Dr. Paco, who went to the Sorbonne, says I should have my Scotch.’ Then he tells me he’s going to die, that he needs me here. What’s happening with him?”
Dr. Paco stood up and looked down at him. “Mike, we grow old. The first time I saw you, you couldn’t have been older than five or six. You had eaten some green bananas and had a bellyache—your mother thought you were dying. She didn’t trust me. She thought I was a country bumpkin. She would have taken you to Havana if she thought you could survive the trip.” Dr. Paco was wandering, but not too far off the subject. “And I’ve known your father since our childhood. Yes, your father isn’t well. He worries too much, smokes too much, and misses your mother terribly. I’ve told him to have a drink or two. It’s good for his heart, and at least he comes to me when he doesn’t feel well. If I always said no, you can’t do this, you can’t do that, I’d never see my patients until it’s too late.”
Mike scratched the back of his head and smiled. “Well, that drinking prescription he follows well.”
“I told him to find a young girl and have a ball. He needs to rev his engine once in a while. You know an old man and a younger woman can make a good combination—if the old man knows what the young woman wants. Sometimes it gets screwed up. He thinks that he’s in love, that he’s young again, that she loves him for his looks, not his money or his position. Then you have a problem. I don’t think your father will follow my advice, though—he’s too conservative. Are you surprised by what I’m telling you?”
“Yes, in a way. I’ve never thought about it, well, at least not where my father is concerned,” Mike laughed.
“Look, he needs you right now. Maybe you can help at the farm, so that your father can be free to do things he’s passionate about, that make him want to get up in the morning. Maybe he’ll find someone to help him recover his zest for life. He would trust you with the farm. He’s not going to take care of himself until he knows the farm is secure, but we both know he isn’t going to ask you for help, even though he badly needs it right now.”
Mike thought for a moment. “Father really isn’t old. He’s in his early fifties. I don’t know why he hasn’t started seeing other women.”
“He doesn’t think he could possibly enjoy life with them as he did with your mother,” Dr. Paco answered. “He’s too young to think that way. If he took care of himself and quit smoking, he’d be okay.”
“Is anything really wrong with him?” Mike asked.
“No, not really. He should exercise as he did before, lose weight, and eat better than he does now. His blood pressure is good, a little on the high side, but that’s normal for a man like your father.”
Dr. Paco got up and moved to the door, “Now, let’s see how that baby girl is doing. I hope I haven’t scared you. It’s always difficult to be sincere with a patient’s family. They rarely want to hear the truth.”
Mike stood up and shook Dr. Paco’s hand. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” He followed Dr. Paco back to Anita’s room.
Martinito sat on his haunches outside the room, fingering his dirty old cap in his hands. Ana was in the room with Anita. Dr. Paco knocked at the door and entered. The baby was asleep while her mother dozed off on a chair next to the bed. She lifted her head as Dr. Paco closed the door behind him. Dr. Paco smiled as he read the chart. “Your daughter is fine. You have to be cautious with her. You need to watch her very carefully for the next few days. Lydia, the nurse, will tell you what to do. We may need to give her more liquids. Good night, and please remember—don’t leave without seeing me in the morning.”
Mike assured Ana, “Martinito will pick you and Anita up tomorrow. I’ve got to go back to the farm.” He gave her ten pesos. “If you need more money, I’ll give it to Martinito. I hope you feel better. Anita will be fine. She’s a beautiful girl.”
“Thanks, Mike. Thank your father. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t worry. Anita will be fine. Rest a little.”
Mike and Dr. Paco left the room and found Martinito waiting at the door. Dr. Paco said, “You can stay if you want, but you’re not needed.”
Martinito nodded, slightly baffled. Everything had happened so quickly: the trip, the clinic, and the IVs.
“Do you want to stay?” Mike asked.
“No, I have to go see about my children.”
“Come, let’s go. I know Father is worried about Anita. You know she’s in good hands. She’ll be okay. You’ll come and pick her up tomorrow. I’ll lend you the jeep. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
Mike drove back to the ranch, and as they arrived at the main gate, Martinito opened it. They heard someone shouting behind them. They weren’t surprised to see Chirra riding the old gray mule. He was drunk.
AT SIX O’CLOCK the next morning, Paulino knocked at Don Miguel’s door. “Buenos días, Don Miguel, your coffee. Do you want it on your night table?”
Don Miguel was half asleep. “Thanks, Paulino. Please tell Ricardo I want to see him.”
“Yes, sir, with pleasure. I’ll convey your message right away.”
Ricardo had finished his first cup of coffee when Paulino came up, whistling
a new tune. “Hey, El Viejo is in great shape this morning. He wants to see you right away.”
Ricardo knocked on the door as Don Miguel was putting on his robe. “Come in, Ricardo. I want you to finish the last pasture. Root plow, burn it, and scatter Guinea grass seed. Mike will stay at the farm while I’m in Havana. He’s in charge, be sure you take care of him.”
Ricardo nodded. He knew Don Miguel and how to carry out his orders.
Mike woke up sore, but he wanted to ride La Nina again. He came upon his father sitting at the dining room table. Don Miguel had his usual breakfast as the radio broadcast the self-censored morning news.
“Good morning, Son. I hope you slept well. You know, you have to start earlier. You’re not in your college now. You’re on a farm.”
“Father—” but before he could utter another word, his father interrupted.
“I’ve already met with Ricardo. Now I’ll see Manuel, and then go to the pueblo, and depending on whom I can talk to, I’ll stay or go to Havana.”
“Dad, I think —”
“Oh, and yes, it may be a good idea for you to stay for a few days. I want to be sure that Ricardo gets what he needs to finish that pasture. I don’t trust Manolo. He thinks that Ricardo is too close to us, and he’ll do everything to make him look bad.”
“Yes, Father.”
“I don’t want you to advance money to the employees. You’ll be tested.”
“Yes, I understand,” Mike said, then quietly drank his freshly squeezed orange juice.
“You’re now in charge, but no hiring, no big decisions. See how it works. You’ll call me once a week. At night after six; it’s cheaper.”
“How long you will be gone? I do need to get back to the university, you know.”
His father’s face remained blank. “I don’t know. It depends.”
Mike knew how pointless it was to talk to his father when he erected his infamous soundproof wall.
Without adding a single word, Don Miguel stood up and left the dining room, his red silk robe billowing out behind him.
Mike gulped his coffee. He was disturbed and disappointed. He took the last swallow, and trailed his father out of the house for another day as his dutiful son.
Manuel had lined up a group of heifers in front of the stalls to dry off after they’d been washed. Chirra had already cleaned out the barn, and was not visibly hungover. Don Miguel fished a cigar out of Mike’s guayabera pocket.
“I forgot mine. You can afford to lend it to your father.”
Manuel, munching his own, lit Don Miguel’s cigar and said, “We’re going to need two or three more young calves. All the ones we have are white. I’d like a few reds. Reds are selling well. The de la Torres are having good luck with theirs, and new breeders like to have color and Indú-Brazil ears for their show string. I know ears don’t weigh on the scale, but they sure sell.”
Don Miguel, staring at the young heifers, turned his cigar in his hand. He was visualizing the future shape of one. “Is she out of Manso by the 256/12 cow? She has that look. You should increase her feed. She could use additional weight.”
The vaqueros had brought in another purebred herd to the corrals. This time, Mayajigua, the oldest cowboy on the ranch, was the lead vaquero, and he sang in his fine, clear voice. Don Miguel had inherited him; he came with the property. When Mayajigua saw Mike, he gave a loud yell and threw his hat in the air.
“Mike! Welcome. You’re back.”
Mike smiled. “You, old man, you haven’t changed a bit. Are you teaching the other vaqueros how to ride?”
Mayajigua laughed and replied, “Yes, I am, and you haven’t changed a bit, either!”
Don Miguel went back to the house. He always ran late in the morning. There was much to pay attention to. Also, he often slowed his pace to take pleasure in the silence of the morning and the gradual waking up of the batey with its voices, the clatter of tubs and pails being filled, the rhythmic sound of windmills pumping water into holding tanks. A world full of sound and activity followed, surrounding him. It was his: He had created it, formed it, and made it happen.
He went into his bathroom to shave. He loved to feel the soft bristle brush against his face, the hot lather, the clean smell of the English shaving soap, and then, little by little, to see his face appear in the mirror, clean and smooth around his thick mustache, which had started to show a few gray hairs. His father had worn one, smaller, clipped, and Germanic. His grandfather also had one, but his had handlebars, florid, fuller—and his great-grandfather? He didn’t remember, but now it wasn’t important. He had to live for today. Somehow that had become impossible to do since Adelaida’s death. Memories, only memories, filled the space. Their images filled his library in Havana: old photos, small paintings on ivory medallions, hand-colored photos in small silver frames, their colors mellowed with the passage of time. No one left to pray for their souls. His mind needed room for new ideas, new things—and maybe new loves? He smiled. Is that why I am shaving so closely? He examined his body in the dressing mirror. It wasn’t what it once was. He was heavier and his muscles had relaxed. He had strong legs, but he could not keep his gut in. Adelaida was no longer with him to enjoy the small pleasures of life, mornings in the parks of Rome, afternoons on a white beach, looking over the blue sea waiting for what she called the green ray that appeared for a brief second as the sun’s orange sphere dipped into the blue sea. When she saw it, she smiled, because her wish would come true.
He dressed simply, since it was a hot day. He selected a white linen guayabera and a pair of linen slacks, a small gold stud on his collar, to show he could both afford one and that, if he wanted, he could close the collar and wear a bow tie, and a pair of jodhpur brown boots. He felt old and stiff as he bent over to pull up his boots. Who would take better care of him than Cuca and Paulino? Oh, yes, they did not want him to smoke cigars. Paulino and Cuca smoked, but they didn’t want him to smoke. Young people believed they were immortal. Dr. Paco wanted him to quit smoking. What’s the difference? I’m going to die. He splashed Bay Rhum on his face. Now he was ready to go to the pueblo to talk to those idiots in Havana who were mishandling everything.
Paulino, in the dining room, stopped his make-believe cleaning. “Don Miguel, are you going to a funeral or a wedding? You’re all dressed up. You look like a new man. What has Dr. Paco given you lately? Another B-12 shot?”
Don Miguel ignored the bantering. “Paulino, see if Fernando has the car ready. I may come back before lunch, but if I’m not here at one, I’ll eat in the pueblo. Mike and I will have dinner together. I would like to eat at seven-thirty. Be sure Cuca knows.”
Paulino noticed the harsh edge in his voice. His boss had not liked Paulino making fun of him. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell Cuca. Do you want to eat a leg of lamb? I heard that Alfred told Mike he was bringing a small lamb.”
“Ask Mike,” he said brusquely. “He’s going to be in charge. He can order whatever he wants to eat from Cuca. Anything is fine with me.”
“Don Miguel,” asked Paulino, “would you please check the post office box? I’m expecting letters.”
“Letters, or checks for articles you’re writing under your nom de plume?”
Paulino shrugged his shoulders. “Hemingway wasn’t published on his first draft. I’m going to be famous one day.”
“Bah, see if Fernando is outside waiting for me. I’m running late.”
Don Miguel went to his office to raid his humidor, but it wasn’t there. He strode back to the kitchen, “Cuca, what the hell is going on? Where are my cigars? Paulino, by God, what is happening in this house? I leave for a few minutes and I can’t find a thing. Where are my cigars?”
Cuca came hurrying out of the kitchen. “Don Miguel, Dr. Paco told Mike that you shouldn’t smoke. Mike told me he was going to hide your cigars, so I gave him your humidor and your cigar boxes. I don’t know what he did with them.”
“So that he could smoke and share them with Ricardo and Manuel!” he cried.
“Well, you better find out. I’m still paying you, not this juvenile Americanized twit. If he thinks he’s going to control me, he has a rough job ahead of him. I feel perfectly fine. Find out where he hid my cigars!” His face was red, and his voice had reached a high pitch. The exertion of the confrontation fueled his cough. “Cuca, Cuca, get me some water. I need water. Please.”
“Here’s the water. Don’t worry. Mike is trying to take care of you. He’s a good boy, he loves you.”
“With so much love, I may die of suffocation,” Don Miguel muttered and finished his glass of water.
Outside, Fernando opened the door to the Ford, and Don Miguel sat next to him and fidgeted. “Fernando, do you have a cigar?”
He laughed. “Don Miguel, with what you pay me I can hardly buy a bad cigar like the ones Manuel smokes. So I quit buying. I have to save my money. I just borrow.”
“Stop at the bodega then. Let’s see Carlos. He has the good cigars hidden in the back. If I’m going to die, I want to die smoking a good cigar!”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.”
After their stop at the bodega, they went to the telephone exchange. Don Miguel instructed Fernando, “I’ll be here less than an hour. Fill the tank with gas, check the oil and tires, and come back and wait for me. It might be earlier, but I doubt it.”
The operators gaily greeted Don Miguel, who replied with aplomb, “It’s a great day! How are you doing? I’m doing fine, thank you! Who’s the lucky girl who’s going to take care of me? I may surprise her!”
Adela answered with a smile, “I’ll take care of you.”
He pulled out his black phone book from his briefcase and gave the numbers to her. “Remember, nothing is worth anything until you try it, and sometimes you have to try it many times.” He laughed at his own stab at philosophy, a watered-down Dale Carnegie, while he waited on the uncomfortable bench smoking his cigar.
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