Adela’s first call was to Dr. Comillas’s office. “Please, this is a long-distance call, pueblo wants to speak with Dr. Andres Comillas, is he available?”
A few minutes passed and he heard a ring in the next booth. He picked up the phone and heard Andres’ warm voice: “Only one person could be calling from the asshole of the world. What do you need? I know that you’re living the quiet, monastic life. No women, no brandy, nothing to excite or disturb you, while I’m here, in this cesspool of corruption and intrigue, trying to keep our great country together, using Band-Aids and iodine.”
“I have to work for a living,” Don Miguel answered.
“When am I going to see you? People are forgetting you’re alive. If you’re not seen, you may be dead,” Andres replied.
“You know I work,” Don Miguel said with a laugh. “I don’t have a sinecure for life, like you, and not everyone is doing my job for me, but I talked to Pepe, yes Pepe, our friend. This time he knows what he’s talking about. He told me that our good friend the minister doesn’t want to sponsor our prepared decree. How can he do that? We, at the Cattlemen’s Association, have always backed him. We’re not asking anything for ourselves. It’s for the country! What do you think?”
Comillas remained silent for a few seconds.
“Hello, hello, are you there? I can’t hear you.”
Dr. Comillas’s voice came back. “No, the line is okay. I heard an echo in your voice and I didn’t like it. Yes, I also heard that from Pepe. It’s difficult to talk on the phone these days. You should come back here. We’ll play dominoes, have a drink or two, see the minister, or better yet, invite him to my penthouse. He likes and needs to hear from people like you to know what’s happening in the interior of the country—in the provinces. Too many rumors are floating around. Yes, you should come back.” Suddenly Don Miguel was left with a hum on the line.
Adela spoke to him. “The communication was cut. Don Miguel, do you want to place another call?”
“Yes, Adelita, please call my office. After that, please call my son-in-law, Jose Maria.”
The conversation with his office was peremptory. He talked to Lustre, who gave him the balances in his bank accounts and updated him on the farm receivables. Jose Maria was happy about Mike’s returning to Cuba. He didn’t try to reach his other son-in-law, Julio. He was probably playing gin rummy at the yacht club on the fifth floor, where the men’s bedrooms and lockers were, or playing golf at the country club. At least he was well dressed and had a low handicap, but there was no point discussing farm business with him. Maybe I should send Mike to Europe. Do what my father did to me. Let him have fun, get fluent in French, dance a little, drink a little. After I tasted all of those nice things and knew how to enjoy them, he called me back and put me to work. I had to be married—right away! At least I loved her. Yes, I loved her.
Rita called him over. “Don Miguel, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be of much help today. Adela told me you had many calls to make. Did Mike come with you? He looks so much like you.”
He smiled. If only he were younger, he could teach that blond tease a thing or two. “No, Rita, but his father is here, and he has experience.” Rita played along, laughing at what he said as he continued, “Mike is at the farm. I may have to go to Havana, maybe tomorrow. Maybe you want to come to the farm and see our new horses?” The string had been played out long enough, and he turned serious. “Can you dial my house, please?”
Rita connected him and said, “I have your house on the line. Give my regards to Mike, but please don’t tell him I asked about him.”
“Don’t worry. It’s a secret I’ll carry to my grave.” He started shouting on the phone, “Alo, alo, Estrella, yes, it’s me. I’ll be at the house tomorrow night, late. I’m bringing Fernando, be sure that the garage room is ready. Yes, I have the key. Bye.”
He left the booth, thanked the operators, and handed each of them a small bottle of French perfume from his briefcase. “I found these little things. People sound better when they smell sweet. I’ll be calling you from Havana. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. I’ll tell Mike to come here and make his calls, so you be sure you take good care of him.”
They left the pueblo and returned to the farm. In a few minutes, Don Miguel was packed. He carried a small leather valise with his shaving kit, a box of cigars, clean underwear, and an extra white guayabera. Adelaida had never left any house without a large suitcase or trunk in tow, so he had learned to pack light in rebellious behavior. The sun was low on the horizon. Don Miguel knew the road by heart, and Fernando came as company. A long boring trip was an ideal time to catch up on the farm gossip and the state of their universe.
They entered Havana from the north side. The new tunnel under the bay still had its French-built freshness, the sculpture of its heroic horses standing at its exit. The Morro Castle lighthouse moved its useless stream of light over the bay. The steel bridge over the Almendares still needed paint, and Quinta Avenida boasted of its richness with its clock tower and cultivated gardens. His house was nearby on a hill on the other side of the polluted river. On still nights he smelled the decayed matter that floated through its waters to the sea. It was two o’clock in the morning when they arrived. Fernando stepped out in front of the garage and opened the door for the car.
“Don Miguel, do you want me to ring?”
“No, I have the key. Estrella is probably asleep.”
The house was not large by wealthy Cuban standards. He had built it in the late thirties, and it had a modern French influence with wide windows, glass bricks, curves, clean lines, and white paint. It was a bridge between a sophisticated modern European sensibility and the demands of a tropical climate. The foyer was of marble and the downstairs floor was of terrazzo. A large Oriental rug partially covered the formal living room’s floor; Chinese porcelain figurines adorned the room’s mirrored wall. A carved wooden image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus above the front door was the only sign of the Catholic faith in the public rooms of the house. Don Miguel’s library on the first floor was the only room with air-conditioning. Next to the library and the formal living room was a large covered porch onto which the dining room opened. A large pantry and laundry room adjoined the kitchen. Despite the modern convenience of the washing machine, Estrella, believing such an abhorrence was the best way to destroy good clothes, did all the washing by hand. She had left a note for Don Miguel on the foyer table, written with carefully formed small block letters: “Dr. Comillas called you. Please call him in the morning. Key to the garage room is in the envelope. Goodnight. Estrella.” He crumpled the note, gave the key to Fernando, double-locked the front door, and went up to his bedroom.
He was spent, and yet not sleepy. He thought, “Years ago I would have still had enough energy to go to Montmartre to catch the last show. Now all I want is a hot chamomile tea and a bath.” For most of his life, he had believed that aging was all in your mind. Now he wasn’t so sure. He entered his bathroom, not changed since his wife’s death. It was one of her shrines: The perfume in the bottles slowly evaporated, and her silver toilette set, combs and brushes with engraved initials, was still on her makeup table. His red toothbrush and her golden toothbrush leaned against each other in the same Lucite holder.
He threw his guayabera, socks, and underwear in the wicker hamper and put on a pair of short-legged pajamas. He opened the windows to let the night breeze in along with the sounds of the night, recited three Hail Marys and made the sign of the Cross, put the lights out, and tried to go to sleep.
He always felt her presence, but more in this room than anywhere else in the house. Adelaida had designed it, picked out the furniture, feminine and practical. Her face was in every photo. Their daughters had given her clothes to the nuns, and he had given her jewels to the girls with the exception of her favorite diamond ring. “You should buy only perfect stones,” his father had always told him, and this one was perfect. He had found it during the war in a small jewelry shop in
Havana. It had belonged to a lady who had left Europe with the stone hidden in a small pouch in her brassiere. He had been casual about it when he gave it to Adelaida. The price of sugar was high. “This is for having our son,” he had said. At the end, when it was the only piece she wore on her now-thinner finger, she told him to keep it for Mike, for when he got married. “You gave it to me. I want it for him, so that he can make another woman as happy as you’ve made me.”
FERNANDO OPENED THE door to his simple utilitarian room. Estrella had placed a clean towel on the bed. A small window with bars offered the only ventilation. Fernando hung his shirt and pants on wire hangers and went to sleep nude.
Estrella heard the opening of the garage door and made the sign of the cross. “Thank my Lord, they arrived safely.” She could now sleep in peace. Estrella had grown up on a small farm in the interior of the island, playing barefoot in the mud, running in the fields, and riding horses bareback. Eventually she tired of taking care of her screaming brothers and sisters, so she left them, her mother, father, aunts, and uncles to come to Havana. She brought a letter of recommendation to Adelaida’s mother, Lola, who hired her to work in the kitchen, washing and cleaning dishes and pots, plucking chickens, peeling potatoes. She liked the work. She followed Otilio, the cook, and learned how he prepared the traditional dishes. Lola believed that a family was kept together by eating together. Every other day, she had her children and their spouses for a traditional Spanish lunch, and one night weekly for her grandchildren. Lunch was served at twelve-thirty sharp and coffee at two o’clock; after that, you could leave. Two servants waited on the table, formal style. Everyone talked at the same time. When Otilio retired, a casualty of old age and a taste for cooking sherry, Estrella became Lola’s cook, and when Lola died, Adelaida kept Estrella as a connection to her childhood. Estrella wore a simple blue uniform with her dyed jet-black hair worn in a tight bun. The color of her hair and cooking the best custard, a recipe she had stolen from Otilio and improved upon, were her vanities. Estrella was up early, as usual. Fernando stood outside the kitchen door.
“Good morning, Estrella. Coffee? This man is tired and needs to perk up.”
She was accustomed to Fernando’s mockery and had seen him try to seduce, sometimes with success, each girl employed in the household. At this point, she was surprised that Fernando had never tried his advances with her.
“Come in, you bad boy. You know I always take care of you. We have a lovely new young girl. Her name is Georgina. Don’t mess with her.” She said this half in jest and half with the concern of a mother for her virgin child at her first all-night party.
Fernando laughed, “I only have eyes for you,” and sat at the white marble kitchen table.
“What did you bring from the farm?” Estrella asked, “Fresh fruits? The ones in the market are too green.”
Fernando smiled at her questions, but before he could answer, they heard Don Miguel: “Estrella, what the hell is happening here? I’m gone for a while and you forget that I like to have my coffee and juice in the morning. Do I have to travel now with Paulino and Cuca to get service? Have you forgotten who pays you every month?”
“Coming, coming,” she called. “I was brewing good strong coffee for you. You have the newspapers in the library. Remember to call Dr. Andres. He called again.”
Everything was normal. Now the house had voices, the kitchen had people, and she had something to do. The young maid came down the service stairs wearing a tight white uniform. She mumbled a short hello, and then tried to look busy in the corner of the kitchen. Fernando followed her with his eyes, as a cat follows a mouse.
“Fernando, this is Georgina,” Estrella said. “Remember what I told you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fernando replied, “I have enough at home.”
“So, then, ‘do not touch.’ She is from my pueblo.”
Fernando drank his cup of coffee and glanced one more time at the young girl.
“Breakfast is ready. Thanks to God, it’s ready,” Estrella announced.
DON MIGUEL KNEW he had to see his girls and his sons-in-law and finish the phone calls. He reminded himself that it’s always hard to do the things you hate; best to do them first.
He called Dr. Comillas, who played the role of an English country gentleman, owning a small farm on the outskirts of Havana where he kept a few Jersey cows, exotic poultry, rabbits, and beautiful Doberman pinschers. His law office was in Old Havana, but he never arrived before eleven in the morning. He worked late, and his reputation as a draftsman of complicated commercial contracts was well-deserved. He had inherited a small fortune from his parents, so he worked more for the principle of working than for pecuniary need. Comillas was not married, but maintained mistresses in different apartments, never asking for exclusive rights to their well-paid favors. He was well known in the demimonde of the poulet de luxe and commended for his generosity. He lived for the good food, better wines, and great cheeses of France, but felt that in the tropics, wine loses aroma and bouquet, so in Cuba he only drank cognac, Scotch, and rum. He kept his wine tasting and guzzling for Europe.
Comillas answered on the third ring and instantly suggested lunch. After he agreed, Don Miguel crossed out the first name on his list. After hanging up, he wondered why his friend was so reserved about talking on the phone. He placed a short call to Lustre to set a ten-thirty meeting. The minister was not in his office, so he spoke to his private secretary and requested a short audience, hopefully later that afternoon. Pepe was next. His wife answered. They spoke about her health, his health, how their two daughters were doing, what was happening to Pepito, their son, who had left for the States, and finally he found out that Pepe was not at home but at the Rancho Boyeros airport, waiting for a shipment of electronic equipment for one of his cargo planes.
Adelaida, his oldest daughter, was at home, but Lourdes was at some religious retreat and gone for the next two days. Jose Maria, Adelaida’s husband, was at his office; Julio, Lourdes’ husband, was out of his office, “visiting a client.” Don Miguel suspected he was actually playing golf at the country club.
His banker was happy to hear from him, but did not invite him to lunch (he didn’t owe him money). He said mildly, “Please, drop by.”
Don Miguel answered, “I’d like to talk to you. I have a lot of questions about the States,” and they set a date for next week. He wanted to talk to Mike as well. He missed him. He was angry with himself for feeling this way. “Why? He’s back and when I leave him, I worry about him.”
FERNANDO WAS RESTING on the fender of the freshly washed car talking to Georgina, who, when she saw Don Miguel, rapidly returned to the kitchen.
“Let’s go. Today we have a lot to do,” he said to Fernando.
Don Miguel’s office was located in the financial center of town, which was being replaced by the new office buildings in the La Rampa section of El Vedado. The office buildings were tall, and built in the early twenties during one of the vacas gordas. Their styles differed: Some had the austere simplicity of an Italian Renaissance palace, and others the influence of the Art Deco movement, which, combined with tropical influences, ended up as a Cuban version of the elegant style. His building was a clear example of the latter: The lobby was ornate, and uniformed attendants in gray suits guarded the elevators; commoners were kept outside this lobby. The streets around his office were narrow, crowded, and full of cars and pushcarts. Everyone honked their horns, as if the noise would help them advance faster. The guaguas, with a painted route number, sputtered along as they carried their masses of humanity. Small coffee stands rang bells to announce the brewing of fresh coffee. Street urchins waited for parking spaces to open up so they could get a tip from the next Doctor who tried to avoid the parking lots that had replaced the old colonial structures, razed to create new apartments and office buildings.
Fernando stopped at the main entrance, and Don Miguel jumped out of the car and entered without acknowledging the welcome of an elevator operator, wh
o, in his gaudy uniform, resembled an impoverished Austrian prince from a badly produced operetta. His office was on the tenth floor. Each business suite had a wooden door with a glass pane, the names displayed on it in black block letters. He did not believe in advertising his presence, so the sign on his office door was simple: Ganadera Lucumi S.A. In the small reception room, pictures of his horses and bulls provided the decor on the walls. Copies of Cuba Ganadera, Bohemia, Carteles, Time, and U.S. News & World Report were piled in a disorganized way on a small coffee table located in front of the plain Bank of Boston chairs.
Clara, the receptionist, an older lady who knew how to type and file, was surprised at his appearance. “Don Miguel, I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Clara, how are you doing?”
“Well, but not as well as you. I heard Mike is back.”
“Yes, Mike is fine. I left him at the farm.”
Don Miguel went to Lustre’s office and found him at his desk. A large ten-key adding machine was posted on his left, next to a black telephone, and ledger books and ten-column green analysis pads were neatly stacked on a worktable behind his chair. He was inputting figures in the adding machine, and its clatter prevented him from hearing Don Miguel’s entrance until the latter abruptly dropped his briefcase in an empty chair. Lustre, surprised by the sound, raised his head from the book and quickly rose to greet him.
“Good morning, Don Miguel. Did you have a good trip?”
“Good morning, yes I did. How are you doing?” He clapped his hands on his knees. “Well, are you happy with your success in luring Mike back to the farm? What did you tell him?”
Lustre took his glasses and carefully cleaned them with his black silk tie. “That I thought he should be with you.”
“I’m not sure it’s the right decision. He seems irritated to be at the farm, but now it’s too late. He’s there. Well, we’ll make the best of it. Maybe he’ll learn something. What are you doing now?”
My Lost Cuba Page 9