My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Lustre’s face showed his disbelief that Don Miguel minded having his son around. “I’m just finishing the monthly reports. You’re making good money in your export sales to Central America and Venezuela. You’re spending too much money on the maintenance of the show herd. The fat cattle profits are steady. Hope it rains, but you’re making money. Your living expenses are down. You haven’t spent any time in Havana. The rental properties need paint. The cash going to your children will have to be cut back if we paint them. The tenants don’t pay much. You know how old the buildings are; they’re all rent controlled.”

  “So nothing changes,” Don Miguel said. “My father said the same things. I know you’re going to tell me that I should have some money invested in the States; that I shouldn’t spend cash in improving the pastures; that the price of beef is too low; employ fewer people at the batey, and buy the cattle from other farms for fattening, instead of my own mother cows. I know. That’s why I pay you. To tell me what you think. You count and advise. I decide.”

  Lustre smiled. He had started working for Don Miguel’s father as an errand boy, then as clerk, after that as bookkeeper. Don Miguel’s father liked the way he worked, the neatness of his penmanship, the conservative way he dressed. He was never late and never showed up with a hangover. The family was there for him, and paid for his books at the university while he was going to night school. He was employed even during the Depression. Don Miguel was different from his father. He liked to take risks, was flamboyant, had a stronger personality, but was not as good an administrator as his father was. Lustre knew he could help. This was his time to help. If Don Miguel would at least listen!

  “I need money,” Don Miguel said. “I didn’t bring enough cash with me. I left the farm in too much of a hurry.”

  “How much will you need?” Lustre asked

  “Two hundred pesos. I have to give money to Fernando. I brought him with me.”

  Lustre went to the office safe, opened it, and gave him the cash, after making him sign a chit.

  “You never change,” Don Miguel said.

  “No, you pay me not to change.”

  Now that he had the money in hand, he was ready to go. “I have to run. I’m meeting Dr. Comillas for lunch. I need to speak to the minister. I want to spend time with you tomorrow, though. I have to decide how much I’ll pay Mike. I’ll call you in the morning.” Don Miguel got up to leave. Lustre escorted him to the door. He said good-bye to Clara and left.

  The old Centro Vasco was the meeting place for Basques who loved to eat, drink, and play jai alai. Games of pelota before and after meals were as common as the large portions of Bacalao al Pil Pil, Merluza con Salsa Verde, and Gambas al Ajillo. The restaurant, with its frontón court, its large portions, its special dishes, its nationalistic Basque priests, businessmen, and pelotaris, was always crowded, and years later it moved to a new building next to the sea in the Vedado. To address the patrons’ yearnings, a Basque painter had used garish colors for murals of the motherland around the bar and dining room. The larger restaurant continued to be crowded; you had to know the right retired pelotari maître d’ to get a table. Don Miguel was greeted effusively by the maîtred’ as he accepted Don Miguel’s generous tip without acknowledging it.

  “Welcome back, Don Miguel. Dr. Comillas just arrived and is waiting for you at the bar. I have a nice quiet table for you. It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Please come, come.”

  Don Miguel made it to the bar after a series of hellos and handshakes, while others, busy in their own worlds, acknowledged his presence only with a nod of their heads as if saying: “Yes, I know who you may be, but, you see, I’m busy.”

  Dr. Comillas was holding a Dunhill cigarette holder with its permanently lit Pall Mall. Upon seeing his friend, he stopped a casual conversation with the bartender. Comillas went to his friend and gave him two strong embraces.

  “Nice to see you. You finally came. What would you like to drink? Pinch? I’ve been here for almost an hour! I was worried about you. I have a lot to tell you, but not here, not now. Let’s sit down and enjoy our meal. I don’t know why you want to come here. It’s so crowded! The food in the old place was better.”

  They sat, and Don Miguel, tired of Cuca’s plain codfish, ordered his cooked al Pil Pil, and Dr. Comillas, a believer in healthier foods, ordered a broiled red snapper. They did not order wine or beer, just plain water.

  Dr. Comillas was nervous. “Miguelito, you have no idea what has been happening. Our best friends are leaving the country. There are rebels in the Escambray and in the Sierra Maestra. My phone is tapped. I know they follow me.” Without pause, he dove into his story. “Yes, I was a revolutionary in the Machadato, and I was exiled to Brazil. I was young then. Now, look at me. Do I look as if I belong in the hills? No, you know better.” He waved his hands distractedly. “Everyone is leaving the country. You remember Antonio? ‘Seven-sugar-mills Antonio’? Some of his mills were near the area taken over by the rebels. He was helping them with lots of cash, but apparently got tired of spending the money.” Don Miguel looked mystified, and Dr. Comillas noticed. “Yes, that friend, who says he’s always broke, and yet has more money than all of us combined. Well, he sold all his sugar mills and moved to Florida.” The doctor snorted with laughter. “I heard from a very good source that he’s having a rough time. He doesn’t know where to spend his nights—with his mistress or his wife. He no longer has the excuse of telling the wife he’s going to be at a sugar mill. All three of them are staying at the Everglades in Miami! You know what I did? I sent a message with a very close friend: ‘Leave Miami. Everyone knows what you do and where you go. Go to the islands. You have enough money to buy one. Fewer taxes and no one gives a damn about the color of your mistress.’ ” His eyes twinkled as he gave the punch line. “You know what the bastard did? He sent me a postcard that said: ‘Amigo, I don’t pay taxes. Thanks for the advice. See you at Lyford Cay.’ The son of a bitch hasn’t changed a bit!”

  The conversation made Don Miguel uneasy. “That was a bad move. I know the price he got for the mills and his sugar plantations. It was a fire sale! Yes, the price of sugar isn’t very high, but with our American sugar quota and the London agreement, we’re making money. Look at all the new hotels. They sprout up like weeds in a badly kept garden. He wanted to leave and be called ‘Mr. So-and-So.’ ” He shook his head at the idea. “Those Americanos laugh at you the moment you leave the room. He thinks he’s respected, but they just want his money. I know. I’ve worked with them.”

  “Miguelito, it’s good to be laughed at by someone when you own him. Come and relax. I know how you feel, but you don’t have one bull, you have several, and you’re diversified. Man, you’re an empire. Cattle, sugar, houses, savings accounts, stocks with your son-in-law, and you still drive that old dilapidated car, and I bet that your chauffeur today is that black man from your farm.”

  “I don’t like to throw money away,” Don Miguel grumbled. “My car takes me to the same places as your Mercedes.”

  “But you don’t travel anymore, and since Adelaidita died, you don’t have any fun. Hey, I have a good idea. Let me call two good friends of mine, and we can have a pleasant tête-à-tête with them. They have an inviting apartment, very nice girls. They only need help with their rent. I know you’re going to say no, but what else can we do this afternoon while we wait for the minister to receive us?”

  Don Miguel shook his head. “No, no. You know we have to work. I want you to read my last draft of the decree. You’re the only one who can help me. The minister respects your legal mind.”

  Don Miguel started to recite all the ills endemic to the regulated Cuban cattle industry. Dr. Comillas, who had heard this speech many times before, lit a cigarette, and started to scan the room in search of a candidate for his next romantic escapade. He did not like the Centro Vasco because, with the exception of a few women who admired the pelotaris, hardly any were unattached.

  “Miguelito, you know I believe in you,�
�� he said after a while. “All that you have said is true and is very interesting. But I have to go to the bathroom. Please excuse me. If the waiter comes, let him know that I want coffee.”

  Don Miguel nodded as he selected a cigar from a pocketful of them.

  When they left the restaurant, Dr. Comillas guided his friend to a small apartment where the girls lived. After the usual introductions and drinks, the younger of the two picked up Don Miguel’s hand and took him to her bedroom. After a time, he came out of the bedroom to find Andres sitting in the living room with a lit cigarette and an ingratiating smile.

  “Miguelito, things are fine in Havana, aren’t they? You’re only as old as you think. Don’t you feel better? I’m a very good doctor, you know. Sometimes you need to forget what you’ve lost and try something new.” He pointed toward the bedroom Don Miguel had just vacated. “They’re nice girls, kind of crazy. This? They do it just for fun. I pay their rent. At this rate, I could have bought them an apartment at the FOCSA.”

  Don Miguel nodded, but he felt conflicted. He had enjoyed the encounter, but the girl, Maria, had been so young and slight that he had felt as if he were in bed with a daughter’s friend. She knew and could talk about nothing. Then again, maybe at his age that wasn’t important. Did he feel any better? He didn’t know the answer. He was hesitant at the beginning and not fully engaged with her all the way through, and she noticed it.

  “What is wrong, Papito? Don’t you like me?”

  “Yes, yes, I like you, but it’s been so long.”

  Don Miguel told his friend, “Maria is a very sweet girl.”

  “She likes you, too. I’ll give you her number.” With that mission accomplished, Dr. Comillas turned to the next order of the day. “Now it’s time to go and see the minister.”

  When they arrived at six o’clock, most of the civil servants had left. However, the parking lot, shared with a popular bar, was full of cars. The chauffeur opened the door for Dr. Comillas, and they walked past the ministry guards without stopping. The guards saluted them as they headed to the private elevator to the minister’s office. Upstairs, the main reception room had stiff leather chairs and tables with ashtrays brimming with butts of cigars and cigarettes, giving the room the ambiance of a decadent nightspot. The room was full; some people had been waiting all day, while others waited for days on end.

  Dr. Comillas picked up the black chunky phone from the receptionist’s desk and dialed the private number of the minister’s secretary. “Roberto, I’m outside.” Dr. Comillas was in the habit of regularly plying Roberto with bottles of Scotch. “I’m with Don Miguel. Is he available in the next few minutes? We just want to say hello. I also need to make private phone calls. You know I don’t want to use this phone.”

  The door opened with a smiling and efficient Roberto waving them into his small domain. “Don Miguel, I’m so happy to see you. Dr. Andres, welcome. Don Miguel, the minister has been very busy with the coffee crop in the Oriente province and in the Escambray Mountains. We want to show the people that the hills are safe, and everything is normal. The other day he asked me to call you back, but you had left the telephone exchange. He’ll be happy to see you today. Please, please come in.”

  Roberto ordered freshly brewed coffee, and they sat on a comfortable leather sofa to wait for their audience. Don Miguel pulled out the marked draft of a decree that reflected the wear and tear of many readings, changes, and underlines. He was reading it with so much concentration that he didn’t notice that the door to the minister’s office had opened until Roberto touched him on his shoulder and asked him to enter the inner sanctum. He stuffed the draft in his briefcase and followed him. The minister was laughing at one of Dr. Comillas’s jokes. He sat behind a large desk that had an accumulation of reports, files, and sealed cigar boxes. Seeing Don Miguel, he got up to give him a big old-fashioned hug.

  “Miguelito, I’ve missed you. You never come to Havana! We’re overdue for a game of dominoes. I hope you haven’t lost your touch! Your hiding in the bushes may make you a little rusty, but I have full confidence in you. Let’s get together this weekend and play.” He jabbed his thumb toward the doctor. “Maybe we can play against Andres and steal his money.”

  Don Miguel, however, wanted to conduct his business. “I just came back from the farm in Camagüey. I was planning—” but before he had finished, he changed his mind. “Yes, I’m planning to be here. Sure, I’d like to play, when and at what time?”

  “How about Saturday?” the minister answered. “We can all have lunch, and after we play, we’ll visit my farm at Guanabo. I’ve imported a few Holstein cows that I know you’ll like. Your friend, the vet from Wisconsin, brokered them for me. They’re producing a lot of milk. Now, what’s your hurry?”

  Don Miguel knew that he had his attention for only a few minutes and wanted to make the most of it. “We have to create a price differential for the cattle sold for beef. You know we have a problem. There’s no difference in the price you receive for your fat cattle on hoof. You get paid the same for an old bull as you do for a steer bred to give a tremendous yield. It doesn’t make any difference how or what we feed our cattle. I can give you a steer that will provide excellent cuts, but I get paid as if I were selling you an old ox that’s too feeble to pull a cart.”

  The minister interrupted. “I know the facts. But the most important rule of politics is to give the people cheap food. The Romans knew it. In Cuba, beef has to be cheap. Plus, I don’t control the price. The minister of commerce does that, as you know.”

  Don Miguel countered, “All beef?”

  The minister went on, “Yes, the construction worker likes to eat meat three times a day. We would have riots in Havana if meat prices were to go up. How do you think you can sell your idea to the president and expect commerce not to oppose it?” His voice was sympathetic, but he was as smooth as any politician. “I’m supposed to go again to Oriente province to pick coffee beans to show we have a good coffee crop this year, and that for five cents, the Habaneros will still be able to slurp coffee. I’ve survived in this job because I hear all sides. The president doesn’t agree with everything I say. He has other people that bend his ear, maybe better than I. Who in the press is going to be in favor of your plan? You give me the facts, I promise to give it serious thought.”

  “Thank you,” Don Miguel said as graciously as he could manage.

  The minister was elated to avoid any sort of commitment. “Okay, let’s firm up our domino game. I want to win against this Dr. Andres Comillas. You and I are unbeatable.” When Don Miguel nodded, he changed the subject briskly. “Now excuse me, I have other people that I must see. I still don’t know why the president wants me to go to the mountains and pick coffee beans. I know sugar. I’m a sugar man,” he protested. “Politics, that’s what it is all about. My wife wants me to resign, you know. She says I’m too old to be going up and down a mountain.” The minister shook his head ruefully, got up, and gave his friends strong embraces as they left.

  — 8 —

  The Visitor

  DON MIGUEL’S FORD trailed a red dust cloud down the dirt road. “Playtime is over, my friend,” Mike muttered as he headed to the corral where Manolo, the mayoral, had a new herd ready for calf branding. Branding was always a battle of wits and speed between the calves and the vaqueros. Each calf was brought into the corral, where one vaquero would lasso it while another twisted its head and pushed it to the ground, immobilizing it. A third vaquero, with a single sweeping motion, branded the calf. With good team play, the branding of a calf took less than five minutes.

  Manolo felt too old to fight animals in the corral. He sat on his horse and munched on his big cigar, directing the action. To make a clear impression on a hide, a branding iron had to be red hot, so more than one branding iron was always in the fire. If the hide was wet, the iron might not burn deeply enough or slip, and the brand would be poorly defined. But that morning the weather was dry and hot, perfect for branding. An intense log f
ire was set up next to the branding chute. Mayajigua fanned the fire with his hat and kept the irons ready. He did not know how to read or write, but he knew his numbers well enough to distribute the irons as they were called for. Cuca sat on a taburete with a tablet in her hand. Monito called out the name of the sire and the dam to Cuca, who then gave the number to Mayajigua and Monito. They were so involved in their work that they didn’t notice Mike’s arrival. Only Mayajigua and Cuca looked up, surprised, when Mike jokingly said, “Buenos días y adiós.”

  MANUEL HAD MENTIONED that Arturo, who was in charge of the milking herd, was unhappy with one of the new vaqueros. Arturo was a short, husky, powerful man, who was cleaning pails, filters, and tubs at the milking shed. He was the only vaquero who wore lace-up boots, and when he took off his hat to clean his brow, he revealed a stripe of white forehead against his sunburned face.

  “Arturo, good morning. How are you doing?” asked Mike.

  “Good morning, sir. I missed you yesterday. I heard from Paulino that you’re staying for a while. Welcome back,” Arturo said flatly, his eyes still on his work.

  “How are Neraide and the boys?”

  “Fine, they’re just fine. The boys are going to school.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit with you before. Yesterday was a tough day. It seems that everything has happened in the last two days.” Mike rested his foot on a board of the milking corral.

  “Yes,” Arturo answered, “Cuca told me about Anita. She was lucky that you took her to the clinic. I don’t understand them! They should know better.” He shrugged his shoulders while continuing to scrub a stainless steel pail.

  “I’m here to help my father. I know he’s very happy with your work. I’d like to have a good idea of what you’re doing, so we can work better together.” It was difficult for Mike to utter the words. They sounded scripted, even to him.