Arturo, if surprised by the overture, acted as if they were having a conversation about the weather. “Sure, you know I’ve worked well for your father. I’ll work for you, too.”
Mike shook Arturo’s hands. “Thanks, I know I can count on you. I’ll see you early tomorrow morning, after you finish the milking.”
As Mike went to the machinery shed to find the jeep, Arturo finished cleaning the pails and buckets, and started to work on other chores. He had a fence to fix, a cow needed medicine for her udder, and he wanted to see what his boys were up to. They could easily get into trouble, especially if he didn’t keep a close watch.
Mike drove the red jeep down the alleys, checked the new pastures created by clearing, seeding, and fencing the savanna, and visited Pedro, the vaquero who lived farthest from the batey on the south side of the Central Highway next to the railroad tracks.
When he returned to the batey, Chirra approached Mike.
“Mike, do you know how you feel when you become truly thirsty? It’s a powerful force. It’s like a woman. You want to be next to her. You know that she’s no good for you. You go, she talks pretty, you touch her skin with your eyes, and then you caress her. Slowly, she smiles, and you get hot and before you know it, you’re gone. You’re not thinking. You just want that woman. Even if you know she’s bad for you, you are hard, and you know she is bad, bad, and bad for you, but you don’t care. You think you need her. You only think of her.”
“Chirra, what are you getting at?”
“Pati Cruzao is my woman,” Chirra went on. “She never fails me. I know she always waits for me, and then I get into trouble. Mike, you can help me. Don’t give me money. Just please tell Carlos to sell me only food, but no Pati Cruzao. I don’t need more women. Mike, my daughter needs food. I promise you, I’ll try. I swear. I’m a good worker. I’ll try.” Chirra looked at Mike like he was a newly canonized saint, nervously holding his hat, his two-day beard showing white.
Mike felt sorry for him, but not enough to forget that Chirra had played him before. “Okay, Chirra, remember you owe me five from the last time.”
“No problem, Mike, deduct it. I promise, I’ll try.”
All in a day at the farm, Mike thought. He led a simple life at the batey, eating his meals alone on the long table in the dining room, and then dropping by the employees’ dining room to talk with them as they watched the news on the television Cuca had forced Ricardo to buy. He went to bed early, muscles tired at the end of the day, his energy sapped by the heat. At night, he read from his father’s collection of genetic and animal husbandry management books, while Mitzi slept under his bed.
That Friday morning, Paulino was walking briskly, singing in a loud voice, smiling and joking when he brought Mike his coffee and a cigar. Mike, accustomed to Paulino’s cool banter, was surprised by this change.
“What’s happening?”
Paulino, whistling, answered, “It’s Friday, and Nandito and your devoted server are going to the pueblo.” He sang:
Me voy p’al pueblo,
I am going to the village,
Hoy es mi dia,
Today is my day,
Voy a gozar
I am going to enjoy
El alma mia.
My own soul.
“I’m getting Coca-Colas, beers, soft drinks, and potato chips, and selling them at a stand at San Joaquin’s Saturday baseball game. They’re playing against the undefeated Vertientes sugar-mill baseball team. Do you plan to go? A large crowd will come from the pueblo. It’s going to be great!”
Mike knew that Paulino dreamed of owning a bodega, as his father had. “You have to start someplace,” Paulino always said. It might be bred in his veins to make money by selling things to other people.
“I don’t know. I may want to stay at the batey. I have a lot of work.”
Mike planned to stay all day at the batey to study the show string. He wanted to better understand the animals’ conformations, as his father did: Analyze their legs, the rectangular shape of their body, the shape of their head and horns, and assess their similarities and differences. Memorize their sire and dam. This was his time to learn, to prepare a sales pitch, to recall the trophies the sire had won, and tell a story about the wins of each bull and cow in the farm’s show string.
Mike wandered to the black stallion’s box. He felt better there, alone as he rubbed the horse’s silky coat, combed his fingers through the black, lustrous mane, looked into his eyes, and talked to him. He believed, as the Bedouin Arabs did, that a horse communicates with his master. “Are we not one when we ride?” Horse and rider, one entity, one feeling, one coordinated movement. He had begun to miss those long nights of discussions in college, of reading poetry or essays or short stories, and going to his apartment with the first rays of the sun to fall on his bed, tired, but not sleepy, his mind racing with thoughts, unleashed feelings, new concepts, and plans. Now, at the farm, where Paulino was the only person with whom he could have a decent conversation, he could understand his father’s need to go to Havana to talk, argue, and communicate with more people who talked as he talked.
Mike’s thoughts were broken by the sounds of an automobile horn, loud voices, and laughter. A taxicab from Fernando’s stand had stopped at the main house. Cuca was talking to a woman in a colorful cotton print dress with long sleeves, holding a white parasol to shield her face from the sun’s hot rays. The cabdriver smiled as Cuca called out, “Mike, you have a visitor.”
His curiosity aroused, he hurried toward the parasol lady. It was Rita.
“Mike, I had the day off. Your father always talks about the things in the batey, and he said recently that you had some new horses in the show string, so I came to look. Do you mind?”
He was shocked. He had never experienced a woman taking the lead. “Not at all, Rita, it’ll be a pleasure. Why don’t you stay for lunch? Cuca will be more than happy to prepare it.”
Mike nodded to Cuca. “You don’t have to keep the driver waiting. I’ll drive you back, if you wish. Anyway, I have to go into town to call Father. It’ll be a pleasure to drive you.”
Cuca, who knew the driver, offered to brew coffee for him.
Mike took Rita to the main house and led her to one of the white rocking chairs on the porch. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes. It’s so hot. I’d like to have a glass of cold water with a little bit of lime. That would be lovely.”
Mike excused himself and went to kitchen. He found Cuca smoking a cigarette, waiting for the water to boil.
“Mike, what would you like?”
“Don’t worry, Cuca. I’ll take care of it. Where are the limes?”
Rita wasn’t sure if Mike was delighted to see her. She had dressed carefully. Afraid that the sun would damage her peachy white skin, she wore a long-sleeved but tightly-cut dress. She was not sure about her perfume. It was a hot day, so she had chosen a jasmine-based scent. But was she was too dressed up?
Mike returned with the water. “I’m sorry it took a while. I’ve been away for so long that I don’t know where anything is. Cuca will prepare sandwiches for us. I’m sorry it’s not more, but I always have a light lunch.”
“Oh, Mike, I didn’t mean to put you through so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. I wasn’t expecting such pleasant company. Please, please sit down. I have some time and I’ll show you around. There’s a bench in the garden near the fountain, but it’s still too hot. The nights are cooler.” Mike grinned as he eyed her svelte figure. “Maybe that’s why the siesta was invented. So that one can be relaxed and be ready for the night.”
Rita smiled and began to slowly rock her chair. “What is it that you want to show me?” she asked, slowly sipping her water.
“Here, let me show you the trophies our animals have won at the shows. Some are silver and others are made of precious woods—the man who makes them lives in Santi Spiritus. He is a real artist.”
Mike led her through the house like
a museum guide. He had to control the tone of his voice, because once or twice he used an apathetic singsong, the same tone as the cicerones he had encountered in the old museums in Spain. The fact was, he hated to talk about the trophies, but he felt that he had to do something. Really, he was more interested in being with her. He looked over at Rita, and she met his gaze. She was more interested in looking at him than in hearing his recital. Drawn to her, he touched her arm. Yet he felt a jolt in his conscience: “Be careful. You know how your father feels about this. You know she didn’t come to look at horses, cows, or old pictures.”
Wanting more privacy, Mike took her to the office to show her more photographs. This time she moved close to him, and he touched her back as he steered her to another spot. He caught the scent of her perfume.
“I’m boring you,” he said. “This is the past. Would you like to look at the future, or better, the present?”
“Sure, I came here so that you can show me. Please do.”
Mike went to get her parasol and selected a wide-brimmed Panama hat for himself, and then led her to the show barn.
“Well, this is the show string. This is where everything starts—our dreams, our frustrations. So many years of thinking, planning, and breeding in our heads to create a perfect animal, one that will reproduce itself, a genotype that is a phenotype. The ultimate goal of a breeder is to produce an animal that’s beautiful and breeds true. It seldom works, though. That’s why you can’t breed by formula. Breeding is an art, but truth be told, it’s mostly luck.” He was startled to hear his father’s words coming out of his own mouth.
Rita murmured sounds of agreement. She knew that one way to a man’s heart was to assent, assent, and assent. Make believe you understand what he says, no matter what, and be sure you don’t allow your mind to wander during his monologues. Mike held Rita’s hand as they walked through the barn. He enjoyed the soft feel of her skin as they went over rough cobblestones. They ended up at Lucumi’s box, where Mike spoke softly to the stallion as Rita stroked the horse’s mane. She laughed.
“You talk to that old horse as if he could understand your feelings. You’re crazy!” She looked closely at the stallion. “It’s almost as if he wants to talk to you, too. He doesn’t snort or bite you, yet when I touch him, his ears go back. Now, explain that to me!”
Mike continued the tour, answering questions and enjoying the scent and feel of the woman at his side. They went to the house and sat again on the rocking chairs. Cuca first showed up with a plate full of different cheeses and crackers, and then a bottle of Scotch, a silver ice bucket, two tall glasses, and a small pitcher of water on a silver tray.
“Mike do you want anything else? I’m preparing a few sandwiches, and you’ll have fruit on the table. Lunch will be ready soon.”
“We’re fine. Thank you, Cuca.”
Rita stood up. “Cuca,” she asked, “do you want me to help you in the kitchen? I’m sorry to cause so much trouble.”
“No, no, enjoy your stay. You’re our guest,” Cuca replied, and with a pleasant half-smile, she left.
Rita and Mike drank their Scotch and water in silence. Mike slowly rocked, suddenly unable to figure out what to say next. He had explored the cattle market, the breaking of the horses, the help, the lack of a telephone at the batey, and the mugginess of the weather. He didn’t want to discuss politics or religion.
Rita, wanting to appear sophisticated, gazed at the show barn and the garden. “This is so beautiful, so peaceful,” she said to Mike, while wondering why the garden seemed neglected. The contrast was severe. Weeds grew in the flower beds, yet the home was immaculately kept. That showed the absence of a woman’s touch, Rita surmised. When Mike remained silent, she became nervous and fretted: Why was he suddenly so serious? He was talking up a storm and now . . .
They ate quickly and did not talk too much. Rita took little bites from her sandwich and ate her banana with fastidious grace. Mike drank his second Scotch and ate two small sandwiches. He played at carving a mango, but was uneasy about sucking it.
“Do you want coffee?” he asked.
“Yes, I drink mine with lots of sugar. You should know that I’m very sweet,” Rita said with a cautious smile.
“Yes, you sure are. Sorry, I have to leave you for a few seconds. I need to see Cuca. Don’t run away.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be waiting.”
Mike went to make sure that Cuca had started brewing the coffee. In the meantime, Rita stood up and looked at the silver trophies. When Mike returned, he said, “Let’s go to that small bench in the garden. It’s my favorite place to sit. It’s peaceful and it’s in the shade. Cuca will bring the coffee in a few minutes.”
The marble bench faced a dry fountain with a lonely Greek statue. Mike brushed off the seat with his handkerchief. He sat nervously on the bench, not knowing what to do next. He wanted to be closer to her, but did not know how to do it, and was afraid of going too far, too soon. He idly took a pebble and threw it against a tree, while Rita nervously shifted on the hard marble bench. Cuca called, “The coffee is ready.”
Rita got up. “Let me do it. I love to play house.”
They sat again and drank their coffee, watching the blackbirds return to their perches in the Ceiba tree. A mockingbird sang, marking its territory.
“I have an idea,” Mike said, “let me show you the small stream, the old way. I’ll get the gig and the gray mule will pull it. It’s fun. It’ll take me a little while to harness her. I’ll come back to pick you up. Make yourself at home.”
When Mike drove the gig to the front of the house a half hour later, Cuca, who was in the kitchen, had to contain her laughter. “This is getting serious,” she thought.
Mike found Rita dozing in a chaise lounge in the living room. Her face was tranquil, and her blonde hair fell softly over her eyes. Mike carefully pulled her hair away from her face. She twitched, as if to avoid a bothersome insect. Mike picked up a lock of her hair and kissed it. At last Rita woke up, and Mike had to wonder if she had really been sleeping as he helped her up.
“Let’s go, the gig is waiting. We have a lot to see.”
Mike took his Panama hat and Rita her parasol. Together in the gig they resembled a vision from the past, a time before jeeps, trucks, and autos polluted the tranquility of a lazy afternoon. Mike drove toward the pasture next to the stream. Rita sat straight, angling her parasol to protect her from the sunlight. She pretended to admire the view, as if it were her first contact with a well-kept pasture. Mike kept the mule walking at a quick pace, which took his full attention, since the mule was not interested in moving at all.
The bank of the stream was inviting. Large trees gave abundant shade, and the dark sand at the stream’s bottom could be seen through the clear running water. The early afternoon light reflected dancing shimmers onto the tree trunks. Mike stopped the gig and invited Rita to sit at the water’s edge. When she hesitated, worried that the grass would stain her cotton dress, Mike removed the gig’s small cushioned seat and placed it on the ground for her. Mike looked at the water and threw pebbles into the stream as he watched for trout. Rita, disconcerted by his silence, asked, “What are you thinking?”
Mike was still feeling awkward. “I enjoy being with you, but maybe we should go back. It will take us another hour or so to reach the batey. It’s such a pleasure to have you here.”
“You want to talk?” she asked. “I know only a little about you, and you know less about me.”
He was relieved she had opened a way forward. “What do you want to know? I don’t have secrets. I’m a university student. I like to work and study. I’ve been in the States for six years. It’s cold there. I miss the sunlight, the trees, the sea, the sand, and the beach. I want to hear my music. There, I feel alien. If I thought I had to be there the rest of my life, I would be miserable. I love my country. And you?”
“I like my work, it’s the best I can find right now. I wanted to go to Havana and study there, but I’m t
he only child and my mother is alone. She knows how to pull my heartstrings, ‘Are you leaving your poor mother?,’ and so on, and on, so I stayed.” She noticed him watching her intently, and she went on. “I’m the youngest of the operators, so I have the least seniority. They give me the worst slots. I want to get out of this job, but there’s so little opportunity. I want to learn more, travel, and see the world.” She gestured all around them. “Your father always talks about places he’s gone to. I feel so jealous of him, of the things he has, the places he’s visited. I would love to do that.”
They talked, though each held a little back. They were hesitant, cautious. Mike slowly reached for Rita’s hand. She gave it to him and looked into his eyes, and Mike said, “I’m a little nervous. You never can tell where you’ll find what you’re looking for. Sometimes it just appears.”
Rita appreciated his honesty. “You’re very nice.”
After a while they slowly went back to the gig holding hands. The sun was still high as they rode along, and Rita thought of her parasol, but she no longer cared about her complexion. She leaned against Mike, who would have stopped the gig and made love to her then and there, on top of the green pasture grass under the clean blue sky. But he could not. That was not proper.
It was six o’clock when they returned to the batey. As they rounded the driveway, Rita snapped open her parasol and sat upright in her seat. Mike slid as far apart from Rita as the small seat would allow. Cuca came out when she heard the rolling wheels of the gig.
“Rita, did you like the ride?”
“It was lovely.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thanks, Cuca, I think I have to leave.”
“Rita, I’ll uncouple the mule. It will only take a minute or two.”
Ricardo was standing behind Cuca as curious as she was, and he offered, “Mike, don’t worry. I’ll do it.”
The trip to the pueblo went too fast. Rita’s house was modest and built near the street. The outside was blue painted clapboard, faded to a soft pastel. Mike opened the door and escorted her to her door. Rita asked, “Would you like to have a drink?”
My Lost Cuba Page 11