My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Mike answered, “No, thanks. I have to call my father.”

  They formally shook hands, Mike thanked Rita for her company, and left. Feeling lighter than air, he went to the telephone company. His father was out, so he left a message with Estrella, and then slowly drove back to the batey. He was still surprised at Rita’s visit. He had had a good time even though he had not accomplished his objective for that day. What will the employees think of his taking Rita for a ride in the gig down to the river? Did it matter? Maybe the farm wasn’t such a lonely place.

  — 9 —

  The Baseball Game

  NANDITO DROVE A rusted metal heap with worn-out tires that had once been a farm’s proud International Harvester truck. Its original red paint had faded, and the truck had acquired a patina similar to that of a bronze sculpture. The license plate was tied to the front bumper with baling wire. In the two-person cabin, three men huddled. In the middle was Ernesto, Nandito’s catcher and cousin. Paulino, experienced in personal comfort, sat next to the right window, talking nonstop.

  “I’m buying at least ten cases of beer. Do you think that’ll be enough?”

  Nandito was focused on avoiding the highway police since he carried incomplete truck papers. “I don’t know,” he curtly replied.

  Paulino continued, “I need to buy Coca-Colas. I should get four cases. Do you think it will be better to make lemonade? We have all of those limes at the batey. I couldn’t even use them all if Mike drank one hundred daiquiris a day. I make more money with the lemonade. Maybe I should also buy rum.”

  “No, no, I don’t like idea of you selling rum. We had problems at the last game when Chirra got drunk and pissed on the leg of the home-plate umpire. The umpire was ready to leave the game.” Nandito bristled at the memory and pointed out another problem. “People get violent when they drink. I especially don’t like the look of drunken Haitians on cheap rum. They’re really scary. I hate violence when I pitch. The Haitians may bet on the game, but I’m not a fighting rooster.”

  “We better win this one,” Ernesto uttered, leaning away from Nandito’s hand as he changed into fourth gear. “I’m tired of losing. Ricardo has to play,” he said hopefully. “Don Miguel hurt us when he took Fernando to Havana. He’s our best hitter.”

  “Those are negative thoughts. You can’t harbor negative thoughts. Negative thoughts affect your performance,” Paulino said, with an air of expertise. “You need to think you’re going to win. It’s the only way. We’re going to win. Repeat. We’re going to win. Nandito, you’re going to pitch a no-hitter. You’re going to hit that ball every time you’re at the bat. You, Ernesto, are going to catch every strike and every foul ball, and you’re not going to allow anyone to steal a base. As for me, I’m going to sell every bottle of beer, every glass of lemonade, and every Coca-Cola that I have, hot or cold. We’re going to win this game, without Fernando, or for that matter, the apostle Santiago, even if he rides down from heaven on his fucking white horse,” Paulino assured them.

  Nandito continued to drive slowly. As Ernesto leaned closer to Paulino, he was suddenly overcome with the intense reek of Ernesto’s body odor. Paulino suddenly jolted back as if he’d just been sucker punched.

  “Hey, Ernesto!” Paulino protested, “You smell so foul! When we stop at the warehouse, I’m giving you a special gift. It’s called soap. Have you heard of soap? Do you know how to use it? Or is your body odor your special weapon?”

  Ernesto cast a brief sideways glance at Paulino, and fixed his eyes back on the road. The three fell silent, bumping along quietly inside the creaking old truck.

  After another minute, Paulino resumed his chatter. “I don’t think we should stop at the warehouse after all. Let’s go to Camagüey. I can get a better deal there. It’s only an hour away.”

  Nandito, who was having a difficult time figuring the batting lineup because of Fernando’s absence, revolted at this suggestion. “Hey, you’re not paying for the gas. I am, and we don’t have much left.” He peered across the cab at Paulino. “You have all these great ideas, but no money. Where can you find the dough to buy all the beers and Coca-Colas? I don’t think you have enough cash in your pocket to buy one bottle of anything!”

  Paulino took umbrage at this accusation. “No, you don’t understand how business works,” he fired back. “That’s why you’re driving me.”

  “Yes, in my truck,” Nandito reminded Paulino.

  “No, you still don’t understand. You see, I’m a born businessman. I love and understand business. Business is based on credit. You borrow money. With it you buy goods. You add a profit to the goods for sale, then you sell them, and you get money from the sale. You pay back what you owe, and borrow more. The more credit you have, the more you can buy and sell, and the more profit you make. If you played a game every day, I would make lots of money, because I would sell lots of beers, Coca-Colas, soft drinks, fried hamburgers, and fried potatoes. It’s simple—the more I sell, the more money I make.” Paulino felt content with the tutelage on capitalism just provided to his unsophisticated friends.

  “But what happens if you don’t pay it back? If you don’t sell beers, soft drinks, and lemonade?” Ernesto asked.

  “Ha! You just don’t understand. You only buy what you can sell. You have to know your customer and your market. I’m not going to sell Tri-Maltas, because only nursing women drink them, and we don’t see too many of those at our games. I buy Hatuey—people in Camagüey like Hatuey. If I were in Havana, I would be buying Polar and Cristal, but have you seen anyone here drinking a Polar? No, that’s why I don’t sell Polar. I simply don’t buy what I can’t sell.”

  Ernesto was not convinced. “You don’t know if it’s going to rain. If it rains, we don’t play. If we don’t play, you won’t have customers. You won’t sell anything and you’re fucked.”

  Paulino sniffed. “You have to think positively.”

  They reached the warehouse. Nandito couldn’t find a parking place, so he gave the wheel to Ernesto while he and Paulino went inside. The warehouse was busy. Paulino shook hands and greeted people as if he were running for political office. Nandito, cap askew on his head, followed him. Paulino found the clerk who handled the farm’s account and raised his voice to a near shout, “Hey, Mulato, come here! I need to place an order.”

  The clerk rushed over. “Paulino, I saw Mike a few days ago. He was angry! Did he tell you what happened?”

  “No. What are you talking about? Look, Mulato, I’m in a big hurry today. I don’t have time to socialize with you. This is a business visit. I have to order something fast. I’m needed at the batey.” Paulino handed the clerk a list.

  “Oh, I see,” the clerk replied, looking over the list. “Ten cases of Hatuey, ten cases of Coca-Colas, two of Matervas, one of Gaseosa Salutaris, five pounds of sugar, one sack of potatoes, one gallon of peanut oil, and lard. Charge it on which account? The farm’s?”

  Paulino hesitated. “No, you don’t understand. I’m buying it on my own account. San Joaquin plays Vertientes this Saturday. There’ll be a crowd, hungry and thirsty. I’m selling real cold drinks, fried potatoes, and fritas. This is a great opportunity to make real money. If you come to see the game, I’ll give you a free drink.”

  The clerk’s face had changed considerably while Paulino was talking. “Well, how much money do you have? I don’t remember you having an account with us.”

  Nandito smirked, looked to the floor, and cleared his throat.

  Paulino had a bout of anxiety. “Well, you know I’m good for it. Look, I buy every week from you. You always get paid.”

  “Oh yes, but we’re not selling to you. We’re selling to Don Miguel. He has excellent credit. You don’t have credit with us.”

  Paulino faced the first obstacle in his new career.

  “Mulato, let’s start again. Please understand, Mike is at the farm, alone. He’s throwing a big party. I work for Mike. He needs beers, Coca-Colas, Matervas, peanut oil, potatoes, and yes, rum. I’ll si
gn the chit. You’ll deliver it to me. I’m the one who is responsible. I’ll come back on Monday and pay you. I’ll take care of you. If not, the farm will pay you, and I’ll be dead. What do you think?”

  Mulato was inclined to agree. He knew how much Don Miguel liked Paulino. “Wait, let me think about it. First, I have to find out how many cases of beer I have in the back. Why don’t you come back in a few minutes? But before I do that, I need to talk to the boss.”

  Paulino turned to Nandito. “Let’s get ice. When we return, we’ll load the truck. Think positively.”

  NANDITO HAD NOT gotten enough sleep because one of his boys had cried all night. To make matters worse, he was suffering from a bad case of pregame jitters. Nandito’s nerves were especially jarred because he was going to pitch against their league’s undefeated team. As he lay awake, he glanced over at his bed, a collection of arms, legs, and heads. His wife, Rosita, and all three of their children were in bed with him, and he needed more room. Yes, he wanted more room in his bed, more space in his house, more money in his pocket. Nandito had fallen in love with his wife when she was twelve years old; she had been the prettiest mulatta around. Now, at twenty-two, she looked spent, even in her sleep.

  He slid into his worn work shoes, found his pants, and picked a shirt from the row of nails on the wall. He would have to return to change into his baseball uniform, which Rosita had washed and dried on the clothesline. Nandito was proud of his white and red uniform. Don Miguel had ordered it from the Casa Vasallo in Havana, the same store that made the uniforms for the professional teams that played baseball in the winter in El Cerro stadium. He had never seen a baseball game in Havana, but regularly listened to the games on the radio. Everyone did, even Don Miguel. Nandito walked to the clearing where they had created their baseball field.

  Paulino was supervising the setting up of his concession stand. He was building it with Martinito and Chirra. “The board will separate the customers from the drinks,” Paulino said, even though he was more worried about how to separate Chirra from the alcohol.

  Ernesto watched the scene with interest. “I don’t think you’re going to have enough cold beers. I know you’re going to run out of ice. A hot beer is a bad beer.”

  “Hey man, leave me alone. Ernesto, you catch. I sell drinks. First, you tell me I won’t sell even one bottle. Now you tell me I don’t have enough. Look, there’s Nandito, go pester him. You make a great team.”

  Nandito said good morning to Paulino. “Have you seen Ricardo? I wasn’t able to speak to him yesterday. I hope you told him that we need him.”

  “Yes, yes. I saw him before he left. He’ll be here. You still have four hours before the game.” Paulino shooed him away. “Please, go do something else. Go and screw your wife, I don’t care. Don’t you see how busy I am? Let me take care of my business. I have to confer with my helpers.” Paulino left to talk to Chirra and Martinito, who were having a heated argument over the best way to position a board.

  Nandito knew he had to stretch and warm up, but it was too early. All of his players were there except Ricardo, and they didn’t have anything to do. They wore uniforms, and some had washed them. Those who had not had uniforms tinged by the savanna soil from the last field they played. Today’s soil was dark black, bottomland dirt. Good land for crops, better for baseball players.

  Around twelve o’clock, friends and relatives of the San Joaquin players began to show up. The small children were barefoot and the younger ones wore only shirts. Some Joaquineros had brought their taburetes to watch the game, and a few ladies wore long-sleeved shirts and shielded their faces from the sun with large straw hats tied with colorful bandannas. The girls paraded in their tight dresses, but the young men ignored them. Today they only had eyes for the players on the field. At the moment, they were busy finding, fetching, and throwing the balls back to Ernesto. Later they would be with the girls. For now, they proved their manhood by ignoring them.

  Ricardo showed up in Fernando’s taxicab, to Nandito’s relief. Then he addressed the group of players and fans, “Gentlemen, we have to decide on the lineup. I’m the pitcher. Ernesto will be the catcher.”

  A voice was heard in the background: “He has to be the catcher. He’s the only one who has a catcher’s mitt.”

  Nandito looked with impatience at the wiseacre. “Ricardo will play with us today in center field. Mando, Carlos, and Enrique will play first, second, and third base. Mariano will play shortstop. Gumersindo will play left field, and we have to pick one more player to play right field.”

  The young fans raised their hands, anxious for a chance to play with the team. It would be their initiation into adulthood. All were good to excellent players, for they had caught, thrown balls, batted, and played baseball as soon as they could walk. Nandito’s eyes stopped on a young black man, six feet tall with well-developed muscles showing under his work shirt. Nandito was afraid to make the decision alone. He summoned Ernesto. “Let’s talk in private,” Nandito whispered to him.

  Ernesto relished his newly assigned power. He played with the ball, holding it in one hand and then another, throwing it in his mitt as fast as he could, to make believe that he was concentrating, or perhaps to distract from his uncertainty about who to choose. The group waited silently for their decision.

  “Yes, he could be a good player,” Ernesto finally proclaimed. “Which uniform can he use?”

  Nandito answered. “I have to run to my house and change. I can pick up Fernando’s uniform on the way.” The hangers-on congratulated the new pick, Julio, on his induction into the team.

  Shortly after, two open trucks arrived, followed by a group of cars and taxis, all honking their horns. The Vertientes team had arrived with their fans. To Paulino’s dismay, they had brought a copious supply of beer and rum. They cheered and raised their team banner, even before all the players were out of the trucks. Their uniforms were as immaculate as if just purchased. The team had, besides their captain, a coach, an assistant coach, and a uniformed umpire. They even had a uniformed batboy! Nandito approached the rowdy group, welcomed their team captain, and motioned the opponents toward their dugout. The Vertientes captain and his coaches walked around the playing field to examine its condition. Nandito started to join them but abruptly left. He was ashamed by the way his freshly mowed baseball diamond and field looked, and he ran home to dress.

  The first innings were played without incident. Nandito made some wild pitches in the first inning without serious consequences. The Vertientes’ pitcher did not have Nandito’s fastball, but had consistency on his side. By the fourth inning, Nandito’s arm was tired when the Vertientes’ center fielder came to bat. The count ran to three balls and two strikes. Ernesto did not want Nandito to pitch to him. He wanted to give the batter the base, but Nandito insisted on pitching a hard curve. Nandito delivered the ball near the chest. The batter hit a home run, and after that Nandito lost control of his pitches. Three runs later, a strong line drive to the San Joaquin’s shortstop became a double play, and the inning ended.

  On the way to the dugout, Ernesto unleashed his anger at Nandito. “Don’t you know to follow your catcher’s advice? Look what happened!”

  Nandito could only complain about his tired arm. Mariano, the curandero, gave Nandito words of encouragement as he massaged his pitching arm with a strong potion made of alcohol, basil, mint, and Absorbine.

  Ernesto was the first batter up for the San Joaquin team. He had a two-base hit, and Gumersindo followed with a single. Carlos, a powerful hitter, bunted, and the pitcher, undecided where to throw the ball, allowed him to reach first base safely. The bases were loaded. It was Julio’s turn to bat. He had done poorly up to that point. All of the San Joaquin fans chanted and shouted: “Home run, home run, dale palo, dale palo.” The first ball pitched was high. Julio tried to kill it and drew a strike. The pitcher smugly sent another high fastball, but Julio hit the hell out of it for a triple. The inning ended with three runs for the San Joaquin team.
r />   The next two innings were a bore with wild pitches on both sides and no errors on the field. In the bottom of the eighth, Nandito was the first batter up. The Vertientes pitcher threw a hard ball too close to Nandito’s right shoulder and hit his pitching arm. The San Joaquineros jumped into the field and tried to hit and kick the Vertientes pitcher for his unsportsmanlike behavior. The fight had to be broken up by the umpires and the calmer members of the San Joaquin team. Nandito held his arm in pain, and, complaining all the while, was sent to first base. The top of the batting order came up again. Ricardo had not batted well. He felt out of place, playing with such a bunch of young fellows with his hangover. He had partied all night, and when he came back home, he fought with Cuca. He was insulted when one of the Vertientes fans called him grandfather—abuelito! He let the first ball go. The second ball was a clean strike. Ricardo heard Mike’s voice: “Ricardo, prove you can bat!” The pitcher gave him an opportunity and Ricardo struck the ball with a powerful crack that sounded like a rifle shot. The ball traveled like a bullet over center field, past the barbed wire fence that separated the San Joaquin playing field from the farm, and ended up in the breeding pasture next to the stream for a home run.

  The Joaquineros joyfully invaded the field to show their euphoria over having scored so many runs against the best team in the league. Chirra, who had behaved rather well, forgot his job and gave beers away. Paulino, caught in the excitement of the game, didn’t notice Chirra’s generosity until a crowd formed in front of his small stand for free beers. His reaction was swift.

  “Chirra, you’re fired! I don’t believe what you’ve done! How can you do this to me?”

  Chirra, who by then had drunk more than enough, laughed. “Paulino, you only live once. Isn’t this wonderful?” he said grandly as he swept his arms over his head, while gripping a bottle of Hatuey by its long neck. Chirra threw back one more gulp, then disappeared into the throng of fans.