“Maybe while you’re gone. I don’t know yet. It all depends on Father.”
Rita smiled, “I don’t know, either, when I have to go to Camagüey. It’s so odd, we don’t control things or events, they just happen.”
“Maybe,” Mike said, “but there are things that we do control. We’re capable of making decisions, creating events. Some may occur because of luck, but others we cause. You must know what I mean.”
Rita did not want to admit that she understood, so she played with her food and just smiled. They made more small talk as the café filled up. When the waiter brought the check, Mike quickly assessed the total and gave the waiter a good tip.
Rita fumbled in her purse. “I’m running late. I have to go.”
Mike apologized, “I’m sorry that we didn’t talk more. I’d like to know you better. You—”
“You’re so nice. I’d like to talk to you some more, too.”
“What time will you be free tonight?”
“Maybe around eight o’clock,” Rita said as she smiled.
That night, Mike sped to the pueblo, arriving at Rita’s house exactly at eight o’clock. She answered the door.
“Hi, welcome!” She gave Mike a lingering hug. “I know you must be thirsty. Please come in! What can I get you to drink? As I told you at lunch, Mother isn’t here today. She’s visiting her sister in Ciego de Ávila.”
Mike was wearing his best linen guayabera and carefully pressed slacks, while Rita had on one of her tight silk dresses, more appropriate for a dinner party than receiving a beau. The small living room had few pieces of furniture, Mike noticed. A large sofa, covered in a heavy pink damask, held court in the middle of the room. Rita’s mother had covered the furniture with heavy plastic to protect it, and the lampshades still had their store cellophane covers.
“Please sit down. Let me open the windows, it’s always so hot in here. What would you like? I have Coca-Cola, Bacardi, Domecq, and beer, but no Scotch.” Rita flitted around the living room, opened windows, fluffed pillows, and started the fan. “Please, make yourself at home,” she said and went to the kitchen.
“I’ll have rum. Thanks so much.”
Mike wandered around the room, looking at photographs of Rita at different stages of her life. He paused at a picture of her kneeling in a white communion dress with a rosary in her hand, lit as if she were a Hollywood star. Rita returned with a tray of cheese wedges and saltine crackers.
“Last Saturday was such a nice day,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to spend so much time with me.”
Mike swirled the ice in his drink, but didn’t reply. She tried to enliven the conversation, but Mike answered with monosyllables. They were perched on the sofa, tense, waiting. He reached for another saltine cracker; she reached for one at the same time. Their hands touched, and Mike felt as if a strong current had gone through his body. He instinctively picked up her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and gently kissed it. First, it was one small kiss, then a longer one. She held his other hand against her chest. He started kissing her face gently, first her eyelashes, and then her lips. Mike shifted closer to Rita, and in the process, accidentally tilted the coffee table, sending the plate with cheese and crackers crashing to the floor. The room fell silent except for the gentle sound of the oscillating fan in the corner of the room. They started kissing with passion, as if there would never be a tomorrow. Suddenly laughter floated in through an open window, and a voice said, “Boy, this is better than the movies!” Rita pulled away and jumped up to shut the windows. “Those stupid brats,” she cried.
Mike stood up as well and collected the pieces of cracker and cheese from the floor. As Rita closed the last window, he approached her and touched her back. When she leaned toward him, he dropped his hand and started to unbutton her dress. She laughed. “We’re like a little boy and girl.”
“It’s not your first time?” he asked cautiously.
“No,” she said.
They slowly moved to her bedroom, where small votive candles in a corner lit a small shrine of painted wooden statues of the Virgin de la Caridad and Santa Barbara. They made love, and then loved again. Tightly embraced, they slept together illuminated by the flickering lights in front of the Virgin and Santa Barbara.
THE SKY WAS full of deep oranges and reds, a painterly backdrop for the twin windmills turning rhythmically with the breeze, pulling water for the batey’s tank. It was late afternoon when Ricardo rode his white mare to the batey. Two water bottles wrapped in burlap hung on the pommel of his domadora saddle. The heat from the bulldozer’s engine and the dust stirred up by the clearing activity had caked his face, and it looked dark and mean. He was ready for a hot shower and a quick dinner accompanied by the CMQ radio station from Havana. An old cow had been butchered, and he knew that Cuca had prepared beef jerky with tomato sauce. It was not Ricardo’s favorite meat dish, but it was meat, and he believed that if he did not eat meat every day, he would compromise his strength and virility.
Ricardo unsaddled, washed the back of his mount, and let her loose in the milk cow pasture. As he walked back to the house, he noticed that Mike’s jeep wasn’t parked in front. It was odd for Mike to be out. Ricardo entered the house and asked Paulino where Mike was.
Paulino answered with a snippet from a song:
“Amor, amor.
Love, love.
Nació de ti,
It was born of you,
Nació de mí,
It was born of me,
De la esperanza.
From hope.”
Ricardo nodded at Cuca and went to take his shower.
CHIRRA HAD WORKED all day. His tongue was as dry as paste. He had been drinking a lot, and his hangover was with him, on him, in him, around him. During the day, every time Paulino saw Chirra, he tried to collect for the beers that he had drunk at the baseball game. The third time Paulino asked, Chirra stood and shouted, “I worked my ass off! Beers were part of my pay. I didn’t get a penny.” His head was pounding as he went on. “You want to profit from me after I helped you so much. You’re disgraceful. I’ll never work for you or under you for the rest of my life!”
Paulino stood speechless.
NANDITO HAD GONE to the batey in the morning, looking for more work from Mike. He had to spend the entire morning waiting. When Mike saw Nandito, he reminded the pitcher that he had agreed to weed Don Miguel’s garden. Now, after working the whole afternoon around the big house, Nandito would return home with no pay, and to a trifling dinner of cornmeal and small pieces of pork. Cuca saw how dejected Nandito was. In seconds she handed Nandito a canteen with leftover black beans, jerky, and rice, lifting his spirits.
The night descended. The dreams and frustrations of a monotonous life were forgotten in the sleep of exhausted bodies.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Mike was driving back from Rita’s house in the dark when he noticed a man walking down the center of the farm road. Mike stopped. It was Paulino. He was dressed in a white guayabera, a pair of perfectly pressed blue slacks, and a pair of black leather shoes so polished that they shone in the light of jeep. Paulino was so filled with joy, he felt as if he were walking on clouds.
Mike opened the door of the jeep. “Do you want a ride back?”
“Yes, thanks,” Paulino replied and jumped in.
Each, afraid the other might ask questions, made the rest of the trip in silence.
— 12 —
The Family Reunion
PAULINO HANDED MIKE a telegram: “Make a reservation on the Pullman from Ciego de Ávila. Call when made. Family reunion. Dad.”
He read it again. He had to go, he understood that much. Normally, he would have looked forward to visiting his sisters, nephews, and friends in Havana, but that was before Rita. He had spent the last three nights with her, since her mother was still out of town. He could not get her out of his mind. Every time he passed through the living room, he remembered her dozing on the couch, her blonde hair covering her eyes. He recalled the d
emure way she sashayed with her parasol and their trip on the gig. Mike envisioned her on the bank of the river, her soft hands when he held them. He could hear her gentle laughter and smell her sweet perfume.
Yet Mike was nervous about their relationship. He felt chained to the family’s expectations and traditions. Rita didn’t have a university education, nor did she know the nuances of society life. Yet she was bright, observant, ambitious, and had a great sense of humor. She loved to read books, and she had, once their relationship had begun, induced him to spend more time talking than loving. She surprised him with her discussions about books she had read. In addition, she was a great listener. She understood what he said. She comforted him, and she made him feel good. There had been others before him, he knew, but he forgot his prejudices about what makes a woman “decent” and an acceptable candidate for a “proper” relationship.
Mike reread the telegram, stuffed it in his pocket, and hurriedly left the room. He had to be alone.
Paulino noticed Mike’s hasty departure and knew that something was wrong. Paulino was perplexed by his reaction. He had read the telegram before handing it over. Paulino was left alone in the living room, so he went to the kitchen, where Cuca was preparing lunch. Leaning against the table, he said, “Mike is going back to Havana.” Cuca continued to peel potatoes. Paulino noted her indifference, and knowing that Cuca was not going to give him the time of day, he left to straighten up Mike’s room.
It was late afternoon when Mike left the farm. At the exchange he picked up a telephone. Rita answered, and his conversation with her was a short one.
“Father wants me in Havana, so I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t know for how long. I’ll write you and I’ll miss you,” Mike softly whispered in order to avoid being overheard.
Rita did not answer at first. She moved restlessly in her chair and tried to control her anxiety and fear. Havana was full of elegant women. She asked herself, “Why? Why did I go to bed with him so soon?” Yet she calmly answered, “Don’t worry, my bébé, I’ll be waiting for you. Be careful. Call me.”
Mike had her connect him with his father. Don Miguel wasn’t mushy in the slightest. He snapped, “You didn’t have to call. Just get on the train.”
The next day, Fernando drove Mike to Ciego de Ávila. The Pullman car he boarded had seen better days. Once he got into the bed, the clacking of the train put him to sleep, and he slept until the train entered the Havana station. It was a long trip across the city, and as soon as the taxi left the port area with its narrow cobblestone streets, they entered the Malecon. The sky was a cloudless deep blue, and the waves could be heard breaking against the concrete seawall as car horns blared on the avenue. The noise and the smell of the sea brought back memories of childhood trips to the port with his mother and grandmother to watch ships arrive from faraway places. The old chauffeur drove them with preternatural care, as if he had a delicate cargo of crystal in the backseat.
Georgina answered the door and greeted Mike, then shouted for Estrella. The cook came running from the kitchen with arms wide open. She threw her arms around Mike and kissed him. Her words came out in a ceaseless torrent.
“Malagradecido, why didn’t you stop here first? What have we done to you? I’ve cooked your favorite dishes. We’re going to have arroz con pollo and just for you, ham croquettes. You look famished—isn’t Cuca feeding you at all? You must be tired. Let me tell your father that you’re here. He’s in the library.”
His father was in the library with Lustre when he heard Mike’s voice in the kitchen. Don Miguel went into the kitchen, offered Mike a perfunctory embrace and kiss, and then announced, “We’re meeting with Lustre after lunch.”
Mike went with his father to say hello to the accountant, and he left them in the library while he went to his room to clean up.
A few hours later, the rest of the family arrived: Jose Maria and Adelaida, as always, on time; Lourdes and Julio, as usual, late.
Don Miguel huffed. “You two are going to be late to your own funerals!”
Lourdes appeased her father with small kisses. “Silly Papa. I’m not going to die anytime soon.”
At lunch, Jose Maria started out tentatively, alert to Don Miguel’s sensibilities.
“It’s so nice to be all together. It’s been a long time since we last convened. Mike, it’s nice to see you back in your own country. Don Miguel, what do you want to discuss?”
Don Miguel answered, “Well, I thought you and Julio knew, because you called for this meeting.”
Julio coughed and said, “We feel it’s important to see each other in private and discuss things rather that at the country club or at El Carmelo. I have ideas that I’d like to explore with the family, but especially with you, and you’re difficult to reach. I know you trust Lustre, but he can’t make a decision for you.”
Don Miguel interrupted, “Yes, I know that you want me to diversify. The problem is I already diversified back in the twenties. I was making more money in the stock market than you can imagine. I was on margin. I knew all the answers. Then the ’29 crash came, and I was lucky to be able to pay the margin calls and barely escaped with my skin. From then on, I made a decision. I want bearer bonds that pay in dollars in the States. I want to continue to improve the farm. The farm is in full production. Our purebred cattle are in Colombia, Venezuela, Costa Rica, and El Salvador. We’ve sold all the bulls we want to, to the Dominican Republic, to their president and other cattlemen. We’re making money.”
“Yes, we know,” Julio said, while thinking that none of that cash flowed from the farm to Lourdes.”
Don Miguel continued, “The girls and Mike have their rental properties. All of you have a comfortable life. If we stand together and invest together, we’ll make more money. We are an example of how a family can prosper without quarrels and divisions that sap growth. I don’t want or like or approve of fights or quarrels. United we can prosper, and but if we divide and fight, we’ll only be left with the name of a family who once had money and power.”
Jose Maria added, “We have to thank you, but at the same time, we need to meet more often.”
Don Miguel agreed with a nod of his head and continued, “Do you want your children to be poor? Or do you prefer to keep doing what we are doing, and do it well—or, do you think that I don’t know how to invest?”
Julio said, “Well, I don’t expect you to change your way of doing business. You’re successful, and you also have very definite ideas.” His voice slipped into a smoother gear as he brought up a new complication. “Yet in truth, I’m nervous about the stories I’m hearing about the rebels. Have you read Time magazine? Herbert Matthews of the New York Times is writing about Castro all the time. Many of your friends, Don Miguel, are investing in the United States. The American market gives you liquidity, but if you prefer good quality bonds, I can buy them for you and when you—”
Don Miguel was patient. He knew what Julio was driving at. Comillas had just opened a numbered account at First National Bank in Miami. Lustre was nervous about him pouring money back into the farm. Don Miguel did not agree. He had fought too hard to convince the government to authorize purebred cattle exports, but if they had a very dry season and the meat supply for the market dwindled, the uproar of the press would make it impossible to export cattle. He turned to Mike.
“What do you think?”
The girls looked askance at Mike. To them, he was just their baby brother. They wondered why their father had asked for Mike’s opinion and not for the opinions of their husbands. Mike looked around the table. He took a sip of water and answered unhesitatingly.
“It is your money. We have our own. You should diversify. We can spend your lifetime, my lifetime, and our children’s lifetimes working and improving the farm, and the process will never be complete. There’s always something you can perfect, a new piece of machinery that you can buy, a new bull that has a better pedigree. But Julio is right—you should have American stocks. Xerox and IBM are the fu
ture.”
What Don Miguel really wanted to ask was, “Mike, what do you want to do? Do you want to stay? Do you want to see the grass planted, the cattle fatten?” Yet he knew it was not the right time. Instead he turned to his children.
“Well, you’ve had your say. I respect your opinions. Let’s hear what Lustre has to say. Remember, numbers don’t lie, but liars make up numbers.”
They left the table and went to the library to meet with Lustre, whom Estrella had ushered in during dessert. The meeting was brief. Lustre had brought the profit and loss statements for the apartment houses, the sugar plantation, and the farm. He also had the bond portfolio. Mike was the only one who asked questions; Jose Maria and Julio remained silent. They knew Don Miguel was going to do whatever he wanted to do with his money. Mike was the key to all of their questions.
— 13 —
Mike in Havana
MIKE HAD HIS daily routine: In the morning he read El Diario de la Marina and glanced at the society pages for pictures of his friends and himself. He fought the traffic in El Malecon to go to his father’s office in Old Havana. He worked with Lustre on the numbers, analyzed the business, and tried to create a model with separate profit centers. At eleven o’clock, he took a coffee break with Lustre, and later had lunch with his father and his friends at one of their favorite restaurants, El Carmelo de 23, La Floridita, or El Centro Vasco. He attended meetings with his father at the associations of sugarcane growers and cattlemen, and accompanied his father to meet with politicians and lawyers on the drafting of governmental decrees. In the late afternoons, he drove to the Habana Yacht Club to exercise and play squash.
Two weeks after he arrived, he went to the yacht club to play tennis with Jose Maria. The locker room was located on the fifth floor and he stood on the balcony, listening to the wooden sandals flapping on the hard tile floor, the white and green domino tiles slapping the wooden tables. The small beach in front of the club was surrounded and protected by its two white concrete brick piers, the beach of Náutico y Militar, and the public beach, La Concha, with its Moorish buildings.
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