My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Jose Maria arrived dressed in tennis whites. They took the elevator to the first floor, and walked past the bar with the Massaguer caricatures to the tennis courts, occupied by foursomes. Jose Maria had reserved a court, but they had to wait until the previous match ended. It was mixed doubles, and Mike knew three of the players. The men had gone to school with Mike. He knew one of the girls, and the other looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He kept finding himself watching her. She moved with grace and agility on the court, and she had an infectious laugh. She was tall, dark-haired, with a tanned, well-built, athletic body. Where had he met her before?

  The foursome finished the game and approached Jose Maria and Mike to greet them. Mike gave an effusive hello and hugged his old friends. They promptly introduced him to the beautiful woman who had caught his eye, Maria Alicia. He suddenly remembered. She was the youngest daughter of Maria, Mike’s mother’s best friend. They invited Mike and Jose Maria to join them after their game for drinks by the pool.

  The pool area was crowded when Mike arrived later. Both the businessmen from the city and some students from the Catholic University of Santo Tomas de Villanueva had convened there. The tennis players sat at three round tables. They were drinking daiquiris and gin and tonics. There was a seat open next to Maria Alicia, and Mike took it.

  “May I sit here?” he asked.

  “Sure, please, sit down.”

  “Thanks. I know that I’ve met you several times before. But it’s been a long time. How are you doing?”

  “Great, very busy. It’s my last year at Villanueva, so I’ve been concentrating on my studies. I haven’t been coming to the club as often as before. And you? I haven’t seen you lately, either.”

  “I’ve been working on my master’s in economics at University of Illinois, Urbana, near Chicago. For the past few weeks, I’ve been at my father’s farm in Camagüey. What are you studying?”

  “Business, with a minor in economics,” Maria Alicia answered.

  Mike was surprised. “You’re serious? I don’t know many women who are studying business and economics. Most of the girls I know are taking interior design.”

  “My father wants me to help him with his business.”

  This was very curious indeed. “That’s interesting. Do you have any brothers?”

  “No, only two sisters. They didn’t want to go to college. They preferred to be the perfect housewives. French, cooking classes, needlepoint, and children.”

  “So you’re breaking the mold! You’re going to be different,” Mike said.

  “Well, things are changing,” she said with a slight shrug. “More women are getting an education and working now.” She took a sip of her gin and tonic, and then turned to Mike with a smile. “So, how’s your tennis game? Do you play often?”

  Mike gave a self-deprecating grin. “No, I’m trying to start again. I spend most of my time working with my father at our farm. It’s about five hundred kilometers away. We don’t have tennis courts there,” he laughed.

  “Let’s play one day,” she suggested cheerfully, with a note in her voice that she was about to leave. “Look, it’s been nice talking with you, but I have to go.” She stood up and extended her hand. “Good luck.” Mike watched her walk away and gulped the rest of his cocktail.

  The campaign organized by his sisters was effective, and Mike became an active participant in Havana’s social scene. The telephone was busy: A friend of Lourdes or Adelaida would want Mike to meet another girl. Why not go to Tarara for a Saturday swim and later a quateque or lunch at the Biltmore or a “small sandwich” at El Carmelo after the movies? Chaperones were always present, always discreet, trying to fulfill their duty to encourage, without quashing, the flow of feelings between young people. Every Friday night, Mike went with his group of friends to nightclubs to see shows with international stars like Maurice Chevalier, Nat King Cole, and Mario Vargas, who, along with the rumba dancers, roulette wheels, baccarat, blackjack, and craps tables, made Havana the center of the Caribbean’s nightlife.

  Mike was also a popular guest at the parties hosted for the younger generation. At one of the debutante parties at the country club, he met a friend from school, Laureano, who had stayed in Cuba to study and work. Laureano embraced Mike and jokingly offered to buy him a Chivas Regal and soda. They sat at a small table far away from the orchestra’s blare. The friends were eager to catch up.

  “I haven’t seen you for a while!” Laureano began. “How do you like it up there?”

  “It’s great!” Mike answered. “It’s been a lot of work, but a lot of fun. The weather is a pain to deal with, though. I’ve finished my B.A., and now I’m working on my master’s. You?”

  Laureano shook his head. “Phew! Like you, working all the time. I’m finishing up my law degree at the Universidad de La Habana, if and when we have classes. Meanwhile, I’m also working at my father’s bank. I don’t have much time for parties like this anymore.”

  The friends relaxed into their chairs to enjoy their cocktails, the music, and the beautiful young women who filled the club’s ballroom. Laureano turned to Mike and said, “Hey! Look at Juanita. She’s become a gorgeous girl! Do you remember how she looked at her debut?”

  Mike turned to see the girl. “Wow! Back then she hardly fit in her dress. Is she with Marcelino?”

  “Yes, he’s become such a snob. Get this, he’s apparently forgotten his Spanish,” Laureano said. Mike rolled his eyes. Laureano continued, “And guess what? Now he has an English accent.” The pair broke out in laughter. “It’s so obviously fake,” Laureano added. “Who does he think he’s kidding? Four years in Boston, and he’s more British than the Prince of Wales! Talk to him later, you’ll enjoy the spectacle.”

  Just then a young man bumped into their table and nearly fell on top of it. As he struggled to straighten up, he kept one hand on the table to hold him steady, but continued to sway as he looked alternately at Mike and Laureano.

  “Hey! Why does it look like you guys are holding hands!” he said thickly. “Hey, Mike, cabrón, you don’t even get up to say hello to your friend? Que te ha pasado?” With that, he collapsed into a chair next to the two friends. Mike recognized Julian, with whom he had played baseball when he was a small child.

  Laureano and Mike quickly lifted him up. They took him to the locker room, undressed him, and threw him into a shower stall. Later, with a more sober friend in tow, the three joined the other men at the bar and continued drinking, talking, and laughing at the stories of their friends’ supposed sexual conquests.

  Mike eyed many beautiful women that night, but his eyes locked when he saw Maria Alicia sitting at a table near the bar. She was wearing a soft white off-the-shoulder dress that showed off her glowing tanned skin.

  When Mike approached, she said,“I didn’t know that you were a doctor! It was very nice of you and Laureano to treat that drunk. What a failure of a man! Why do you waste your time with people like that?”

  Mike was surprised by her acerbic tone. “I didn’t know you felt that way about Julian. I’ve known him all my life. We played together when we were kids.”

  “Yes, well, I was engaged to him.”

  The reason for her bitterness became more apparent. “I didn’t know. But given his condition tonight, perhaps the breakup was for the best.” The two shared a knowing look. “May I dance with you?” Mike asked as he extended his hand.

  She smiled and placed her hand in his. “Sure, I’m not good at fast dances, but this is my favorite bolero.”

  They ended up dancing all night.

  The next morning, he ran over his memories of the night before. The way he had touched her hands, the way she smiled, the way her hair softly fell over her eyes. He shook his head to remove her image from his mind. He sat at his desk and played with a pencil, doodling Rs and MAs on a yellow pad.

  Finally, feeling disloyal, he made his weekly call to Rita from his desk. She asked the same tentative questions over and over again, about h
is health, his work, and when he would be back. He told her about what he was doing, mostly about his work with Lustre, and not about his social life. She had heard about Fernando’s trouble, and thought that Don Miguel now wanted to keep Mike around for company, as well as for his private chauffeur. The weeks had passed, and their conversations became almost a rote exercise. She worried that every word that Mike had ever said to her was untrue and unfelt. Maybe he had only used her as entertainment during his lonely nights at the farm. Mike noticed a change in her voice. He wasn’t sure if his absence or her decision to hide their relationship from her coworkers caused the coldness he heard.

  LAUREANO CHECKED THE provisions for his night salon: glasses, J&B, Chivas Regal, Jack Daniel’s, Smirnoff vodka, and Bacardi, an ice bucket full of ice, silver tongs, and white linen napkins. Once he had approved the setup, he dismissed his mother’s uniformed Spanish servant, who left after opening the French doors to the small side garden.

  Laureano never knew how many guests would show up. His parents let him use the left wing of their house for his weekly meetings. If Laureano enjoyed someone’s company, if they participated and contributed to the discussions, he invited the guest back. If the guest had novel ideas, or argued, using violent words and occasional foul language, or drank too much whiskey, or had an overpowering personality and vehemently imposed opinions, the person was labeled a “character” and invited back. Above all, Laureano expected his Sunday night guests to express their ideas with clarity. Graham Greene, who was in Havana in search of material, was expected that night. The prior week’s guest of honor had been an Italian author who bored the group with a long monologue in Italian about his past novel. The group included an economics professor, a writer for the Communist paper HOY, two or three “democratic candidates,” and a poet from Matanzas who supplemented his income by working as a tutor for rich children. Laureano also invited a brooding follower of Jacques Maritain, and the son of a Puerto Rican patriot with the sadness of his island inscribed in his face. A medical doctor who had spent most of his professional life in exile completed the nucleus of the Sunday salon. Each week the meeting began promptly at eight, and sometimes it didn’t end until the early morning hours at a Chinese restaurant in Zanja Street. The members talked, argued, and discussed the books and magazines they had read, borrowed, and loaned.

  Laureano served as the moderator. The themes were varied, and he guided the flow of the discussions between the political, social, and economic themes of that week: Are we having elections? What is better, to become a revolutionary and disappear into the hills, or try to bring democracy using the popular vote in free elections? Can we have an honest election? Can we cause a change in our society? Is poetry important? Why do we use “okay” in our language? What is the true relationship between Cuba and the United States? Do we hate the Spaniards? Should we speak as a Spaniard or should we create our own language? What is the destiny of Cuba? Should we read and practice the encyclicals of the Pope? Do we believe in Pitaluga’s theory that Cuba will be the center of a zone of influence in the Caribbean? Was the Report on Cuba by the International Bank of Reconstruction and Finance accurate? If a guest was spending too much time on a certain subject matter, he asked for a clarification, or diverted the discussion to another group member. Laureano, always with patience and care, brought new issues to be discussed.

  Mike wandered onto the terrace at eight-thirty and found himself in the midst of an intense argument. The young communist newspaperman was preaching absolute nihilism. “Only the burning of all the icons of our society will make us free!” He gesticulated with his left arm, while his right hand held tight to a Baccarat tumbler full of Scotch.

  Laureano acknowledged Mike’s presence with a nod and pointed out an open seat. At the same time, he used Mike’s arrival as an excuse to interrupt the diatribe. He introduced Mike to the group, most of whom he already knew. Yet Laureano’s attempted diversion failed, and the preaching continued.

  “Revolutions have never created a viable society. New symbols, new icons, and new gods will substitute for symbols that we destroy, and the new icons may be less attractive!”

  The poet, who relished showing off his knowledge of the classics, reminded the group of a fable: Frogs that lived in a swamp had demanded from the gods a better king than their current one, a mere log. So the gods send them a crane. “Let’s be sure that we don’t have this happen to us,” he warned.

  Mike enjoyed the exchange. The sentiments of young people seemed different in Cuba than in the United States. Here, there was a more intense coalescing flame. Mike’s friends used phrases like “we can do,” “we can create,” “we are the ones who know.”

  Graham Greene appeared late, escorted by two young men who were showing him Havana nightlife. No particular words of wisdom came from his mouth. After his second drink, he left with his companions. Shortly afterward, the group dispersed. Mike was ready to leave, but Laureano asked him to wait until he could count all the glasses to be sure that no one had walked out with a piece of Baccarat in his hand. Finally, when the count was completed, they left the house.

  It was too late to go to the better cafés, and they didn’t feel like Chinese food that night. They were hungry, so they drove in Laureano’s car to El Cortijo, a dump in Old Havana that doubled as a Spanish nightclub with its Flamenco dancers, Rioja wines, Gypsy palm readers, and a marvelous potato and onion Spanish omelet. They found a table far away from the dance floor.

  Laureano asked, “What did you think of the group?

  “I loved the discussions. They were refreshing and interesting, and I felt that I had come back home. In the States we never have this type of meeting. But,” Mike pointed out, “no one seems to agree on anything significant.”

  “That’s why we have a great nucleus, and we need more discussions like the ones we had tonight. We have to define the problems and find political solutions. The government is holding a farcical election, so Batista and his group can end their term on a positive note. I know, from good sources, that the American ambassador wants to have an honest election and get Batista out of the country. They say that Batista wants to leave on good terms so he can keep his fortune in Cuba. He needs a new government friendly to him.” Laureano shook his head at this chicanery. “I don’t know why he wants to keep what he has in Cuba when with the money he has in Switzerland, he could live anywhere in zillionaire splendor, thanks to years of corruption at our expense. They say, though, he didn’t like his first exile in Daytona Beach. But now he has plenty of money to live the kind of life he’s used to.” He sounded discouraged by the corruption and he abruptly changed the subject. “You and I have friends that believe in and support Fidel Castro’s group. Do you remember Cayo Confites?”

  “What a disaster,” Mike answered. “Castro even took the cooks who worked at his Belen. Fidel is crazy. Although the left-wingers love him in the States.”

  Laureano agreed. “We’ve had too many caudillos—Menocal, Machado, Batista, and now the possibility of Castro. Please. If he ends up in control, forget democracy. It won’t survive. I feel like the priest telling the altar boy: ‘Put out all the candles and let’s get out of here!’ ” He frowned, thinking of the prospect of another dictator. “We don’t have much time. We need change, and we have to achieve it soon. Our group and those who think like us can’t blow it! We may not have another chance. What do you think?”

  Mike was hesitant. He trusted Laureano, but he had not seen him for a while. Nevertheless, he did not think that he was an agent provocateur. Laureano did not need the money, and his family, like most of the good families in Havana, was related by blood or marriage to Mike’s family.

  Still feeling ambivalent, he answered, “Maybe we have to take an active role in the political process. Our families never believed in it. Our class thinks that they can solve all problems with money and bribes and that we shouldn’t worry about the problems of other people or the country. We know that most of the politicians, la
bor leaders, army officers, and tax collectors are for sale, and we buy them. It’s how we do things. Let’s be honest, we’re selfish.” He stopped to catch his breath, and then introduced an idea he’d also thought about for a long time. “We always look to the States for answers. Back in the thirties, you know, we had our own ideas and desired to be different. We wanted to live according to our own customs. Now we just try to follow the Americans. The Americanos do this and the Americanos do that. The Americanos like to gamble, so we give them gambling casinos. The Americans like to see Superman, and we show him naked, all doped up, with an extremely large penis, and we give the tourists this sexual freak show.”

  “What do you think we should do?” Laureano asked.

  “We have to have our own ideas. Create our own way of thinking. Adapt the best of those cultures that we’re familiar with. France, Spain, and the US are different, but we can use what they’ve learned, take the best, and make it ours.”

  Mike was surprised after he finished. He meant what he had said, but he had never expressed his thoughts so concisely.

  Mike and Laureano talked into the early morning until the manager asked them to leave. The effects of their earlier drinking were gone. Now they were revved by their enthusiasm. They drove on the Malecon toward Laureano’s house. The streetlights still glowed, and the dawn had started to cast its rose colors. Mike thanked Laureano and went back to his house.

  A few weeks later, one Wednesday afternoon, Laureano picked Mike up at his office, and they drove off in Laureano’s sports car. They drove for twenty minutes, seemingly arbitrarily changing lanes and directions. Mike did not ask why, and after a few minutes, he didn’t have to. They arrived at a garage in El Cerro close to the baseball stadium. Laureano parked his car and motioned for Mike to follow him. They walked several blocks and knocked on the door of a medium-size house. Elvira, a close friend of Laureano’s, opened the door. She escorted them to a small room with drawn window shades. Laureano knew three of the four men, Candido, Manolete, and Eloy. Mike had met Eloy and Candido years earlier. Manolete, whom he had never met, was from Cienfuegos and active in the Catholic student movement. Neither Mike nor Laureano had ever seen the fourth man.