My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  The smoke from their cigarettes created a dense haze in the room. Manolete thanked Laureano for coming and asked who Mike was. Laureano explained that Mike had just returned from the United States and shared their ideas and was willing to work for the cause. Eloy vouched for Mike’s integrity.

  The fourth man spoke without a preamble. “I just arrived from the Escambray Mountains. We’ve started a Third Front. We have the support of the guajiros. The people in Trinidad are helping us with money and supplies. Manolete and Eloy are willing to help us at the university and tell the students and professors that we’re opposed to Batista. We need to contact the foreign press and let them know that we’re fighting against Batista, that Castro is not the only one who is in the hills. We want a democratic form of government, and to be ruled only by La Constitucion del 40. We welcome everyone who’s willing to fight.”

  Manolete took over, speaking to Laureano. “You can help. You have contact with money. There are sugar mills in our area of operation. If the administrations of the mills help us, we can use their resources to move equipment and people. Their company stores will ‘sell’ goods to our people, who’ll deliver them to our places in the hills. We need good boots. We can always use canned food. You have to explain our views to your group. You have writers, newspapermen, and professors. They can always write and speak. How do you feel about all of this?”

  Laureano hesitated. “Yes, another front is needed. I need to think about how I can help.”

  They continued to smoke. The coffee cups were emptied, and the ashtrays overflowed with filter tips and half-smoked cigarettes. Two empty soda bottles stood against the wall.

  Laureano added, “I don’t believe in violence. I share your displeasure with Batista. But before I agree to work with you, I need to know more about who you are, where you’re going. I need to know more from you than how you feel about Batista.”

  Each one explained his position at length. When it was time to leave, Manolete left with the guajiro. He had to deliver him to a safe house. Mike and Laureano waited another fifteen minutes to avoid suspicion by neighbors that a small group had gathered at the house.

  By that time, Mike had missed dinner with his father. Don Miguel was watching television in the library when Mike passed. While he kept his eyes fixed on the late night news, he called out, “Be careful, Son. Long meetings never bring results.”

  The next morning, Mike phoned Rita. “When are you coming back, my bébé? It’s been too long. Don’t you miss me?” she whispered.

  Mike felt at once flattered and annoyed. “Yes, I do. You’re always on my mind. But I don’t know when I’ll return. Father is working me very hard. I have a lot of work at the office. I miss you very much.” Even to him the statements seemed perfunctory, not filled with any enthusiasm at all.

  After he had finished his unsatisfactory conversation with Rita, he had a vivid image of the last time he had danced with Maria Alicia, the warmth of her body and the cautious smile on her face. He was about to call her, but the phone rang before he dialed. It was his sister, Adelaida.

  “Hermanito, what are you doing? I want to invite you to have lunch with us at the Habana Yacht Club. If you have plans, break them.”

  “No, I was going to stay home and organize my room.”

  “Forget it. You can do it later. Meet us at Santa Rita for the noon Mass. I’m taking the children. You have to set an example for them, so be early to Mass.”

  As it turned out, he arrived late for noon Mass at the Church of Santa Rita, so he quietly stepped to the rear of the church where he joined other men. Father Spirali was in the middle of his usual injunction, “No coins in this collection plate.” Adelaida sat in a middle pew with her children, while Jose Maria stood in the back with the other husbands. Craning her neck, Adelaida glanced back to see if Mike had arrived, and seeing him, pointed to Maria Alicia, who was next to her. Mike smiled, pleased at this surprise, and nodded.

  At the end of Mass, the main entrance of the church became the site of a social gathering. Everyone had to say hello, kiss, and update each other. Chauffeur-driven cars waited, double-parked, on a side street. Husbands left to fetch cars, and women compared dresses to determine whose dressmaker had copied which French designer. Among the crowd was Father Spirali, his white Augustinian habit draped loosely over his short, heavy body. A perennial smile was pasted on his face and a cigar hung on his lips as he worked the people like a political boss.

  Mike waited for Adelaida, who emerged from the throng with Maria Alicia in tow. “Look who I found! I invited her to have lunch with us. That way you and Jose Maria can talk business, and Maria Alicia and I can gossip.”

  Maria Alicia stood behind Adelaida with eyes downcast and a slight smile on her face. Mike escorted them and the children to his sister’s car. She then asked Mike to drive the children to the club, since her car was not big enough for six.

  Jose Miguel and Lalin were delighted to ride in Mike’s new car. “Pass them, pass them! Your car is faster than Papa’s. Boy, I like the red and black seats. Let’s see what’s playing on the radio.” Jose Miguel spun the controls of the radio frantically from station to station. When they arrived, the parking lot at the yacht club was full. Mike gave his car to an attendant, who tore off in a trail of smoke, leaving Mike with an image of his new car mangled in a heap.

  Jose Maria, Adelaida, and Maria Alicia waited at the door, and together with the spirited children, they entered the dining room. Jose Maria held his son’s hand to keep him under control, and Lalin, who had, in the short trip from Santa Rita, developed a strong affinity for Mike, clutched his left hand. Mike was conscious of the interest stirred among the society matrons by the sight of him pulling out Maria Alicia’s chair. That night, gossip would spread about the “new couple.” Would Mike be Maria Alicia’s new beau? Why had she broken her prior engagement?

  Maria Alicia was shy at the start, but by the end of the luncheon, she was the center of attention, whispering saucy tidbits of gossip while the others leaned in, laughing. Adelaida looked at Mike and Maria Alicia, and congratulated herself for making such a good match for her brother. When lunch was over, Mike could scarcely believe it was past three o’clock. Lalin and Jose Miguel were tired from having spent all their energy behaving well, and began to tease each other.

  Mike noticed that Jose Maria was eager to leave, so motioned to the waiter for the check. But Jose Maria said, “This is my party. We’re happy that you could make it. Adelaida, it’s time to go.”

  Adelaida looked annoyed. “Jose Maria, I can’t leave Maria Alicia with Mike. What will her mother think of us? You take the children and Mike will drop me off later.”

  The dining room was now full of busboys and waiters clearing tables, and the threesome moved outside to a table next to the pool. Adelaida took it upon herself to tell stories about Mike’s childhood. Maria Alicia laughed as Mike squirmed, red-faced. After a few failed attempts, Mike finally managed to redirect the topic. He asked Maria Alicia about herself. He wanted to know about her likes and dislikes. Purposefully, Adelaida excused herself to greet a friend who had arrived with her children.

  Maria Alicia spoke to Mike in a soft, low voice. “Yes, I like music. Mother wants me to go to Pro Arte Musical, but I like to hear the older sones. They’re so romantic, don’t you think? Do you think that the old criollos were different than we are, or do you think they were just more poetic in expressing their feelings? It seems that a man could not court a woman if he weren’t a poet or a songwriter.”

  “I think those were more romantic times. But popular music today is more vibrant, happy, and salacious,” Mike said, thinking of all the nightclubs he had frequented lately. “We don’t have the great romantic songwriters, but we’ve seen an evolution in music, which is exciting. Now we have cha-chas and the mambo.”

  Maria Alicia nodded. “I think Lecuona was able to capture the essence of our music. Do you consider him a classic, or do you prefer the more modern Latin feeling o
f Villa-lobos?”

  “I like Lecuona, and I like Bach. I also enjoy jazz.”

  Maria Alicia smiled. “You have such broad interests.” She suddenly laughed. “Aren’t you glad Adelaida told so many funny stories about you? Sometimes sisters can be so annoying. Mine try to control everything I do.”

  “Well, sometimes,” Mike allowed. “But I love Adelaida. Since Mother died, she has filled in beautifully as the family matriarch.”

  She smiled, liking that answer. “Do you like ballet? Have you seen Alicia Alonso in Giselle?”

  “She’s our national treasure! Yes, I’ve seen her several times.”

  “My mother wanted me to be a ballerina,” she told him. “I actually took lessons with Alicia years ago, but we didn’t get along. I was too willful, too tall, and maybe a little too heavy.” Her face twisted downward, remembering another part of that experience. “I was also embarrassed when I went to the classes. Most of the girls took the guagua. I arrived in a car driven by my father’s chauffeur, who waited until the lesson was finished. I wasn’t very talented, either. So I quit, but I do enjoy dancing.”

  It was getting late, and Adelaida had to return to take care of the children. She continued to watch her brother and Maria Alicia from afar, however, and thought of her mother as she watched the pair laughing and telling stories. She thought how laughter often dissipates with age and added responsibility. Her children laughed all the time. She had laughed when she was a child, and she had once found Jose Maria very funny. At one time, they danced and laughed all night, and shared intensely romantic moments. But now what had happened to them? He thought only of his work, of how to place and sell another piece of machinery to another sugar mill, she of what dress to wear, what party to attend, if she would have a merienda or a tea. But laughter, laughter was gone.

  She got up and approached Mike’s table. “Okay, it’s time to go home. It’s almost five o’clock. Mike, please order the car so we can take Maria Alicia home. Jose Maria will be ready to explode, if he hasn’t already done so. He’s alone with the children and the help is off today.”

  Maria Alicia watched Mike exit the pool area. Her relationship with Julian had left her wary of men. At least Mike was serious about his studies, but she was not sure if she could imagine spending the rest of her life in either the confines of a university in the frigid north married to a professor or a farm located in a sparsely-populated countryside with no one to talk to outside of the help. She also had her own ideas about working for her father.

  Then she caught herself up short. After all, it was just lunch. She had to admire Adelaida’s adroitness in arranging the date. Mike did not seem too serious or too pious, and he certainly was better than Julian. At least he could control his drinking.

  — 14 —

  The Tractor

  PAULINO HAD HUGE amounts of free time, which he filled with thoughts of his beloved Elena. With Don Miguel and Mike gone, there was little work to do around the house, so he had time to concentrate on his writing. He wanted to write poetry to read to his beloved, but was afraid that she might think he wasn’t macho. He was trying to understand her. He had never dated a woman who ran her own business. So he concentrated on reading the classics borrowed from Mike’s room, and continued to write short stories under his nom de plume. He still had contact with a group of young writers in Havana. It was difficult to know what they were thinking, because in their letters to him, they never talked about what was happening at the university, or what they thought about the present political situation, which Paulino thought was getting worse. The absence of Mike and Don Miguel was fortuitous in another way. His nightly forays to Elena’s house were taking a toll on his body. His siesta, combined with his new interest in reading and writing, barely left time for him to help Cuca set the table in the employees’ dining room.

  One Wednesday morning, an excited Nandito drove his worn-out truck to the batey. His spirits were sky high. That weekend his baseball team was scheduled to play against a team from the Central Florida sugar mill, twenty minutes beyond San Joaquin. His friends from the pueblo would come and see him pitch. Unaware of this development, Paulino strolled up to Nandito’s truck to chat. But Nandito was only interested in talking about the upcoming game. Paulino quickly grew bored and put an end to the discussion. He left to work on a business plan for the next game. This time he would sell drinks and hamburgers. But he knew he could not sell, cook, and serve all by himself; he needed an employee. Chirra had drunk more than he sold. Fernando was honest and sober, but he was an unlikely candidate for the job since he already had a profitable businesses driving a taxi and pandering putas for the Joaquineros. Anyway, Fernando was playing that week. He considered his other options. Ernesto was Nandito’s catcher. Manuel was too stuck up. Arturo only knew how to milk cows. So who? He thought. What about a girl? A girl could help! She had to be attractive, smile once in a while, and smart enough to give the correct change—or err in favor of the house.

  By happenstance, Paulino caught sight of Chirra leading a show mare to the wash rack. “Hey, Chirra, I need to talk to you! I have an idea.”

  Chirra glared at him, but Paulino shouted, undeterred, “Man, I’m telling you, I have a proposition, one that could improve the finances of your family. Obviously, that’s not something you’re interested in!”

  Chirra, who was proud but not foolish, replied, “Well, I know you’re trying to ask me to forgive you for what you did to me. You know that I worked very hard. So what if I tasted a few beers as part of the job! Since you’re now sorry, I could give you my undivided attention.”

  Just then the mare shook herself dry, splashing Paulino with sudsy, cold water. Paulino hated horses, but he brushed soapsuds off his clothes and told Chirra, “We have to talk business. You know that the team is going to play the Central Florida team next Sunday. I need an attractive person to help me. I was considering—”

  Chirra interrupted. “You mean you want to use my service? Well, I don’t know. I’ll have to see if I have a previous engagement.”

  “No, no, no, Chirra,” Paulino said. “I need to get in touch with your daughter to see if she wants to work for me.”

  Chirra replied by turning his back to Paulino, letting the hose slip, and drenching him with cold water.

  That afternoon, just after four, Ricardo popped up on the porch, lighting a cigar with his Zippo lighter. He was planning to call Mike to report on Manolo, the mayoral, who was disregarding Mike’s orders. Paulino caught him and asked, “Ricardo, where are you going? You’re all dressed up. Are you partying tonight?”

  Ricardo replied curtly, “I have to make a telephone call, but I’m waiting for Manuel to give me a list of animals for the next show.”

  “Can I ride with you to the pueblo?” Paulino asked. “I have to stop at the warehouse, and I need to mail some letters to friends in Havana. Give me five minutes. Wait for me.”

  During the trip, Paulino yammered as Ricardo looked blankly ahead. He was pensive and gave scant thought to Paulino’s incessant questions. “I need to get transportation. I am tired of walking so much. I am not the Andarin Carvajal. What do you recommend—a used car? Where should I go to get one? Do you think I have to go to Camagüey to get the best deal? Do you think that the boss will sell me the jeep? I can pay for it in installments. Where can I learn to drive? Is it difficult? Can you help me?”

  Ricardo limited his answers to nods, grunts, and coughs. Finally, fed up with Paulino’s bombardment, Ricardo snapped, “Learn to ride a horse. They’re available, they only eat grass, and you don’t have to change the oil or fix them.”

  Paulino was silent for the rest of the trip.

  At the almacen, Paulino looked for Mulato. “Hey, we need to do serious business.”

  Mulato walked slowly toward him and extended his hand. “Well, what do you want today? Do you want to buy out the store?”

  “Here,” and he gave Mulato a roll of cash. “I’m paying you what I owe. I need a recei
pt, and mark it paid. I don’t want you to bill Don Miguel or the farm again for my provisions.” Mulato counted the money as Paulino continued, “Now, I need to place an order. This time charge it to my account.”

  In the meantime, Ricardo went to the telephone exchange. Rita was at her station when Ricardo asked her to call Don Miguel’s office in Havana. In a few seconds, Mike came on the line. Ricardo was brief and spoke quietly. He did not like to rat out a coworker, he felt it unmanly, but his loyalties were with the family, not with Manolo.

  Mike understood his reluctance. “Ricardo, I’ll talk to Father. I should come back. I’ve got work to do here, but it can wait. I’ll send you a telegram telling you when I’m coming.”

  Rita took a moment to slip out of her post to talk to Ricardo. She looked at him with inquisitive eyes. “What’s going on?”

  He simply said, “He’s coming,” and quickly left.

  He would have liked to visit his favorite bar, but instead, he just picked up Paulino and his batch of provisions, and then went to the post office.

  During the ride back, they casually glanced at the passing scenery, varying shades of green in the sugarcane fields, small bohíos hugging the road, white egrets feeding amongst the cow, and the placid Camagüey savanna. Paulino was silent, thinking of his next move.

  The next morning, Paulino went to the machinery shed. In a corner was a forgotten old Farmall H tractor covered with dust, its brilliant fire red color muted by the tropical sun, the dusty seat raised in the up position. He studied it from the side. He moved slowly around it, as if studying a foe. He touched the gear lever, looked at the clutch pedal and the two brake pedals, one for each wheel. There was no key. He found the starter; it was in the center near the transmission box. The choke was a black pull, the accelerator a simple lever on the left. He tentatively raised his right foot and climbed in front of the raised seat and tipped it down.