My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Manuel, agitated, cried, “Let’s go! We’re not doing anything here. Let’s go. Who’s coming with me?” Paulino took a seat with Manuel in the front of Nandito’s truck, while Martinito and Arturo jumped into the backseat of the jeep. Nandito’s truck bed was filled with volunteers. Mike headed out in the jeep with Ricardo at his side.

  Ricardo opened a rum bottle, took a swig out of it, and passed it to Mike. “You’d better have a drink. You’re going to need it. You have to fight fire with fire.” He also gave him a bandanna. “Use it around your mouth. The smoke can kill you. You follow me. I’ve been in fires before.”

  Mike took two swigs out of the bottle and passed it back to Ricardo. He welcomed the feel of the rum in his throat. He needed all the courage he could get.

  The fire was close to one of the farm pastures. The men wore long-sleeved shirts and bandannas over their noses and mouths, carrying machetes or scabbards in their hands. It was the season’s first sugarcane fire. In the fields, red and yellow flames jumped against the dark of the night, softened by the beams radiating from the full moon. When Mike’s farm group arrived at the Gomez plantation, they found that the sisters had already mobilized their cutters, joined by a large group of the neighbors from San Joaquin. The light wind allowed the workers to quickly create a firebreak by cutting a wide swath next to the burning field. When a spark flared or a piece of burning cane shot off, a worker quickly snuffed it out with a jute sack. The intense heat created random explosions, propelling sparks and bits of burning cane into the air. Next to the burning field, standing on the bed of their truck, stood the three Gomez sisters, holding back tears, their eyes reflecting the kaleidoscopic blaze of colors. Julieta accepted Manuel’s tender embrace, and said, “Manuel, go with your group to the end of that field and start cutting another break.”

  Manuel took Paulino, Martinito, and Arturo, and with their machetes, they started cutting a new lane. Mike and Ricardo went to the truck to get their own instructions from the sisters. “Mike and Ricardo, we thank you so much. You go and help Manuel.”

  Just then they heard a shout from the field—a spark had just started another fire in a different area. Ricardo and Mike shifted direction and started to work their way through several rows of the sugarcane, cutting the leaves and the stalks with their machetes, to reach the new, incipient fire. It was spreading quickly and generated unbearable heat. The beating of the sacks against the flames made a concerted noise of whacks and fizzles.

  The efforts of the firefighters continued throughout the night, and after ten hours, they finally had it under control. The cane had turned black, and its green colors ended abruptly at the firebreaks cut to contain the burnt fields. The exhausted volunteers slogged through the field with bleary eyes. The sun rose on the horizon, and a few birds flew over. Mike could still hear faint sounds from the burnt cane stalks as they cracked and popped. Soot and sweat covered the faces of the volunteers as they retreated to their trucks, where they drank water and took swigs from rum bottles that were passed around.

  Suddenly, their job accomplished, they disappeared as if by magic. They left as fast as they had arrived the night before to help a neighbor in need. Before Mike left, he caught a glimpse of Paulino. His white shirt was blackened; his always clean face was almost unidentifiable under a thick layer of soot. His right arm could hardly hold up his machete as he staggered forward, because he could no longer walk. He collapsed from exhaustion next to the truck, gripping his machete like a priest holding a sacred cross, ready to give benediction.

  Mike did not feel or look any better himself. His eyes were red, his muscles sore, and his back aching. He waited for all of his workers to climb on Nandito’s truck and into the jeep. He passed what was left of the rum, and they slowly took turns. For once they had more thirst for water than for rum. He went to Paulino’s side and helped him get into the jeep. It was time to go back to the house, have a hot shower, and go to sleep. Their work was done.

  The sugarcane, now dark and scorched, would have to be cut, and taken soon to the sugar mill. New stalks would then shoot out, full of life—a symbol of Cuba that would always come back, vibrant and sweet.

  — 16 —

  El Norte

  MIKE PACKED LIGHTLY since he had left his sweaters, overcoat, and heavy winter clothing at his college apartment. The Cubana Airlines plane carried the usual mix of ladies on shopping trips to Miami, businessmen, and hungover tourists. Mike moved quickly through US Customs and stopped to have a hamburger and French fries, followed by a cup of American coffee. His connection left on time, and a few hours later, he landed in Chicago. He went to the Blackstone Hotel, his father’s favorite, ordered room service, and went to sleep. He woke up to a crisp morning. After the farm, the life and energy of the city seemed especially alive. He walked in the Loop, gazing into the storefronts. He sat for a few minutes at a Merrill Lynch office watching the stock boys chalk the stock trades on the blackboard as he checked the stocks bought with his mother’s inheritance. He returned to the hotel just in time to check out. He caught his train to the university.

  Mike sat by a window and watched the tranquil countryside as the train raced through. The Plains were in full splendor. The farmland was planted with corn and wheat. White-faced Herefords were bunched in feedlots. Occasionally, a pristine white clapboard house with a small garden in the back and a pickup truck in the front rolled into view and broke the monotonous rhythm of the well-kept fields. He had seen this landscape many times, and understood the care those fields had received for at least two generations of farmers. They came as immigrants; now this was their home and their life.

  The taxi dropped Mike in front of his apartment building. It had the tired beauty of worn barracks, and the smell of carpets and floors cleaned many times. His landlady had neatly piled his junk mail on his small dinette table. The door of the unplugged refrigerator was open and his cupboards were bare. Dirty towels hung in the bathroom, and a page of an incomplete term paper remained rolled in his typewriter. He opened the windows to let out the musty air. Mike was exhausted. He dropped onto his bed and promptly fell asleep. Waking up in the middle of the night, he walked out to a nearby convenience store to buy food for breakfast. It was close to final exam time on campus, and even at this hour, he saw the glow of study lights from windows. Mike, free of deadline worries, was soon asleep again. He woke up at ten, ate breakfast, and walked to the university campus. Mike remembered his first day there and reflected on how much he had learned and changed. The weather was crisp. He enjoyed the coolness of the early morning. Some students were already reading their books, sitting on the well-kept lawn. He remembered the contrast between slovenly dressed professors and finely attired classmates, as if the way they dressed could gain the approval of their teachers, who mispronounced their names. At first he had found it strange to sit next to a woman in a classroom, never having attended school with female students before. Mike walked past the Gothic nondenominational chapel toward the economics and social sciences building, where he had spent much of the last two years. His advisor’s office was on the second floor. The professor’s loyal secretary was his gatekeeper, and shielded him from student demands to give him time to write books and prepare lectures. Mike opened the door and said, “Good morning, Ms. Smith. You look as lovely as ever.”

  She smiled. “Come in, Mike. I haven’t seen you for such a long time!”

  “I went home for a while. Is Professor Samuels available?

  “He’s on a long-distance call right now, but I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Five minutes later, the professor emerged from his office, with his old cardigan sweater unbuttoned, an unlit pipe in his mouth, and a business magazine in his hand.

  “Mike, you disappeared. Mary told me you had to go back to take care of your father, but I didn’t expect you to be gone for such a long time.”

  “I’m sorry, things got really complicated. I wasn’t sure until last week when I could return. I should’v
e sent you a note. Mary told me that she had talked to you and given you my last paper.”

  The professor smiled and waved Mike into his office. “Come, come. I have a lecture soon, but we can talk for a few minutes. Do you have time?”

  “Sure,” Mike said, and followed the professor into his office.

  Books covered the floor in neat piles; a Dictaphone machine and an old Royal typewriter sat on a small table near his desk. The two comfortable chairs offered a view of the large rectangular green located at the center of the campus. The sound of students’ voices could be heard from the large, open windows. “First, how’s your father? How sick is he? I was worried about you. You still have some unfinished business here, and I never heard anything else from you, other than the note you gave Mary for me.”

  “It was a short-term scare. Father is doing a lot better. But he wants me down there. He wants me to take over the management of our ranch.”

  “Well, you have a lot of thinking to do. We can talk about it later if you want, but tell me, do you see change happening there? I hear these are more prosperous times for the people of Cuba. That’s all I read, new casinos, new hotels, and more tourists.”

  “Yes, we have lots of new buildings and real estate developments. Yet the windfall is all going to Batista and his cronies.”

  “Well, that’s endemic in your country. It all depends on who’s in power,” the professor said.

  “I’d like to hear more, but I have to go.” He stood up, took off his cardigan and draped it over the back of his chair. “Please stay. We’ll have lunch later at the club.” Professor Samuels grabbed a blazer from a coat rack.

  “Thanks. I’ll wait here, then meet you at the club at twelve, if that’s all right.”

  “Make yourself at home,” the professor said, and then left.

  Mike roamed around the room and ran his fingers over the familiar books in the bookcases. Some he had learned to love, others reminded him of long, frustrating hours of work. He lit a cigarette and watched its smoke playfully rise to the ceiling and out of the window. Mike was not ready for what was sure to be a philosophical discussion with his advisor during lunch. He did not want to think about the politics in Cuba. His mind was on taking over the family farm, Rita, and Maria Alicia. But he had to, and he felt the same as he had when he worked on a term paper late into the night—multiple cups of coffee altering his heartbeat, his eyes focused on the typewriter, ideas flowing faster than his ability to type words. What was happening on the island? He knew that some of his father’s friends gave money to Castro, and they laughed about it, saying they liked to buy insurance.

  He closed his eyes and dozed off; when he woke up, it was close to noon, time to leave the placidity of the armchair. The club occupied an old house deeded by an alumnus to the university. It had tried, without much success, to copy the décor and ambiance of a private club. The bar had the mahogany austerity of a Victorian drinking parlor. The walls were cluttered with grim portraits of the past club presidents, and all the cocktail tables had peanut bowls. Mike sat at the bar watching the parade of new and old faces full of self-importance in that small academic pond.

  Professor Samuels arrived fifteen minutes late. They sat at a small table in a corner of the restaurant that commanded a view of the entire dining room. The waiter promptly brought two menus and two rectangular chits on which to mark food selections. They ordered, and then Samuels stared at Mike for a long moment with an inquisitive frown. “Mike, you look so serious. What’s going on with you? Have I hit a nerve?”

  “Yes, you have, actually. I feel as if I’m too close to Cuba to get a clear view of it. Sometimes it’s better to leave, to step back, and see things from afar. The irony is that when I was attending your classes, I was isolated from what was happening in my country. I thought I knew what was going on, but I didn’t. Now I have a better picture. It’s worse than I thought.”

  Professor Samuels responded, “Of the players you mentioned, Castro is the one to watch. Our media, especially The New York Times, but also Time magazine and even Look, has adopted him. Talk to your fellow students. They’re all for him, even your Cuban compadres and friends. However, Castro will use everyone and anyone, and he’ll make deals to achieve his goal. Castro behaves like a Jesuit—he had good teachers.”

  Mike replied, “Yes, he went to Belen. He was a leader even then, but he never achieved anything after that, either in politics or in his law practice. Father says that we’ve had revolutions before. After a few months everything went back to normal.”

  “That’s the thinking of your social economic group, you and your rich friends and their families, those who I, as a good liberal, call the oligarchy. You’re accustomed to buying the politicians of the ruling party and pretending that you’re opposed to them. The way you’re acting now. The last time you all took a real position was in the thirties. You all were against Batista. He’s not forgotten that, nor will he ever forget that you won’t let him join the Habana Yacht Club because of his mulatto blood. But don’t be so sure that you can control what may happen. Times are different. Castro has charisma, and he has the American press and some of the American bureaucrats rooting for him. Batista has made many enemies in the States. The government doesn’t like his contacts with the Mafia, but they don’t want to say it out loud.”

  Mike frowned. “Maybe, but my generation thinks differently. We want to do something. We want change. We’ll work for it. We’re tired of not being heard.”

  They ordered coffee, and Mike lit another of his Pall Malls and asked how to go about extending his leave of absence. The professor dropped the subject of Cuba, gave him advice, and they exchanged goodbyes at the door of the club.

  Mike walked to the student union to check his mailbox and empty his locker. While he was busy sorting through abandoned papers, rulers, half-used pencils, and overdue books, he felt a nudge on his back.

  His friend Mary smiled. “Mikito, I thought you had died and gone to hell. You didn’t even write a postcard! Is that the way you treat your best friend?” Mary was tall and athletic, her blonde hair was held back in a ponytail, she wore a black sweater and a nicely cut gray wool skirt. Her skin glowed, even though she wore no makeup.

  Mike hugged her, responding to her infectious smile and said, “I missed you! I was really busy with Father. He’s doing better now.”

  Mary laughed, “I thought you had done something crazy, like gone to the hills and grown a beard and joined all those people with rosaries around their necks.” They went to the cafeteria, where they talked for a long while.

  Mike was delighted to see her. Their bond was more friendship than romantic. They had an understanding and a respect for each other’s intellect. Late at night, tired of reading the same texts and working on the same problems, they had gone for walks, each baring their souls to the other. Mary updated Mike on campus gossip: who still attended the university, who had left, who had a teaching job, who fooled around with whom, who had left the Greeks, and which girls were still trying to find husbands. She briefed him on school politics: who had become an assistant professor and who was drinking too much. Mary invited him to go to a party, hosted by Terry, a common friend. They made plans to meet up later, embraced, and parted ways.

  Mike carried his books to the library to pay his fines, and then walked to his apartment carrying the junk that had been stored in his locker. Suddenly, Mike felt uneasy. Although he thought he knew his Cuba’s situation, other people might see it differently. Where he saw a chance for political change, others thought that a revolution was the answer. What worried him were not their divergent opinions, but that his reading could be wrong. How would a revolution affect his family’s future? Would he ever live in a democratic country? Mike had time for a quick shower and changed into his collegiate uniform: a button-down blue Oxford shirt, his favorite pair of brown mocassin shoes, and a comfortable pair of khaki slacks. He slung a sweater around his neck just as Mary knocked. She gave him a quick kiss and
they headed out.

  Terry’s apartment was in another barracklike complex, but farther away from the university. The party was in full swing when they arrived—young people talking, flirting, and arguing at the top of their voices. A record player was in the small living room with a stash of records of all different types of music. Ashtrays were scattered all over the area, and the room was so packed that they could hardly move. Mary and Mike went to look for Terry. Long-necked beer bottles cooled in a tub of ice on the patio, and the air was dense with cigarette smoke. Seeing them, Terry left a blonde girl in a black beret and came to hug Mike and to kiss Mary.

  “I thought we’d lost you. Welcome back to the rat race.”

  “It’s good to see you again. Wow, what a party!” Mike answered.

  “Come, have a beer,” Terry said while steering them toward the cooler.

  The party stayed lively well past midnight, when neighbors finally complained, dampening the mood and thinning out the crowd. At the end, a handful of close friends remained: Mike and Mary, the girl in the black beret, and an adjunct professor who had a crush on Mary. Terry had switched from beer to Jack Daniel’s, which he kept for “medicinal purposes.” Mike, exhausted, sat in one of the patio chairs, sipping a beer. Mary sat next to him with her eyes closed, trying to follow the lyrics of a ballad. The girl with the beret, Camille, Terry’s latest undergraduate conquest, leaned in toward Mike. “Terry told me that you’re Cuban. Do you know Fidel Castro?”

  Mike tiredly nodded. “Yes, I know of him. We went to the same school. His father is a sugarcane grower, the same as my father.”

  “I’m so excited about him. He’s our freedom fighter. Tell me, how I can help in the battle against the oppression of your countrymen?”

  Her question jolted Mike, and he looked at the girl with disbelief. “Have you ever been to Cuba?”