My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  “No,” she replied, “but I know all about it. There’s poverty, corruption, prostitution on the streets, and the workers have miserable wages. Cuba is the worst American colony.”

  Mike glanced at Mary and Terry, both of whom had been his guests in Havana.

  “Well,” Mike answered in a low, controlled voice, “we have poverty and prostitution. You have those in any country—just go to the other side of the tracks in any city in this country and you’ll find them. Yes, Cuba has problems, and we’re trying hard to solve them, but we also have very strong labor legislation, and our workers share, by law, in any increase in the price of sugar.”

  Camille shrugged, “So?”

  “You don’t know anything about my country.”

  “So everything is perfect in your paradise—palm trees, sandy beaches, moonlight blanketing the sea, romantic nights, guitars playing in the background?”

  “No, but we have strong laws that protect the workers—”

  Camille shrugged. “How can the rule of law be said to exist in a dictatorship?”

  “Well, some rules exist. We have a large amount of government intervention in our economy. Have you read Professor Samuels’ book? Our system is based on a market economy with a great degree of government intervention, which in the end makes us—from the work legislation standpoint—almost a socialist government.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know Dr. Castro, but I know some of his followers. He’s not the only one who wants change on the island.”

  Camille looked disdainfully over Mike’s shoulder as he spoke and then said, “I think you’ve sold your soul to the company store. You’re another capitalistic pig. I don’t know how you can be here, drinking beer, when you should be fighting in the hills against Batista!”

  Mike felt a wave of fury well up inside. “What the hell! Do you know me? Do you know what I do? How I think? You believe that the only way of helping Cuba is going to the hills? What about believing in free elections? How about bringing our constitution back in full?”

  Camille raised her eyebrows. “You’re not serious about what you’re saying.” She examined Mike’s Rolex and glared, “You’re another plutocrat living from the sweat of the working people.”

  “Yes, I have people working for me, but dammed if I don’t work as hard as they do.”

  Terry intervened, “Camille, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Camille stood up, saying, “You’ve both sold your lives to the system. Terry, I’m so sorry, I thought I knew you better.” She swept out with the hauteur of a lady making a grand exit, a woman offended.

  Terry apologized to Mike, and Mary, noticing his annoyance, feigned tiredness and asked him to take her home. They exchanged pleasantries and left the party.

  The trip back home was quiet. Mary drove carefully while Mike sat slumped in his seat in silence. Finally, she said to him, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Camille is just a student playing her best Sartre communist shit. But you seemed livid. You never used to overreact like this before. Why?”

  “I’m tired of fighting clichés. They’re so easily said and so difficult to refute,” he complained. “I’m worried. I don’t know if I know what’s happening or what’s going to happen. Everyone has a different idea. I know that Batista has to go. But how and when, and what happens afterward?” He closed his eyes, exhausted. He knew that reason should prevail and define the outcome of Batista’s dictatorship in his country. “Aren’t we reasonable people?” he asked himself.

  Despite his many thoughts and worries, he could only muster a few words. “It’s been a long day. I don’t feel like talking anymore. It’s hard to explain what’s going on.” Mike extended his hand. Mary took it, and she continued driving with his hand in hers.

  A week later, Mike left for Havana.

  — 17 —

  La Roca

  MIKE WOKE UP as the plane landed at Rancho Boyeros Airport. The customs agent took his time searching Mike’s bag and handled the two cartons of Pall Malls that he had brought as if they were poison.

  At the house, Estrella gave him a big hug. “I thought you were never coming back. I have chicken croquettes for you. You never called your poor father, but girls have been calling you almost every day! I told them I didn’t even know where you were. A Maria Alicia called the most times.” She turned to Georgina. “Well don’t just stand there! Help take Mike’s luggage to his room.”

  He joined his father in the library, who offered him a drink, and asked, “Are you happy to come home? You know you can go back. I want to be sure that this is your decision. You have to do it for you.”

  Mike had made up his mind. “I thought it would be easier. The peace of academic life is attractive.” He remembered something and added, “Oh, Mary sends regards. She says that you’ll have to wait for her to finish her master’s degree before you get married! She doesn’t think that you’re too old.”

  Don Miguel laughed. “I’ve always had better luck with young and beautiful women who are intelligent and nice.”

  Mike continued in a more serious tone. “My professor Samuels is worried about our political situation. The barbudos are very popular in the States. Batista is hated.” He became more annoyed as he went on. “The American press seems to be one-sided. They only think of Castro. For them, the rest of the opposition against Batista doesn’t exist.”

  His father played with his drink. “Yes, there’s a flight of money to the United States and Switzerland. But I don’t believe in taking my marbles out of our own country.”

  Michael glanced at him with concern. “Father, maybe a little?”

  “No, Son, if you’re not involved in politics, if you work, keep a low profile, and treat your people right, you should never worry. I remember when Batista replaced Machado. The rabble had their day as they sacked the houses of the Machadistas. The riffraff now mingle with the known people, and they’re entertained at homes they once sacked. Our countrymen are too few to harbor resentments,” he said as he got up to add water to his glass. As he poured in the water, he changed the topic. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to Varadero. I’ve accepted your sisters’ invitation to spend part of the summer with them, and since I’m paying the rent on the house, they’ll be my guests. Now, you can join us. You won’t even have to feel guilty about taking advantage of your poor sisters and their poorer husbands.”

  Mike liked that proposal very much. “It’ll be fun. I love Varadero. It has so many memories of us being there. Mother loved the beach.”

  While they were eating lunch, Estrella peeked in several times to see if Mike had enough to eat, as if he were a growing boy of twelve in need of supervision. As he conversed idly with his father about the trip to Varadero, his mind ricocheted between Rita and Maria Alicia. He could understand the preoccupation with Rita—she embodied his sexual fantasy—but why Maria Alicia? The answer wasn’t long in coming. She was sensual, too, in a way, mysteriously seductive. After dinner, he called Maria Alicia and made a date for dinner the next day.

  Late that night, Mike had coffee with Laureano at a small café on the Havana side of the river Almendares. Laureano was interested in Mike’s report on the political situation in the United States. They joked that Eisenhower was only interested in playing golf and that the person to watch was Kennedy. They talked until one o’clock in the morning. Laureano disagreed with Mike’s assessment of Americans’ attitudes toward Cuba, and argued that Mike had just returned from a college environment. Laureano thought that the ideas in Washington were more nuanced.

  The next morning, Don Miguel and Mike met with Lustre, who was concerned about the political instability and recommended moving the family’s surplus funds to a Miami bank.

  Dr. Comillas called Don Miguel, excited to say that the minister had agreed to present to the president a copy of the decree they had drafted. They should celebrate, he suggested. “How about lunch at La Roca?”

  Don Miguel arrived on
time. The headwaiter led him to a table near a big boulder with a small waterfall, the trademark of the restaurant. A waiter came to tell him that Dr. Comillas had called and left a message that he was shopping but would arrive shortly. Don Miguel, frustrated, ordered a drink, promising himself that he would only wait fifteen minutes.

  Comillas showed up just under the wire, escorted by two women. His face was red, his speech slightly slurred, and he held a cigarette holder in his left hand. His right hand held the shoulder of the younger woman as he tried to keep his balance

  “Miguelito, you rascal. You work too hard. Look at the jewels I have brought. Would you believe it? This is Esmeralda. She’s a teacher, and this lady,” he said, pointing to the younger one, “this is Patricia, and she is quite a beauty in a small package. And you know—she’s also smart! I had Esmeralda invite her. Patricia didn’t want to accept my invitation to lunch because she had not been introduced to me—moi! So I asked Esmeralda to call her and come as her chaperone! Now we have a respectable table of four.” By this point Don Miguel had stood up to greet the guests.

  Comillas continued, “We have to make serious decisions. You are the guest of honor. You are the oldest.” He got sidetracked by that thought and asked, “How old are you, anyway? Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. But you are a player. Ha, ha, ha.” He indicated the women with a grand sweep of his hand. “What do you want to play with, emeralds or dreams? Let’s see . . . I’ll sit Patricia on your right and Esmeralda on your left.”

  Don Miguel pulled out a chair for Patricia as his host continued, “What should we drink? Waiter, waiter, what are you doing, staring at us? Bring us something to drink. For Esmeralda, a stinger—the green of the drink goes well with her name. As for Patricia, what do you think she likes to have? Champagne? Daiquiri? Or maybe a Hatuey beer?” She didn’t have a chance to tell him, because he quickly shifted to himself. “For me, just the best—I want brandy, a Napoleon, with ice.”

  The waiter left with the order, and Comillas rambled on, “I know it can be considered a sacrilege to have a great cognac drunk with ice! But this is Cuba, and we are hot, our climate is hot, and I can buy the best the French can offer, and I’ll have it with ice if I please! Do the French care? Yes, they may care, but they don’t live here!”

  Drinks were brought and they ate, and more drinks were brought. Comillas told bad jokes and Esmeralda laughed at them. Don Miguel felt uneasy about the mood of the lunch, noticing that Patricia reacted badly to Comillas’s jokes. He tried to make her feel at ease and kept changing the topics of the conversation. When it was past three o’clock, Don Miguel looked nervously at his watch.

  Comillas noticed it, and squeezing Esmeralda’s knee, ordered another drink. “Whoa, Miguelito! Aren’t you enjoying the company of your talented friend? Are you getting bored glancing at Patricia’s beautiful face? You’re checking your watch like you have an important meeting to go to.” He wagged a finger in Don Miguel’s face. “No, my friend, this afternoon you are mine. I know your schedule. I have more surprises. So let’s retire to a more private place, where we can relax, enjoy, and see the coming of another day.”

  Comillas wiped his mouth with his napkin and made signs to the waiter to bring the check, which he signed with a flourish. Esmeralda stood next to him with a complicit smile on her face. Patricia stood up, but she gazed at the floor and played nervously with her small purse.

  Dr. Comillas’s black Mercedes waited at the curb, and they drove to the underground parking garage of his building. The foyer of Comillas’s penthouse opened into a big living room featuring large windows and sliding glass doors that opened onto an open terrace facing the grounds of the Hotel Nacional and the full curvature of the Malecon. The furniture was simple and elegant, the art colorful. Amelia Pelaez’s oils hung next to the more traditional pieces by Francisco Ramos. In the dining room, a small collection of Ponces subdued the riot of color created by the Pelaez. Comillas went to his small bar and Esmeralda, who evidently knew the penthouse, brought out glasses.

  Comillas stepped out onto the terrace and surveyed the city. “Havana is my first mistress. I love her. Every time I leave, I dream of her—of her cobblestone streets, of the waves breaking against the seawall, of the smell of the flowers, of the feel of the breeze.” He turned to the young women. “When I was exiled during the Machado dictatorship, I went to Rio de Janeiro because it was the closest to her. I still missed Havana. I cried every night. I couldn’t walk her streets or see the blue of her sky and her bluest of seas.”

  He took Esmeralda by the waist. “Enjoy a view that is unique in the world.”

  Comillas stood there for long moments in deep communion with the city that he loved. Don Miguel and Patricia followed them to the terrace, and Comillas said to them, “This is your house, too. Esmeralda is joining me in my siesta. I am getting too maudlin for my own taste. Imagine, me a romantic. Hasta luego. Make yourselves at home.” He threw a kiss in the air and left, Esmeralda on his arm.

  Don Miguel and Patricia went to the living room and found a leather sofa that commanded a great view of the Malecon. He remarked, “I’m sorry about today. I just met you. Please don’t be nervous. Dr. Comillas is a very good man and my best friend.” She began to relax, and he continued that process by asking her to talk about herself. “Please, I’ve not heard what you like or dislike. Do you like living in Havana?”

  Over the next few hours, Patricia told him about growing up in Pinar del Rio. Her father grew tobacco. She had liked to go horseback riding in the hills, and she was anxious about coming to Havana. Her sister worked long hours as a seamstress, she told him, and had designed the dress she was wearing. She had started to study engineering at the university in Havana and was now studying computers. She admitted that she had been nervous about accepting Comillas’s invitation. Don Miguel sat calmly, asking questions as she told the story of her life. He was so patient, Patricia told him, that he reminded her of her first father confessor at her First Communion: She was dressed in white and wore a long veil that touched behind her knees, and carried a candle in one hand and in the other, a white lily.

  The sun started to set in the horizon. The sky changed colors from the blues to the pinks and reds, and now the red and white lights of the cars driven along the Malecon formed a swift procession that melted into a stream of light. Don Miguel stood up from the sofa and took Patricia’s hand. “The sky is clear tonight. I’ve always liked to watch the sun set. Maybe we can catch the green ray. My wife used to say that if you see the green ray and make a wish, it will be granted.”

  The moment indeed came, for a brief instant, and he smiled. He turned to Patricia. “Did you see it? Did you?”

  “I don’t know. I may have. I saw a change, a light that flickered and disappeared. Is that it? But I didn’t have time to make my wish. Did you make yours?”

  “Yes, I did.” He turned to face her. “I think it’s time to go. I would be very happy to take you home, if you don’t mind. My car is parked near the restaurant. It’s a nice evening, so we can walk. I’ll leave a note for Dr. Comillas.”

  A FEW DAYS later, the two old friends sat on the porch of Dr. Comillas’s farmhouse. The rocking chairs creaked in harmony with noises from the farm menagerie— bells on cows’ necks, hens cackling, the random bark of a dog protecting his territory—and the rustling of bamboo in the gentle breeze.

  “I’m surprised at you. You’ve forgotten your manners,” he said, teasing. “You left with Patricia without even saying good-bye. You could have knocked at my door. Your mother taught you better. By the way, how did you like her? I thought she was perfect for you.”

  “She is a nice, intelligent young lady. I agree.”

  He smiled at his scheming to hook up his friend with a female escort. “Esmeralda knows Patricia’s sister, and convinced her to come to lunch by telling her that a nice gentleman was joining us. You are a very respectable old man! I must have a very unsavory reputation to have young, intelligent girls
think so badly of me—well, at least this one seems intelligent.”

  Comillas got up from the rocking chair and poured another drink. It was past five o’clock, but the sun was still high on the horizon. Don Miguel shifted uneasily on the rocking chair. Patricia was younger than his youngest daughter. She was pretty. He liked the way her eyes were set, their color, how she smiled, how her lips fell slightly open as she listened, how she seemed to be inside herself, unsure, vulnerable. Was she lonely like him?

  Comillas returned with a small plate. “I just prepared these mojitos with handpicked mint from my herb garden. You have to understand, I am a connoisseur. I demand the best.” He frowned at his old friend. “That’s what I don’t understand about you. You can have anything that this island has to offer. But what do you do? You become a hermit. You work, work, and work.”

  “I work because I like to work,” Miguel replied.

  “Worst, you eat whatever that old lady you call a cook serves you.”

  “Come on, she’s a very good cook.”

  Comillas continued, “You worry about how successful your children are, and try to eliminate the normal pressures of life for them, and then you complain.”

  “I don’t. I’m happy with what God gave me,” said Don Miguel.

  Comillas knew better than to believe that. “No, I know you complain, about what? About being alone? Of not having enough friends, when you abandoned them by hiding at your farm? Or not having a warm body next to you in bed? Why did God create a woman? So we both have pleasure. Is it bad? Some priest may have put that in your mind. Oh, ‘It’s going to be a mortal sin, a venial sin. It’s Friday. I have to eat fish.’ Carajo! You are older and wiser than that.”

  Don Miguel just rocked, looking at the view. He would not be provoked into replying to this inanity.

  “Please,” Comillas continued, “I’m your friend. You may not approve of the way I live. Many do not approve. So what! Do they pay my bills? Do they come to see me when I feel down or when I’m sick? When I need the solace of a true friendship? No, I know you’re my friend. Why do I know it? You don’t need anything that I have and give me more than I give you.” He chewed a mint leaf in his mouth. “Have another drink, reconsider your attitude, and call Patricia. See her, go out with her, and if you feel like a sinner tomorrow morning, I’ll absolve you today.”