My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  The girl, accustomed to the sergeant’s drunken behavior, moved lasciviously from behind the bar and put one of her arms on the sergeant’s back. “Tell me, my little lion, what do you desire?”

  “I don’t want anything. I want this man to be a gentleman and buy drinks for my women. Yes, a good drink, no beer, a good brandy.”

  Fernando was angry, but he knew that if he showed it, nothing would be accomplished. “Sergeant, I’m more than honored to be able to share a drink with you and these nice ladies. Now, Carmelita,” he addressed the barmaid, “you know me well enough. When have I been cheap? Now, give the ladies a Felipe II. I’ll have one with ginger ale. It’s a pleasure to see you!” Fernando patted the sergeant on the back. “Now, if you allow me, I’d like to go be with my friends. We’re also thirsty and the night is young. We still have a lot of dancing to do.”

  Fernando took a roll of notes out of his pocket and gave Carmelita a ten-peso note. “Keep the change. I’ll have my drink at that table with my friends. Excuse me, it’s always a pleasure,” and he left the sergeant with his two putas waiting for their fresh drinks.

  Yet for Fernando, the charm of the night was lost. He didn’t want to leave early, because the sergeant might think he was afraid of him. He sat at a table with his customers, sipping his drink, hearing the music that blared from the Wurlitzer. His customers, friends for the night, started dancing with the girls. Later, the angst from the incident dissipated with the heat of moving bodies. They all had come to forget who they were, if only for a moment, in fleeting embraces inside dimly lit rooms at the back of the bar.

  The next morning, Fernando told Cuca he had to talk to the boss. Mike heard Fernando’s voice and came to the door. Fernando told him of his conversation with the sergeant. Mike knew he couldn’t go back to see the lieutenant. Then and there, he decided to take Paulino back to Havana under the guise of wanting another doctor to check his wounds. He went into the kitchen, where Paulino was watching Cuca prepare his breakfast.

  “Paulino, I need to talk to you,” Mike said.

  A few minutes later, Paulino returned from his room with his luggage, a small cardboard box with his classic books, and envelopes with rough drafts of his new stories. “I’m ready to go.”

  — 24 —

  Time to Leave

  DR. COMILLAS HAD had three Scotches. Rubio, the bartender at the American Club, knew that Comillas was in a bad mood, so he had fled to the opposite side of the bar. Don Miguel showed up, summoned by a cryptic call, unusual since Andres usually couldn’t stop talking. When Don Miguel entered the bar, Comillas gave him a long embrace.

  “Miguelito, you’re my friend. Come, let’s sit down. I’ve got to talk to you.” Comillas motioned to the table farthest from the bartender. “Excuse me, what a terrible host I am.” Comillas turned back and waved to the bartender. “Rubio! A drink for Don Miguel, please.”

  “A Pinch,” said Don Miguel.

  The friends, with their drinks in hand, walked to the table. After they sat, Comillas, leaning forward, somberly said, “You’re the first and only one to know. I’m leaving. I’m going to Mexico tomorrow. I haven’t talked to the minister about this, and Esmeralda does not know.” He lowered his voice even further. “I’ll have to figure out a story, but I know they’re checking on me. My phones are tapped, not only the one at my office, but also the ones at my penthouse and the farm. I know that if I mentioned it to the minister, he would try to put an end to it, but he doesn’t have the power. I tell you, they all are out of their minds.”

  “You don’t have to leave. It’s probably a mistake. The minister knows that you’re working with him on important issues.”

  Don Miguel had never seen him this way. His friend, who typically did not care what people thought, the cheerful bon vivant, was afraid, suspicious of everyone around him. He repeatedly scanned the bar for any signs, even though the American Club was virtually empty.

  “It started a week ago. Esmeralda showed up at the farmhouse with two young men. They said they wanted my advice because I had been an active revolutionary against Machado back in the thirties. I was flattered,” he admitted. “I wanted to look important in front of her. Lately, we haven’t been doing very well together. She’s kind of distant and not always ready to come when I call.” He straightened up, and a look of discomfiture came over his face. “Well, that’s a different subject. We talked for a long time—about the rebels, the political parties, having a free press, and freedom of speech. I tell you, it felt great to talk openly about political issues, to think again. I felt young and full of fire, like I used to be a long time ago.” He scratched his forehead, thinking. “I don’t know when I quit caring. After talking with them, I realized that I’ve only been interested in what affects me—my business, my money, my finquita, my cows, my dogs, and my rabbits. You know, Miguelito, talking with those young people, I was ashamed.” He glanced around again before saying, “They asked me for money and I gave them some, not much. When they left, I took Esmeralda to the penthouse. We had wonderful, fantastic sex. Then, less than two days later, funny things started to happen to my telephone lines.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that all your lines have a little bit of an echo.”

  “So, you don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “No, I think you’re anxious, but not crazy.”

  “Yesterday, I got a call from Esmeralda and she was really nervous. One of the young men has disappeared. She believes that Captain Velasco arrested him.” Comillas gave the table a slight thump. “I’m leaving for Mexico on the morning plane. I bought the ticket directly from the airline. I’m taking a lot of traveler’s checks and a letter of credit from my bank. I’ll be in good shape for a while. I’ll wait until the elections are over and see what happens, and then I may be back. I’m traveling alone. I don’t have a family to worry about, and Esmeralda, well, she’s young, and I don’t think that she’ll miss me too much.”

  Don Miguel watched the ice melt in his drink. “Aren’t you overreacting? What is going to happen to your business, and to your clients? It’s fine for you to go to Europe in the summer, as you always do, but this is the busiest season of the year! Deals are made and your clients need you. You’re not going to write contracts in Mexico. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I have to go. But why don’t you come and visit me? You may bring that little Patricia. I know she hasn’t traveled much and both of you may enjoy it.” He could tell from his friend’s dour expression that that wasn’t going to happen. “If not, I want to celebrate our last night in Havana in style. Let’s start at Monsignor, we can drink champagne and hear the violins. Pity that when I leave my country, I want to drink champagne in a faux French place. After that, let’s go explore our real Havana. Let’s go to La Playa, have a frita, look at the sunrise from the pier of the yacht club. I’ll be your guest.” He got up, signed the bill, and gave the bartender a large cash tip. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Be sure you have my Scotch.”

  “Wait a minute, let me call Estrella. She was expecting me for dinner.”

  “Aren’t you nice! Hurry, I don’t have too much time.”

  Don Miguel made a phone call, and then followed his friend to his chauffeur-driven Mercedes, which waited at the club entrance.

  The next day, Don Miguel woke up in his bed with no recollection of how he got there. He looked around the room, remembered he had been with Comillas the night before, and then fumbled for his bedside clock. It was past one o’clock in the afternoon. His mouth tasted a multitude of opposing flavors, none of them agreeable. He saw his guayabera thrown on the floor, and he looked for his roll of money, which he always kept on the nightstand. It was notably diminished. He slowly walked to the bathroom and threw water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. If he had had a worse night before, he couldn’t remember it. He brushed his teeth and his tongue, and groped for the bottle of Listerine and gargled until he felt its sharpness in his throat. He slowly tottered to the toilet. He dropped hi
mself against the wall and held his body with an extended arm while he urinated. He began to remember. He still had his car at a parking lot near the American Club. He and Comillas had stopped at Floridita for a last daiquiri. The last one, Comillas had said, “is the best.” They moved to the Zombie Club, just for another cocktail. Then Monsignor, for champagne, and there, he wanted to call “his girls.”

  “Join me, just for the night. You’re a widower, but you aren’t old,” Comillas had said. Don Miguel remembered declining the invitation. Comillas called another girl, not Esmeralda. Now, Esmeralda was afraid to be in his company, Comillas explained. A young lady met them at Monsignor’s restaurant. They drank champagne and heard the violins, and then went to see the action in the nightclubs at La Concha. The driver took them from spot to spot. Comillas drank so much whiskey that he could hardly dance with his young partner. They walked across the Quinta Avenida and to the beach at La Concha. The yacht club was closed. They all sat in the sand. Comillas touched the wet sand and threw flat shells into the calm water of the inlet. When the sun rose, Comillas took his shoes and walked to the edge of the sea. He threw another few shells into the clear blue water.

  “This is in honor of Yemaya. I know she’ll protect me,” Comillas declared.

  The young lady laughed at the two old farts, playing like kids on the beach, and soon joined them in the water. Finally, Don Miguel carried Comillas back to his car, as the chauffeur held open the door. They dropped off the young woman at her apartment. Don Miguel handed her some money. “Please, have your dress cleaned.”

  When Comillas arrived at his penthouse, he picked up a briefcase and a small bag, and they left immediately for the Rancho Boyeros airport to catch his flight to Mexico City. During the trip to the airport, they hardly talked. Don Miguel waited until his friend had passed through the controls at the airport before the chauffeur drove him back home. He went directly to bed, but despite all the drinks he’d had, he couldn’t avoid the one thought he had tried all night to forget. He knew that he had lost his good friend.

  Don Miguel took a very hot shower and luxuriated under the stream of water. He scrubbed and scrubbed his body until his skin turned red. He tried to remove the smell of alcohol and tobacco that had permeated his skin. He had to talk to Patricia. Last night at the beach, he had carried her image with him. When he was dancing with the girl, he pretended she was Patricia. Then it occurred to him that he had never danced with her. He realized he had not been living. He was a robot that worked, slept, and ate. No time for fun or to do what he wanted to do. He remembered his youth, the lists he made, and his promise to himself: to search for the best. He thought of his horses, his personally-bred cattle, and the battles he had fought. He went to the kitchen, opened the door of the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of milk, and drank it slowly. Estrella came from the garden with fresh-cut flowers.

  “Would you like some coffee? It looks like you need some.”

  “Yes, I’ll be in the library.” As he left the glass on the kitchen table, he knew what he wanted to do. He would call Patricia at six o’clock.

  PAULINO WAS SILENT. The pain pills made him drowsy. Mike was in a hurry to get to Havana. He had stopped for gas, and they hastily ate an empanada in Colon. They arrived at the house around six, and as he opened the front door, he heard his father talking on the phone. Estrella and Georgina came to greet him. His father’s conversation abruptly ended. Paulino stood in the rear, holding his packages and a small suitcase.

  Estrella noticed that Paulino was battered.

  “Mother of God, what happened to you?” she said. “Georgina, get his things. I’ll make some chicken soup.” Estrella looked wide-eyed at Mike and Don Miguel. “Why didn’t anybody tell us about this?” She shook her head, and before leaving for the kitchen, ordered, “Come, Paulino, come.”

  Embarrassed, Paulino followed Estrella to the kitchen while greeting Don Miguel with a nod and a soft “hello” as he walked by.

  Don Miguel turned to Mike, “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s go into the library,” Mike suggested. There, he explained to his father what had happened. Don Miguel was shocked and outraged.

  “Let me call my friends. I’ll take care of it.”

  Mike calmed him down. “Dad, I don’t know that a phone call is going to help us anymore. The army rank and file isn’t taking orders from the top anymore. There’s no order in the army. None. They’re after money for themselves now.” He lowered his voice so only his father could hear. “I don’t believe that Paulino is safe at the farm. The sergeant wants to kill him. The lieutenant doesn’t have control over the garrison. He’s even worse than the sergeant.”

  Don Miguel was baffled that such a thing could have come to pass. “I don’t know what’s happening. This morning I lost a friend, he left for Mexico, and before that, we had the problem with Fernando, and now Paulino. . . . I don’t think you should return to the farm. Things are out of control.”

  “Maybe not, but when the situation calms down, Ricardo will let us know, and we’ll bring Paulino back. But for now, he should stay here.”

  Don Miguel sat silently for a minute. “Well, I want you to stay as well. We have a lot of work to do. Wait until after the New Year, and then everything should be back to normal. It always happens during the sugar harvest. The worst comes out. Now, let’s decide what we’re going to do with Paulino. Do you think another doctor should see him?” Don Miguel felt his hangover coming back to bite him. He was worried about the political situation. Too many things had happened. His whole world seemed to be out of control.

  Suddenly he was panicked: Could anything happen to Mike? He was young. Could he be mistaken? Then what? Whom do you call after your son is killed? Can you bring him back? He should have stayed in college and finished his master’s. Lustre had made an error, and now it was too late.

  — 25 —

  Patricia and Laureano

  PATRICIA PASSED HER last test. She was exhilarated, for she had reached her goal. She was a certified IBM computer operator and programmer. Her instructors were delighted with her performance, and told her she was intelligent, and hardworking, with an especially good facility for computer languages. Her difficult new journey had started. The tuition at the academy had drained her savings, and she did not want to go back to Pinar del Rio and ask for more money from her father. Even though she was more than welcome at her sister’s house, she hated to extend her stay.

  She nervously knocked at the door of the director’s office for her exit interview. “Good morning, Director,” she said in a low voice. The director, who was absently looking at papers, raised his head, and without standing up from his chair, motioned her to sit down. “Patricia, welcome. I’m very pleased that you finished our program with such good grades. You show a lot of promise. What are your plans now?”

  Patricia was taken aback. Plans, what plans can you have when you finish school, are broke, and need money for food? “Well, I need to work. I understand you know people who can use my computer skills. I would like your help on where to apply.”

  The director sat back and considered the young woman. “Yes, I have friends who are always looking for someone like you. Everyone likes you here. Would you be interested in working for us part-time as an instructor? I’d like you to work in the lab. The hours would be flexible. However, if you want to work full-time, I’ll give you two names. I’ll call them to set up an interview. I assure you, you’ll be well received.”

  This was just what she was hoping he’d say. “I’m so grateful and honored that you’ve offered me work here. I know I’d love it. But the truth is, I need to work full-time.”

  The director wrote the names, phone numbers, and addresses of two men who managed computer-programming departments. One was at the Banco Nacional de Cuba; the second, at the Trust Company of Cuba, which was the largest Cuban-owned bank. Patricia thanked him, nervously took the slip of paper, and almost bowed as she exited his office.

 
Two days later, full of confidence, she sat in the reception room of the personnel department of the Trust Company. She had carefully picked her most conservative dress, over the objections of her sister, who wanted her to wear something a little more provocative. She had already spent part of the morning filling out an employment questionnaire. Miguel was the only person she knew well whom she did not use as a reference; however, she had named Dr. Comillas. Why? She didn’t really know; she just thought at least she could mention someone who was well-known. They had already tested her skills. Patricia had to keypunch data and write a basic computer program. When it came time for the interview, she was surprised to see a rather young man call her into his office and then sit next to her rather than behind his desk. The office was small and Spartan, there was no rug, no window, and only a calendar published by the bank. The desk was of steel, and on its top sat a pen and pencil set in a faux marble holder. Patricia waited for him to speak after she gave him her resume, diploma, and letters of recommendation. He sensed her anxiety as he took her papers, asked her to be comfortable, and moved behind his desk to read her application.