“Let me see,” he said as he slowly examined the file. He grunted, made notes on the side of her application, stared at her several times, and finally spoke. “I think we can use you. You don’t have experience working at a bank, so we’re going to give you a ninety-day trial period. Your salary will be eighty pesos a month, and it’s a good starting salary, above minimum wage. After that period, we’ll see. You can start this Monday. Do you want to work with us?”
Patricia exhaled. “Yes! I’m so delighted. Thank you!”
“Let’s go to another office. You have more paperwork to fill out.” The manager stood up and headed toward the door as Patricia awkwardly reached out to shake his hand. He caught a side glimpse of her extended hand and shook it.
Around six o’clock, Don Miguel called Patricia. “How was your day?”
“It was great. We have a lot to talk about.”
“Will you tell me?
“Not on the phone. It’s a surprise.”
“Well, when may I see you? Are you free tonight?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You’re going to love my news!”
“I’ve never heard you sound so happy!”
“Wait and see.” A joyous Patricia hung up the phone.
Patricia saw Don Miguel driving up to her apartment building and ran to meet him. The moment he pulled to a stop, she opened the front passenger door and jumped in, giddy with excitement.
“I was hired! I got a job. I start Monday! I’m so excited!” She put her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m going to work at the Trust Company of Cuba. They hired me as a computer trainee. Isn’t it fabulous! I have a job!”
Don Miguel was taken aback. He had never considered the possibility of his wife working. In his world, a working wife meant the husband could not provide for his family, and then who would supervise the home to make sure he was taken care of? How would she have time to be attractive and well dressed? Even worse, a working wife would be subject to sexual pressures and desires outside the home!
Patricia sensed he was upset. “What’s wrong?”
Don Miguel drove, staring straight ahead. “I’ve never dated someone who works.”
Patricia thought, “I’ve never dated an older man, either,” but before she said it, Don Miguel feigned a smile and said, “Well, we should celebrate! Where do you want to go? It’s your lucky day!”
Patricia became ebullient. “Oh, Miguel, let’s go dancing. I want to be happy tonight! I want to be alive. I want to dance, shout, scream, say funny things, and be careless and free. Can you imagine what this means to me? I can have my own apartment. I can invite you and your friends for dinner. I’m a good cook, you know. Thank you for all the encouragement you gave me! I’m so happy! Thank you! Thank you!” She threw her arms around him and gave him another kiss.
The couple went to the nightclub at the Hotel Nacional, where they danced, drank champagne, played roulette, saw the second show, and danced again. Suddenly, Patricia was transformed into a new person, deeply happy and sure of herself. Her joy infected Don Miguel, who, putting aside his feelings about her job and Andres’s departure, began to enjoy the night. During the orchestra’s break, they sat down at their small table near the dance floor. After they ordered another bottle of champagne, he looked into Patricia’s eyes and held her hand.
“I don’t know if this is the time, but I have to tell you. I love you. I’m complete with you. I haven’t felt like this for a long time. I close my eyes, and I see you. I want to be with you. I’m not young, but I feel young and strong when I’m with you. I have many years to live, and I want them with you. Please be my wife. Marry me.”
Patricia had known he cared, but marriage and today? When she was starting a new, independent life? “You know how I feel about you. But this is a serious step. I have to think about it.” She saw his disappointment and rushed to add, “I’m happy when I’m with you. I just don’t want to rush. Plus, your family may never accept me. And how about your friends?” She searched his eyes and couldn’t tell how he was feeling. She held his hand tighter and smiled. She was happier than ever before.
“You don’t have to say yes. I want you to think about it. You know how much I respect and care for you.”
“Let’s dance. It is a beautiful night. It’s a perfect night!” she said.
HAVANA WAS A small town. Everyone knew what everyone else was doing. Who was in town, who was traveling, who had money, and who was having a difficult time. So when Mike received a phone call from Laureano, he wasn’t surprised.
“Welcome back. Do you have any plans for lunch? I need to talk to you. Let’s meet at El Carmelo. I’ll be there around, say, twelve-thirty?”
Mike was worried by the tone of Laureano’s voice. He sounded tired, and lacking the fiery energy that he normally exuded. Mike left at noon and found El Carmelo crowded. He searched for Laureano, but didn’t find him, so he sat at a small table near the sidewalk, and then went to the magazine counter to buy a U.S. News & World Report, which covered in detail the Nixon and Kennedy campaigns. Mike was absorbed in the magazine when Laureano, showing a two-day stubble, tapped his shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late,” Laureano said with a smile, though his face looked drawn. “We need to talk, but we can’t do it here—too many ears.” They ordered sandwiches and while they were waiting for them to be prepared, they exchanged small talk. Laureano asked Mike about Maria Alicia, and Mike asked about Laureano’s many brothers and his sister. They left in Mike’s car and headed to the Malecon. Using the tunnel under the bay, they left the city behind. Laureano regained his composure once they were in the Via Blanca.
“I’ve spent the last years trying to fight the regime. It doesn’t work. I can’t fight against a tank with a pen. Our compatriots don’t read. They couldn’t care less about reasoned arguments or the law. We’ve always been against violence. I thought that if we educated the people, they would react against what’s happening. I was wrong. It looks like force can only be fought with a stronger force. Gandhi’s ideas won’t work in our country.” His laments kept pouring out in a rush. “I’ve wasted my time, yours, and my friends’. I made fools of you and everyone who attended meetings at my home. I’m responsible for giving all of us the idea that if we discussed, talked, wrote, used sophisticated arguments, we would recreate a democratic Cuba.”
Mike tried to stop him. “But, Laureano, you did create something. We were able to discuss things that I feel are important.”
Laureano shook his head in dissent and continued, “No, it didn’t work. But meanwhile, those who care only for themselves laughed at us, at our pretensions, at our unsophistication, our romantic and impractical ideas. They knew we could accomplish nada, nada—so many meetings, so many articles, and so much money. They tolerated us and made fools of us. Why? Because they knew that we weren’t going to change anything,” he cried. “We were ineffectual. We played into their hands. We were their loyal opposition. We wrote great articles. ‘See,’ they said, ‘there is freedom of press.’ We met and discussed the philosophy of government. ‘See,’ they said, ‘there is freedom to meet.’ ” He was disgusted at how naïve he had been. “What I did, what we did, didn’t count. It didn’t stop them from torturing us, jailing us, killing us, persecuting us. We were romantic, absurd, poetic, and ridiculous. We were more existentialist than Sartre, more Christian than Maritain, and more poetic than Marti.” He paused, and Mike sensed that he was reaching a conclusion. “We need to change. We are slowly asphyxiating in this corruption. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, because we’re the same.”
“You’re too hard on yourself. What you did is important. You wrote, and you wrote what you believed in. You broadcast our conscience, our ideas. Yes, they may be ineffectual today, but the writings exist for someone to read. Maybe someone has read the articles, joined our discussions, and reached a decision to fight, to do more than what he was doing.
Remember, silence is the best ally of a dictatorship.”
“Thanks, but you’re too generous,” Laureano said. “Look, I’m leaving Havana. I’m becoming an alzado. I’m joining a group of our friends who are ready to open another front in the western part of the island. I’m not going to tell you where, but you can help us.” He looked at Mike searchingly. “We’re going to need medicines, boots, and more money. We’re also going to need safe houses. We have the arms. We have money to bribe the soldiers in the area. We’re going to need more to buy supplies from the people that live in the hills. I think they’ll cooperate with us, but if we have money, it’ll be easier.” As he waxed on, his voice gained its usual fervor. “I don’t think we’ll be there for a long time. The army is concentrating on the eastern and central parts of the island, around the Escambray Mountains.” His lips twisted and he broached a new topic. “I need a favor from you. I hope I’ll come back, but if something happens to me, I’ve named you my executor. Here, this is my will. I also want you to keep my papers in a safe place. If I die, I want them published.”
“You honor me. Thanks, my friend, but you aren’t going to die.”
“Just in case, I left enough money in my will for you to publish my papers. I still want to preach after I’m dead.”
Mike still thought he was being maudlin, but he merely said, “Don’t worry. Your wishes will be carried out.”
“The balance of my assets will go to my family, even though they don’t need it. Our inheritance law is so ridiculous. One day we’ll change it!” He clasped Mike on the knee. “You’re my best friend. I wish we could have spent more time together.”
“That’s all right. You can count on me.”
“Mike, I know that you and Maria Alicia are a great couple. I plan to dance at your wedding.”
“But when will I dance at yours?”
The serious moment was broken by the friends’ laughter.
Back in the city, Laureano gave him a box with his papers. They parted with a strong embrace, and Laureano walked away.
— 26 —
Cienfuegos
PAULINO HELPED ESTRELLA in the kitchen washing dishes. He polished Don Miguel’s and Mike’s shoes, and cleaned the car. When he felt better, he started to call his university friends, and one of them, Llaca, a published poet and an habitué of Laureano’s meetings, invited Paulino to a reading of his poems at the house of the editor of a poetry magazine.
Paulino asked Don Miguel if he had work for him that night. Don Miguel, astonished, looked at Paulino. “When have you ever worked at night for us? We have Georgina to serve at the table, and Estrella cooks. I don’t have any work for you here, so do whatever you want to do.”
Paulino thanked him, and full of excitement, went to Llaca’s reading. The apartment was on the second floor of an old building that faced Prado Avenue. The large living room, where the reading was held, had a high ceiling with large open windows that brought in a healthy breeze together with the sounds of cars and the conversations of people walking on the street. The sounds mingled with the conversations of the guests at the reading. It was not a big group, and Paulino knew many of them from his university years. He felt energized. He moved around, shaking hands, slapping backs, hugging acquaintances as if they were his oldest friends. Finally, Llaca read his poems that had a similar rococo feeling of a Lizama poem without the simplicity of Guillen. Paulino recognized Lizama Lima and Cabrera Infante in the audience.
After the reading was over, he stayed for a short while, mostly going from group to group to listen in to their conversations and reintroduce himself as a guajiro that was living and writing in the middle of a big savanna near a nowhere village in Camagüey. He felt exiled from a civilization where he wanted to belong. He did not live in Havana. Would he come back? Was he happy with his sexless love life with Elena? After this taste of what he could be part of, could he be happy working for Mike at the farm?
The next morning Paulino was in the kitchen when Mike came to order his breakfast. Paulino said, excitedly, “Mike, I saw Cabrera Infante last night at Llaca’s reading. He remembered me from when we went to Laureano’s home. He asked if I was writing. I told him yes! I’m going to show him my last short story. Isn’t it great?”
Mike was encouraging. “That is great. He has great taste. He’s an excellent writer. Are you feeling better now that I brought you to Havana?”
“Yes, I’m so happy. I want to read my story one more time. Would you like to read it?”
“You know I’m not good at editing. I’m a numbers man, but I’ll read it. Maybe you can have it published in a magazine.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” He twisted his torso, showing Michael his freedom of movement. “I feel better. I walk without pain. I’m sleeping better, but I miss Elena. Have you heard from Ricardo about the sergeant?”
“No, haven’t. He’ll be calling soon. I’ll ask him.” He remembered what he had talked about with Laureano, and he made a plea. “Paulino, you have a gift. You can write. Don’t blow it. I know that times are difficult for you, but Father and I like you, and you can work for us and still have time to write. I wanted to be sure you weren’t going to be attacked and hurt again at the pueblo.”
“Thanks for taking care of me, but I have to make my own decisions. I’m not doing any real work here. There’s nothing for me to do. Any help I contribute can be done in a few hours.”
“Well, then, write, or I’ll create new tasks for you,” Mike said, joking. “Look, I hope you can return soon to the farm. Let’s wait and see what Ricardo says.”
Mike went to the terrace and joined his father, who was having his breakfast. Paulino returned to his room in the garage. Late that afternoon he walked to the park and sat on a bench under a ficus tree. He thought about what he wanted to do, but soon grew tired of thinking and took a bus to visit his old café. He said hello to his old boss, who barely recognized him, Paulino having changed so much. He was happy to see Paulino and asked him if he was looking for a job. “No, not at this time,” he replied. He saw Eloy as he was leaving the café, whom he had met at one of the political committees at the university. Paulino ran after him. Eloy stopped and they embraced, and after an exchange of pleasantries, Eloy asked Paulino to walk with him for a little bit. They finally sat on a bench.
“Paulino, you look great. Where have you been hiding? I haven’t seen you for at least two years. How are things going?” asked Eloy.
Paulino filled him in on all the salient facts of his life. “After I had a problem with the G2 here in Havana, I started to work for Mike Rodriguez’s father at their farm. It’s easy work. I’m biding my time. I’m writing a lot. I’m dating a beautiful lady who’s one of the owners of a small nearby plantation. I always have bad luck with soldiers and policeman. I just got a horrible beating from a local sergeant of the Guardia Rural. Mike brought me back here, and I’m staying at their home. And you?”
“I’m not going to the university, as you know, we’re still on strike. I’m working at my father’s business. Not too much to do. I have a lot of time on my hands. I’m waiting until I can return to the university. I read a lot, write a little, and meet with friends.” He was running on and on, and he stopped himself. “Do you remember our meetings, organizing strikes and painting banners? You were so active and so full of ideas—and now?”
“Yes, we had fun. I was so full of energy,” he said, remembering that busy time. “I don’t know how long I can stay in Havana. Mike doesn’t want me to go back to the farm right now. He’s nervous about what might happen to me. But I have to go. I’m in love with this wonderful lady. I know I’ll miss all that Havana offers, but I’m trying to make some money. I have a taxi and a small timberiche, and I sell food and drinks at the baseball games. I make small change. I’m saving money.”
“You’re making lemonade out of lemons,” Eloy said, laughing.
“Yes, I am, but I miss the excitement.”
“Hey, do you want to meet m
e tomorrow night at the café? At seven? I’m meeting some friends you’d like to know.”
“Sure, I don’t have to work tomorrow night.”
As planned, Paulino met Eloy, and they walked to Eloy’s friend’s apartment. The windows were closed in the small room where the meeting was held. The smoke was so dense that Paulino could barely breathe. Eloy introduced him around, and immediately the conversation turned to how they could help the Second Front, in the Escambray Mountains near Trinidad. They discussed bringing arms and ammunition, but it would be difficult and dangerous. Someone recommended sending work boots. They agreed. But how many could they buy without raising suspicion? Others, more practical, said let’s send them money. They could buy food and boots. Paulino was excited. He was ready to volunteer his services, but before he had a chance to speak, Eloy said:
“Manolete is living with his family in Cienfuegos. You all know him. I know he has contacts with the Second Front. Last time I saw him was here in Havana a few months ago. Why we don’t have someone bring him some money, and he’ll know the best way to use it.”
They all decided it was the best solution. Then silence fell over the group. Who would do it? Paulino raised his hand. “My mother lives in Cienfuegos. I have to return to my job on a farm in Camagüey. I can deliver it.”
The next day he went to talk to Don Miguel and Mike when they were having their coffee in the library.
“Don Miguel, Mike, I’m sorry to intrude. I have to go back. I feel I’m in a prison. It doesn’t have bars, but I can’t stand it anymore. I’d prefer to die than to hide.”
“You aren’t hiding, you’re only recuperating from your wounds,” Mike replied.
“No, I have to return. I got a letter from Fernando, and things are quiet at the pueblo. I need to be next to my loved one. The sergeant is not going to rule my life. With your permission, I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
My Lost Cuba Page 29