My Lost Cuba

by Celso Gonzalez-Falla

  Don Miguel said, “Paulino, son, I understand. I know that you’re in love, and when that happens, there is no logic, no prudence . . . only impulsivity. Give it some thought, we’re worried about you.”

  “Thanks, Don Miguel, but I have to go.”

  After a long ride, Paulino woke up when the bus reached Cienfuegos. He had left it eight years ago for the attractions of Havana—eight years since he had met with his father at his bodega. He hadn’t contacted him since. He had seldom seen his mother, but at least he had spoken to her on the phone on important occasions like Christmas, on her saint’s day, and Mother’s day. His mother regularly penciled him long letters on paper torn from a school tablet with wide margins and thick lines, and he dutifully answered them, telling her about his dreams, about Cuca and Ricardo, his short stories, and that he still read books. She worked for the same family in Punta Gorda.

  He started walking, carrying a box of sandwiches, his books, and his new suitcase, the money for Manolete hidden in his sock, but he was nervous about calling too much attention to himself, so he went to a taxi stand and negotiated a fare to the house in Punta Gorda. The driver looked at him, wondering why this guy wanted to go that neighborhood, and without saying a word, put his suitcase in the trunk. Paulino couldn’t sit still, for each block brought back memories. He entered the Punta Gorda peninsula, passed the Palacio del Valle with its Moorish overtones, built during one of the periods when sugar was valuable in the world market, and stopped in front of the house where he was raised. It seemed smaller, and the shade trees surrounding it had grown taller. The small front lawn looked inviting, but he remembered the house as being better kept. The taxi driver dropped his suitcase on the sidewalk and handed him his books and the box of sandwiches. Paulino stood in a trance, looking at the house, the garden, the bushes that he had planted with the gardener when he was a little boy under the constant supervision of the lady, who did not trust either to do a good job. He walked to the back door and rang the bell. He heard a familiar voice: “We haven’t ordered anything from la bodega. Who could be calling at this hour?”

  The door opened; it was his mother in a white uniform, her head showing wisps of white hair. When she realized it was her son, she started to cry, “My baby, is this my baby! My son, you look so good. Come here. Come here. Why didn’t you call me? I would have prepared a special dinner for us. Come, come into the house.”

  Paulino followed his mother and then, mildly embarrassed, kissed her on both cheeks and let her hold him tightly. Suddenly, his embarrassment drained away and tears pricked his eyes. He wished he had never left home. Soon the other maids came into the kitchen, surrounding them, all asking questions at the same time without giving him time to answer the first one. His mother finally took control. “Please, sit down, here, let me make you coffee. Where did you come from? Camagüey?”

  “No, Mother, I came from Havana,” Paulino answered as he sat and placed his suitcase on the floor.

  “What’s happening? You haven’t answered my last few letters.”

  Luisa, the owner of the house, an older patrician lady, entered the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asked. Paulino scarcely recognized her; she had aged so much. After a moment’s hesitation he stood up. “Doña Luisa, it’s so good to see you. You look so pretty.”

  “Paulino, my son, I thought you had abandoned us. Your mother worries about you all the time. What are you doing here? What are your plans?”

  “I wanted to visit all of you on my way back to my job at the farm.”

  Luisa took Paulino and his mother to the salon, where oil pictures of her parents commanded the most important wall. Paulino answered her questions while his mother sat next to him, looking at her son, so grown-up, speaking so beautifully with such command of the language, and looking so strong. Oh, she was so proud of him.

  Paulino woke up very early the next morning in the garage that was used by the chauffeur. The night before, he and his mother had talked until he could no longer keep his eyes open. His inner alarm clock had woken him at five-thirty to go to the kitchen and start boiling the water for the first morning brew. He glanced at the small mirror in the bathroom. Wake up, he said to himself. You’re here. You have a few days left. You’ll never be able to do this again. They’re not waiting for you at the batey. Well, maybe Elena is, but nobody else. He looked at himself one more time. His beard was sparse and his eyes were sunken with exhaustion. He shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed, and wore his new guayabera.

  His mother was preparing breakfast for the lady of the house, who always had her morning meal on a silver tray with two newspapers to read in her room. He crept up behind his mother to surprise her. She turned around and almost dropped the coffee cup she was putting on the tray. “Jesus, I didn’t recognize you! Since when have you become a gentleman? That’s a beautiful guayabera. Let me look at you. Boy, oh my boy! You look so handsome! Are you sure you aren’t hiding a girl in Cienfuegos?”

  Paulino laughed. “No, I just felt like wearing it. I bought it at the same store where my boss buys his, only this one isn’t made to order. Let me tell you something. I want to do something special for you and la Señora. Please tell her that I’ll buy your lunch today. I’ll be back around twelve-thirty. I’ll pick the place. It’ll be a surprise. I have to go, but before I do, let me have a taste of your coffee. It smells so good.”

  Paulino knew were Manolete lived, because he had called him the night before. He only said that he was Eloy’s friend. He walked to Manolete’s house, but stopped next to a tree and checked around. No parked cars with people in them, and no one walking on the sidewalks. He walked fast and rang the doorbell. When Manolete opened the door, Paulino remembered his face. He handed over the envelope and shook hands, and hastily departed.

  Half an hour later, he arrived at his father’s bodega, and as he entered, he noticed a modern cash register and an abundance of packaged goods with gaudy colors, some of their titles written in English, instead of the old barrels full of potatoes, rice, and beans of all types. A young employee stood behind the counter and smiled. “What can I do for you? Do you need something? We have the freshest vegetables and fruits.”

  “I came to see the owner. Is he in?” Paulino replied.

  “Oh yes, he’s in the back. May I tell him who wants to see him?”

  “Sure, tell him it is his son, Paulino, just back from Havana.”

  The young man did a double take and ran to the back. A few minutes later his father showed up. His hair was sparse, he was heavier, and his once healthy face color was pale, as if his red blood was now watered-down milk.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, “Come around to the back. I don’t want to talk to you up front.”

  Paulino followed him deep into the building, to a part that opened onto a small courtyard. His father pulled out a taburete.

  “Sit down. What do you want?” he asked, as he remained standing.

  “I came to say hello. I’m with my mother, and I decided to visit you and see how you’re doing.”

  His father was suspicious. “I’m fine, you said hello, and now you can say good-bye.”

  Paulino smiled at the familiar gruffness. He felt good about coming. His father’s anxiety at seeing him was worth the trip. This was the man responsible for both his conception and abandonment. Now, the one who thought he was so much better than his mother was nervous with sweat beading on his forehead.

  “No, Father. I don’t need a thing from you. I’m getting married. She’s a very nice, hardworking girl. She and her sisters own a plantation. I came to tell you. You may have grandchildren—isn’t that exciting?” His father looked anything but excited. “I’m happy to see that you still know me. Don’t worry. I’m doing well. I don’t need you. Good-bye,” and then Paulino turned toward the door without even reaching to shake his father’s hand.

  By the time he returned, it was almost noon, and Paulino’s mother, wearing her best dress, was waiting in the kitchen. She
had used a little bit of lipstick and held one of the La Señora’s old purses close to her chest. Paulino nodded to her. It was her moment. “Are you ladies ready?” he asked.

  “Yes, we are,” she said, and went to find the lady of the house.

  Luisa gave him the keys to her car and sat in the backseat. Paulino’s mother sat up front next to him. He drove down to the end of the boulevard. There, built on piers over Cienfuegos Bay, stood the town’s best restaurant, La Covadonga. The sides were open to the elements, but the customers were protected from the sun by a well-built roof. Paulino stopped the car at the front entrance, opened the doors, parked the car, and guided his mother and Doña Luisa to his reserved table next to the water. Paulino felt the stares of the other patrons. He sat erect and touched his mother’s hands.

  “What would you ladies like to drink? Beer? A soft drink?”

  “Beer will be great,” said Luisa, while his mother’s eyes sparkled with pride.

  Paulino ordered beers and a paella for the table, while his mother sat erectly next to her son, who wore his white linen guayabera, and with her employer of so many years, surrounded by the best of Cienfuegos’ society.

  When they returned to the house afterward, Luisa thanked Paulino. She had not been out in a while, and she thought that her outing would spark enough gossip to last a few days. She enjoyed her lunch, and it was time for her siesta. The beer had made her sleepy. Paulino stood next to his mother, who was bursting with pride.

  “Mother, I wish I could stay longer. I have to go. I miss Elena. You’ll meet her and will love her. I’d like to marry her soon.”

  His mother kissed him. “You’re a good son. Write. I always love to read your letters and your stories. But be careful. The world is full of hate and bad people. I’ll pray to the Virgencita to take care of you.”

  “I’ll be careful. I’ll write. Tell La Señora that I had to leave. Thank her again for allowing me to stay here when I was a little kid. Tell her I didn’t forget.”

  Fernando was waiting at the bus station in Ciego de Ávila. Paulino was the last one out. He was relieved to see Fernando, who gave him a strong embrace.

  Paulino squirmed, “Hey, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you want to send me back to the hospital. Be careful, hermano, that hug hurt.”

  Fernando laughed. “You spend a little time in Havana, and suddenly, you’re a delicate child? You need to get back to real life in the country.” Fernando patted Paulino on the back, grabbed his suitcase, and led him to their car.

  On the way to the farm, Paulino asked about Elena, and Fernando said, “She’s great. I don’t know how you got so lucky! She came to the farm to talk to Ricardo several times. She drove the plantation’s big truck. She’s something else. She wanted to know about you. She suspected that Manuel was not giving her the real news and that he was holding back on his reports about you.”

  “That sounds like Manuel, all right.” Paulino said, hiding how good he felt that Elena had come to find out about him. Fernando brought Paulino up-to-date on the whereabouts of the sergeant; that Ricardo was making everyone work harder than Manolo; how busy he was now that the zafra was in full swing. After a few minutes of silence, Fernando commented, “Yeah, Elena really loves you. Man, she was pissed at Manuel because he wasn’t giving her enough news about you.”

  “I’ve missed her. I wrote her a letter every day. Thank God she doesn’t have a phone at the plantation. I’d have gone broke calling her long-distance.”

  “Do you know when Mike is returning?” Fernando asked.

  Paulino laughed. “I tell you—they’re both in love. You should see the old man! He’s getting all dressed up and going out with a real cute girl. Younger than his daughters! Can you imagine that? The old rooster wants to crow!”

  Both laughed out loud. As they entered the batey, Fernando sounded the horn. Cuca came out from the kitchen entrance, wiping her hands on her white apron. Manuel, who was trimming the hooves of the black stallion, looked up and smiled, and Ricardo hurried out of the office. Paulino felt welcomed home, the best home he’d ever had, as his friends surrounded him, talking at the same time, asking for news about the family and city life. Cuca prepared coffee, and after hurriedly downing the small cup, Paulino left in his car and drove to see his love. Paulino felt his ribs, but the excitement of driving his car and seeing Elena made the pain manageable.

  The sisters greeted him with incessant questions: “What did you do in Havana? How was it? Cienfuegos?” Paulino wanted to be alone with his love rather than answering such questions, and answered monosyllabically. As soon as he could, he embraced Elena and they kissed. The other sisters, giggling, disappeared on the pretext that they had to prepare supper. Holding hands, the pair walked to the back garden to kiss again. Paulino wanted more than simple kisses and touched Elena’s hip, but she stopped him. “Not here, not yet. I also want to, but not now. Just because I haven’t seen you in a long time—”

  Paulino, who was frustrated, said, “Baby, it’s been so long. We’re all alone. No one can see us. Please—”

  “No, no, and no. I love you, but no.”

  “You know that I love you. I want to marry you.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why I won’t!”

  Elena was his girlfriend. He knew it, she knew it, and everyone else knew it. Then, among the mango and banana trees, at the beginning of a gorgeous tropical night, Paulino dropped to his knees.

  “Elena, will you marry me?”

  She pulled him up and kissed him one more time on the lips. “Yes, my fool. My bobito. I love you, too. Come, let’s go and tell my sisters. They were wondering when you were going to have the courage to ask me.”

  By the next morning, everyone knew. Ricardo was the first to congratulate Paulino as Cuca teased him, “Hey, now you’re not even going to say hello to us. You’re moving out to your own house!”

  “No, way. I would never do that!”

  — 27 —

  The Apartment

  JULIO WAS TAKING a shower to wash the sweat from his body. The air-conditioning unit in the small apartment scarcely cooled the bedroom, which was so small it could hardly contain the king-size bed where Esmeralda lay naked, curled into fetal position, rubbing her puffy eyes. They had had a violent argument when she had asked Julio for money to go Miami. She tried without success to persuade him with her tears, and now her face was swollen and wet. Julio resisted her, even though her tanned, well-formed body, contrasting with the soft, white sheets, cast a powerful allure.

  “Papi, everyone is leaving,” she whined over the rattle of the air-conditioner and the splattering of the water in the tub. “I just want to go to Miami, yes, only Miami, only for a few days. I need to go. Papi, please. Do you hear me?”

  Julio did not answer. He hated arguments and hadn’t expected this development. He had thought they had a clear understanding. We have sex; I give you gifts. Well, it wasn’t working. If he gave her money this time, the demands would never stop. He would have to keep her, but what purpose would that serve if she was in Miami and no longer close at hand for their occasional lunch-hour assignations? An older man, who had left the island, had kept her. She felt that responsibility for her well-being should be his. The old bastard, whoever he was, should have taken her. Julio gave himself an especially thorough scrubbing, closed his eyes as the hot water fell over his body as he tried to forget this annoying complication.

  Esmeralda, naked, entered the bathroom and firmly said, “You have to help me. I don’t want to cause problems, but if I have to, I will. You never told me that you’re married. Who’s the blonde lady and who are those children in the pictures in your wallet—niece and nephews? Come on, I’m not a fool. Look, give me money for the plane ticket and two weeks at the Fontainebleau. It’s only a thousand dollars. You can come and visit me, things will calm down. I can’t stay in the city anymore.” She stepped into the bathtub, reached down and touched him.

  “Papi, come on, Papi. You have it. Just
give it to me,” she whispered into his ear.

  Esmeralda attentively dried Julio’s body and helped him get dressed. “I have to go to the bank,” he said. “I don’t carry that much cash with me. Let’s meet here tomorrow at the same time.”

  She came closer to him and purred, “Thank you, my love. You’ll not regret it. We’ll continue to see each other. I’d never want this to end. I thought you would never stop. You’re quite a man! My Papi, I already miss you. Promise me, please, that you’ll come to Miami to be with me, at least for a few days in the middle of each week. We’ll never leave the room—just room service. Tomorrow we’ll make love over and over again.”

  Julio ran late the next day. He had a client who talked forever about what to do with the Cuban treasury bonds he owned. Julio was worried that his line was tapped. He had recently started to hear the echo of his voice, so he was reluctant to discuss his opinion about holding Cuban paper, lest it be considered an opinion contrary to the government’s interests. In the end, he agreed to meet the client at La Floridita for a drink. At least there, he could talk without fear of being heard. Besides, it was good for his reputation to be seen with such a wealthy man. He then walked to his bank and got the money, ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. He placed them in an envelope and carefully put it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He was so proud of this jacket; it had been custom-made by Pepe, his Spanish tailor at Mieres & Co., of very light English wool. He got into his car, carefully draped his jacket on the seat. It was a scorching day, and the steering wheel was so hot that he had to use his handkerchief to hold it, and the leather seat was hotter. As he drove slowly to his garçonier, he resolved that his next car would have an air-conditioner. Esmeralda was waiting, and she was going to be fantastic. He had reached a moment where his whole life was under his absolute control. He had spoken to his manager about opening an office in Miami to take care of the clients that were moving money to the United States. He could fly over, spend two to three days with Esmeralda, and then fly back. It was so easy, less than thirty minutes. He could take care of his clients outside of the government’s watch. Also, he did like an occasional American girl, usually the tall, athletic blondes, but Esmeralda was even better. Everything was so easy, so convenient, and to have so many choices would be ideal!