Mike arrived at the farm a week before Paulino’s wedding, ending Paulino’s extended time in Elena’s company. Mike wanted to achieve certain goals, and one of them was for Paulino to do his job. Mike wanted to plan ahead for Maria Alicia’s future visit, and made a detailed list of which rooms Paulino should clean, and ordered him to wear his uniform: black pants, shoes with socks, and a white Philippine shirt. Mike also had another task. Now that his father was going to marry Patricia, he was planning to live part-time at the farm. His father and he had not had an elaborate discussion of where each one was going to live. Mike’s idea was for his father to use the big house, while he and Maria Alicia could move to a smaller house that he would build; or maybe, after his father’s wedding and when he decided to move back to the farm, he and Maria Alicia could go to the States, and he would finish his master’s, while Maria Alicia could take some elective courses in the business school. Mike thought that his father was going to be in great spirits and could now return to the farm. Dr. Paco’s prescription for his father of finding the right person may have worked out for the best.
The morning of the wedding, Paulino woke up earlier than usual. He showered and carefully shaved the few whiskers he had. He had cut his hair very short and slicked it against his skull with pomade. He wore his white guayabera and a pair of white slacks. He looked like an oversized muscular Santero, ready to walk into the sea to offer flowers to Yemaya, the goddess of the sea.
Elena had chosen a white wedding dress. She had assiduously preserved her virginity for her future husband, and she wanted to make that clear. Paulino’s mother had made the trip from Cienfuegos and was staying at the batey’s big house, where Cuca entertained her like a long-lost friend. The wedding almost started on time. Elena waited for thirty minutes after the scheduled start time, anxious not to give the impression that she was in a hurry to get married. Her sisters added an additional ten minutes to the delay for good measure, but finally, everything fell into place, and the two sisters preceded Elena.
Elena walked alone. Paulino had Mike as his best man, and behind them stood Paulino’s mother with a delirious smile on her face. The ceremony could have been short, but Dr. Rico felt obligated to exhibit his profound knowledge about the institution of matrimony, and declaimed in his deep, sonorous voice his trite and confusing thoughts about marriage as contract, commitment, and covenant. Mindful that the couple in front of him were nominally Catholic, he described with exemplary detail a linear history of marriage, its customs and traditions, commencing from the prebiblical, biblical, ancient Roman, and finally ending on the beautiful and sensitive parable of the wedding at Canaan in Galilee. Paulino stood next to Elena thinking of what a stupid, arrogant, pedantic idiot Dr. Rico was, while Elena stood enraptured, caught in his net of florid language. The guests became restless and the noise level increased. First, guests shifted in their seats, coughed, whispered, and finally, talked as they drowned out Dr. Rico’s mellifluous voice. A guest left the group and returned with a bottle of rum tucked under his shirt, and passed it down. Dr. Rico, noticing guests hurriedly sipping the rum, focused on the task at hand and began the civil ceremony. The vows were made, the rings exchanged, the groom kissed the bride—in this instance, with perhaps more passion and at greater length than was strictly socially acceptable—and, under a shower of rice from Ceylon, the happy married couple walked among their friends, surrounded by a barrage of applause and laughter. The newlyweds stopped, as planned, in front of the multilayered bridal cake, which they hurriedly cut as they drank the champagne. Elena giggled when the effervescing bubbles tickled her nose.
Paulino’s San Joaquin makeshift orchestra, a hastily assembled collection of guitars, flutes, drums, congas, and trumpets, enthusiastically played their version of a waltz. The newlyweds opened the dance, and shortly after, Manuel took Julieta by the hand and led her to the dance floor. Dr. Rico wanted to dance with Adela, the manager of the telephone company, but out of courtesy, asked Cristina first. Mike danced with Paulino’s mother, who claimed to be tired after the first song and took a seat next to Cuca. As the celebration went on, champagne was abandoned for hard liquor. The band played new tunes and guarachas, congas, and guaguancos. A cha-cha ended up as a conga. The sound of the music and the excitement of the dance had melded disparate people into what felt to be one body—alive to the drums, all one in the semidarkness of the dance floor. Past midnight, the band began to play boleros, bringing couples close together. A few retired to the house to sit on rocking chairs to watch the flourishing of new romances. Mike saw Adela dancing with Dr. Rico. She had style, and that night she looked so pretty. Mike asked Dr. Rico if he could cut in and started to dance with her. Her dancing reminded him of Maria Alicia, and for a few seconds, with his eyes closed, he pretended that he had her in his arms.
The band took a break, and Mike led Adela to one of the small tables by the dance floor. Dr. Rico, with more liquor in his system than sense, confronted Mike. “Young man, I believe that you’re spoiling our friendship. The lady you’re dancing with tonight is a lady that I’m romantically interested in.” With this, Dr. Rico made a small bow in Adela’s direction, and she blushed. He turned to Mike again. “I understand that you have declared romantic interests elsewhere, and you’re here tonight behaving in a manner not befitting a gentleman! Perhaps you’re just passing the time with Miss Adela Martinez y Parraga! But this is a glorious example of a respectable Cuban beauty, and I would appreciate it if you would limit your interest in her to a strictly professional one. If you persist with your present conduct, then alas, I shall have to request that we meet as gentlemen in a field of honor!”
Adela giggled uncomfortably in a bid to cast the speech as hyperbole. Mike, who had had his share of liquor, began to laugh, and soon his laughter became uncontrollable. Ricardo and Fernando saw their boss bent double in laughter and made their way to him from across the floor. The more Mike laughed, the more Dr. Rico was affronted. “Young man! I’m talking to you! Have you not heard me?”
“Yes, I have—”and he continued to laugh.
Adela interceded, taking each by their elbows and guiding them toward a larger table. “Gentlemen, let’s sit down and relax for a few minutes. It’s such a great night and we’re all having such a good time. Please, come, come—”
Ricardo and Fernando stood behind Mike, and seeing the muscular vaqueros, Dr. Rico thought that it would be more proper to follow Adela’s advice. They sat down, and he opted to ignore Mike and continue his ardent pursuit of Adela. After a moment, Mike stood up and left.
Manuel had reluctantly danced the first waltz with Julieta, but as the night drew on, he was more relaxed and danced often and freely. Perhaps because he had drunk champagne followed by rum, or because he was in love, or because everyone was having a great time, he decided to make a toast and stood at the makeshift bandstand and asked the trumpeter to hush the crowd. The trumpeter hit a long, high note. The guests looked up and saw Manuel with hat in one hand and a half-filled champagne glass in the other.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to raise my glass to congratulate and wish happiness and prosperity to two people whose love for each other is evident and whose happiness has inspired those around them. They’re great people, and I will soon have the privilege and the honor of becoming a part of their family when I marry my lovely Julieta. Now please join me in this toast—I wish Elena and Paulino happiness without boundaries, health without worries, and achievement of all of their desires, and to be rich, healthy, and happy.”
The guests applauded, and then other members of the party made their toasts, some picaresque—at which Elena smiled and Paulino frowned. Finally, Paulino had had enough and led Elena outside. He anxiously waited outside by the car, which had been festooned with trailing cans and messages written in shaving cream. Elena went to her room and twenty minutes later, reappeared in a fitted blue silk dress. By then, the guests were standing outside, and the lovers departed to the ring of cheers and applause. P
aulino drove as fast as he could, and he hit the Central Highway, oblivious to the raucous noise of cans sparking and banging at the back of his ’52 Chevrolet.
— 30 —
Changes
A FEW DAYS later, Mike returned to Havana to find his father and Patricia busy in the preparations for their wedding. Patricia and Don Miguel had visited her family in Pinar del Rio several times, and the question was who should be invited to the wedding from Don Miguel’s closest friends. They met the parish priest, and the notices were published on the doors of the church. Carmen was excited about designing a beautiful bridal dress for her little sister, and she also wanted to make the dresses for all the female members of her family, including her mother, her two other sisters, and her spinster aunt. She was going to be very busy. Don Miguel talked to Mike about his return to the farm. He felt comfortable with the idea. He would not be alone anymore. He had Patricia. The first conversation about how the newlyweds were going to live brought a serious discussion about Patricia continuing to work at the bank. She was not too happy about becoming the “housewife” of a rich man. She was not accustomed to a life of shopping trips, control of the household, card games with other ladies, meriendas, small dinner parties, and playing tennis. She enjoyed her independence. Don Miguel’s world was one she knew about, but she had never thought to be a part of it. In the process of becoming Don Miguel’s bride, she became closer to Maria Alicia, who did not fit the mold of a future society matron, either, because she wanted to work with her father, but at least she knew what was expected from a wife.
Mike started to have discussions with his father about what to do after he married Maria Alicia next June. Would he go back to the States to finish his master’s? Meanwhile, he spent the balance of the winter season in Havana with Maria Alicia and his father. The national general election was about to take place, and political campaigns papered the countryside with cardboard announcements and posters of the candidates, sporting Madison Avenue toothpaste smiles. A story made the rounds that a television producer from Channel 4 was looking for the person who had told one candidate with a particularly dour disposition the joke that had made him smile for the camera. A comedian like that should be given a TV show of his own, he said.
Don Miguel was the only member of the family who was excited about the elections. He planned to vote, and pressured all his friends and acquaintances to do so. Indeed, elections came and went. The polls were open, but voters could have saved themselves the trip to cast their ballots. The elections were decided at the presidential palace and the military barracks of Columbia. The apparent support of the American government for the newly “elected” government dwindled to a trickle. The anti-Batista groups, composed mainly of the middle class and intelligentsia, were emboldened by the overt political corruption and the failure to have free elections, and launched a more powerful, and ultimately successful, propaganda war. The island was divided: On one side, there were the territories the rebels controlled, mostly in the Oriente province and in the mountains near Trinidad, while on the other side, on the eastern side, there was the kind of tranquility found in the eye of a hurricane. Life in Havana was difficult. Small bombs exploded throughout the city as a matter of routine now, and residents found it unsafe to leave their homes. The Friday and Saturday night visits to the nightclubs were abandoned. Families avoided crowded events. Everyone listened to the Radio Rebelde, which was broadcast from the mountains of Sierra Maestra, an area called “the free territory of Cuba.”
In the middle of this tense situation, Don Miguel and Patricia got married. The ceremony was a tribute to Patricia’s mother’s sensitivity. The small church had a beautiful flower arrangement. The guest list was small; only their closest friends and family, and from Havana came all of Don Miguel’s children with their spouses, except Julio, who was in Miami, and his grandchildren, and all of Maria Alicia’s family. Ricardo and Cuca came, representing the farm employees. One exception to their rule was the minister, who came with his wife. Dr. Comillas sent a humorous telegram: “You don’t have to sin anymore. You are blessed. A big hug, Andres.” The couple went to New York for a short honeymoon, and returned to Havana in the middle of November.
With the advent of the newly elected government, the new elected president would appoint new ministers. His friend Pepe approached Don Miguel to head the Ministry of Agriculture. He was honored, but was troubled, doubting he could be effective in the new government.
Patricia noticed he was distracted during dinner. “You look so serious. What’s bothering you?”
“Pepe called, and I’ve been asked to serve as Minister of Agriculture. The problem is, I’m not sure I want to accept the position,” Don Miguel answered. “Two representatives from the new government came by my office today and offered me the post.”
Patricia paused a moment and then spoke guardedly, “It’s certainly an honor to be offered a position like that.”
“I told them that I was honored, that I want to help my country, but I need to think about it.” Don Miguel tried to get a reaction from Patricia, but could not. “I wanted to discuss it with you first. If I took the position, it would affect our lives.”
“Do you want to do it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never liked the idea of being too public or too political. I like my privacy.”
“You’ll lose your privacy,” Patricia quickly replied. She stopped eating and leaned back into her chair. “Miguel, times are dangerous. I know you want the best for Cuba, but others may believe differently. They’ll certainly wonder whether you want to use the office just to enrich yourself.”
Don Miguel was slightly offended. “You know I’ll be honest, Patricia.”
“No one has been before you!”
“I’m an honest man, you know that!”
“I know! I know that without a doubt!” Patricia assured him. “But why be part of a possibly crooked government? What can you change? What good can you accomplish?”
“I have hope, I have ideas.” He thought for a moment and then shook his head, “I just don’t want to risk putting you or our families in danger.”
“You’re nervous about it, too, then.”
“Of course. Our country is so divided. The rebels don’t want the political process to succeed. They have their own goals, and besides that, even they’re divided. We have Castro up in the hills, the university students in Havana, the old politicians who hate the corruption but are too afraid to stop it, and then there are those who are responsible for this ‘crooked government,’ as you say. All they want is power and to amass more wealth than they’ll ever need.”
They remained silent for a few minutes.
“Do you have to decide now?” Patricia finally asked.
“No, I told them I had to think it over.”
“Good idea.”
“How was it at the bank today?”
“The same, the same.”
The next morning, Don Miguel called Patricia at the bank to tell her he had decided not to accept the position. Later, he called Pepe and declined the post.
— 31 —
The Letter
MIKE WAS IN his office in old Havana, adding the final touches to his business plan for 1959. His secretary came in to announce that a very shy young woman wanted to see him with a note from a close friend. Mike put on his jacket as he stepped into the small reception room. He recognized the girl, because he and Laureano had met at her home to discuss the group’s plan to oust Batista.
“Good morning, Mike,” she said quietly
“Good morning, Elvira. It’s nice to see you. How may I help you?”
Elvira didn’t reply, but kept gazing steadily at the floor. She looked different. She was wearing glasses, and her hair was a different color and was cut shorter.
“Would you like to speak in my private office?” Mike asked. Her eyes remained downcast as she nodded. Mike showed her in. He closed the office door behind them and raised the volume on his radio.
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br /> “I have a letter for you,” she said. “It’s from a common friend. He’d like to hear from you.” She handed him sheets of airmail stationery, packed with Laureano’s irregular, cramped handwriting:
Mexico
12 of December 1958
Amigo, I write you on the date of the Guadalupana. I hope you can decipher my horrible scribbles, as they will be the only way I can identify myself in this letter. First, I congratulate you! I have heard that you are marrying the perfect girl. You deserve a happy life with a good woman. With regard to this letter, you can trust the messenger. She is one of us. I know that my papers are resting in a safe place. I have left the hills of Cuba and am now trying to help our cause by raising money from the capital of Mexico. After I left the hills, I did not have the opportunity or the time to write until now. Now that I have arrived, I am sending letters, beseeching the aid of those who can help us.
As you know, I became an “ALZADO.” I had to learn to live a different life altogether. First, I missed my daily shower; we had only cold streams to bathe in, but we didn’t have access to them as often as needed. Our group started to have all sorts of facial hair, because none of us brought enough shaving blades. One by one, I started to eliminate from my daily rituals things that I had once thought were absolutely necessary, including shaving with my brush and my Yardley soap. I now understand St. Francis’ poverty better. The first week was horrible. The mosquitoes swarmed around my face. I itched and was repelled by the smell of my own body. I cleaned my teeth with my fingers, rubbing them hard. We didn’t have that much to eat. I developed a taste for canned tuna, bonito in tomato sauce, and canned sardines, especially those with olive oil. I now compare them favorably to the best Morro crabs at the El Carmelo de 23. I ate my first bread, real bread when I arrived in Honduras, but I’m getting ahead of myself. We walked during the night, and we slept part of the day under the cover of trees, and in those moments of solitude, away from the telephone, the radio, and the television, I had time to think. The air is very pure in the hills. We did not have alcohol, so when my mind soared, it did so for reasons other than Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, Jack Daniel’s, Señor Cuervo, and Don Bacardi—all once good and trusted friends.
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