Splitting the Difference

by Tre Miller Rodriquez

  We ask how this is possible when they have no leché?

  The government-employed waiter cheerfully explains that the restaurant has a certain amount of milk designated for café con leché and a certain amount for bebidas.

  Hilda laughs and shakes her head while her cousin, Maria, nods at the Cuban order of things and starts eating her ice cream.

  Maria meets my eyes, asks if I want a taste?

  I’ve given up sweets for Lent, so I politely decline.

  At some point, Hilda says, you should make an exception and try the national ice cream.

  The national . . . what?

  Coppelia. Fidel’s ice-cream experiment. He debuted it at one of the World Fairs.

  Hold the phone, I say. Fidel created an ice-cream brand and named it after a European ballet? A semi-farcical ballet, no less?

  Sí, sí! The ice cream was meant to challenge the twenty-eight flavors advertised by Howard Johnson’s, so Fidel created thirty-two flavors. It has the highest fat content of any ice cream in the world. It’s also the most delicious.

  I imagine a diabolical and bearded Fidel in a laboratory, hell-bent on proving Cuba’s superiority on the world stage via milk, sugar, ice, and rock salt. Someone should compose that story as a ballet. And title it Coppelia: Thirty-two Flavors of Communism.

  * * *

  On our way to see the statue of el Cristo—pronounced el Creeto—José stops near a giant metal silhouette of Che’s face so I can snap a photo. When I hop out of the car with the big Nikon, distant soldiers start shouting inaudibly and waving their arms.

  I assume that I’m too close to whatever they’re guarding so I move about twenty feet back. When I lift the camera, the shouting starts again. José is shouting too and I’m so confused that I put up my arms in mock surrender and march back to the car.

  When I get in, José explains that I have to point the camera away from the building.

  Never mind, I grunt. I don’t need the picture.

  José drives up to the soldiers.

  Shoot from here, he says. But point your camera away from them.

  Our car is ten feet from the green uniforms.

  I’m not getting out, I say. No way.

  In the front seat, Hilda is laughing like a loon. José hands me the apparatus to roll down the window and tells me to shoot from the backseat already.

  I do as I’m told but it takes a few minutes for my adrenaline to recover.

  Fucking Cuba, I growl.

  * * *

  Hilda went to the tour office today to check on our return tickets.

  Her ticket?

  Piece of cake, she says.

  Mine?

  No existe.

  What—?

  No proof of you flying into Havana, entonces no paperwork for flying out. It took five hours, Tré. And the only record of a “Miller” on our flight manifesto was named—get this—Alberto.

  What are the chances, she says.

  Now it’s my turn to laugh like a loon.

  * * *

  En route to the outskirts of Havana, José parks near a river so I can shoot the scenery. While Hilda dozes on a bench in the shade, I wander off to shoot a dozen photos.

  As I’m returning to her and José, I notice five soldiers in red hats walking uphill. From 150 feet away, I zoom in and take three shots. They’re terrible pictures, but I’m pleased as punch to have gotten one over on the Cuban military.

  Look what I made, I say, showing Hilda and José my soldier photos.

  They shake their heads.

  Aye, Tré, Hilda says, rolling her eyes.

  I know, I know, but look at these creepy trees with faces, I say, scrolling backward. Don’t they look alive?

  They do, actually, Hilda says.

  I’m gonna grab us more waters, I offer. Meet you guys in a sec.

  I head toward the shack where a handful of people are eating grilled chicken and drinking beer. As I’m standing in line, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  A six-foot-twelve soldier in a khaki uniform stares me down.

  Hola, I say, forcing a smile. Cómo usted?

  He nods at Alberto’s camera, reaches out his hand.

  Uh-oh, I think.

  Quieres ver mis fotagrafías? I say. You want to see my photos?

  Sí.

  Keeping the camera strap around my neck, I tilt the viewer toward him.

  I scroll forward through the creepy trees.

  After exactly seven photos, I stop.

  Es todo, I say with a shrug. That’s all.

  Es todo? he repeats. Segura? Are you sure?

  Sí, senor, I nod.

  Gracias, senorita. Tenga un buen día.

  Have a good day, I echo.

  I turn back to the chicken shack and order three waters in a steady voice. When I step away from the cashier, Hilda and José are waiting for me. I hand each of them a bottled water and smile breezily.

  Vámonos? Let’s go?

  Even though I want to run to the car and lock the doors, I maintain a deliberately casual pace. Only after José has driven over the river’s bridge—and I confirm that no one’s following us—do I collapse with relief.

  I touch Hilda’s shoulder.

  Forgive me, I say. For not listening to you about—

  You are very, very lucky that soldier had his café con leché today, she laughs, before shaking her head. Aye, Tré, she sighs. Albert wasn’t confrontational, but you? You are gallita.

  I’m pretty sure gallita has something to do with a rooster and just gets worse from there.

  * * *

  Hilda and José tease me—la gallita!—all the way to El Cementerio de Colon, where we’re bringing fresh flowers to Hilda’s family crypt. It contains her father’s body and today is the second time she’s visited his grave in forty years.

  The cemetery is maintenance-challenged, like most places I’ve seen in Havana. The most beautiful structures around the city were constructed pre-1959: all classical arches and imported tile and stained glass. Most have gone to hell in a hurricane over the last five decades because few Cubans have access to the money or materials needed to keep centuries-old buildings from falling apart. Formerly grand single-family mansions are now occupied by dozens of people, and cardboard ranks as the number-one replacement material for missing windows, shutters, or rotted floor planks.

  Among all this sordid splendor, the five government structures I’ve seen stand out like redheaded stepchildren. They’re all cement-gray angles, formidable and Soviet like a villain’s compound in classic James Bond films.

  The one exception to the government-sanctioned ugliness is Parque Lenin. It’s a beautiful expanse of trees and rivers, empty but for a boat or two and the occasional pack of wild dogs. After passing through the parque, Hilda directs José to Las Ruinas, a former sugar plantation resurrected by the government as a restaurant-slash-museum. The exterior is a pastiche of bad Soviet architecture and original stone walls.

  Las Ruinas is filled with the spoils of an uprising: a priceless chandelier there, a French sofa here, a grand piano there. All of it, down to the marble staircase and wooden shutters, plundered from upper-class homes whose owners fled Cuba after Fidel took power.

  * * *

  We’ve moved to the less expensive Meliá Cohiba Hotel for the last leg of our trip because the U.S. restricts how much money Americans can spend on lodging in Cuba. The Cohiba has all the charm of an ’80s all-inclusive resort in Mexico, but it comes with sweeping ocean views.

  For the past two mornings, Hilda and I have stood at the window of her adjoining suite, transfixed by the power of el Norté. The huge waves crashing over the sea wall have deposited enough water to submerge six blocks of inland streets. We giggle at the hubris of bus drivers whose engines stall in the middle of th
e highway and tourists who are pushing cars uphill, away from the flood.

  I could sit here all day and watch the water, Hilda says.

  I do not say the one thing I’m thinking: I hope Alberto’s ashes made it out to sea already.

  * * *

  Today, a minor earthquake hit Cuba.

  Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of his funeral.

  If the island doesn’t slide into the sea tonight, we’ll go to morning mass before heading to Mercy’s house to spread ashes in her garden. I should wear black tomorrow, except the one black dress I brought is rather low-cut for church.

  How did I not plan an effing outfit for March 21st, 2010?

  How am I worlds away from 2009, yet staring down another closet, wondering what a girl wears to observe the day of her husband’s funeral?

  * * *

  For the third consecutive night, Hilda and I order room service and fall asleep side by side, watching CNN en Español. I awaken yet again to the familiar cadence of Alberto’s snoring—before remembering that the person next to me is not Alberto.

  I listen to the sound for a few minutes before tiptoeing into my room, extinguishing the candle in front of Alberto’s travel-size photo, and climbing into bed with the stuffed monkey.

  * * *

  I’ve seen this Andalucian courtyard a thousand times.

  And always in black and white.

  It’s in the photo album Alberto showed me the night we met and on the digital frame in our living room.

  The courtyard belongs to Mercy and when I finally encounter it, time starts to slow down. I become aware of the patio air thick with earth and tropical plants; faint classical music playing from somewhere in the house; the lisp of gay Antonio’s Barcelonian accent in the parlor.

  I am here.

  And I’m stalling.

  I’m waiting for the sun to come out, for a song to happen, for a signal to spread his ashes. I stare at the fountain in the patio’s center, at its ceramic pictures of castles and crosses interspersed with the Greek letters “A” and “U.”

  The first letter of his name is here.

  And the shorthand version of “you.”

  I turn on his camera and focus on the tiles. As I’m shooting, sunshine spreads across the courtyard and the house explodes in shouts and applause from Antonio, José, and Hilda.

  I look up as Hilda rushes into the patio.

  Coño, she exclaims. They said there would be no sun today!

  They didn’t know your son, I almost say, coaxing the bag of ashes out of the red monkey urn. I motion to Hilda and ask her to close the courtyard doors so we can have some privacy.

  But I thought we were doing it in the garden? she says.

  Isn’t this the garden?

  No, niña, it’s outside, a la izquierda. On the left.

  I follow but when I descend the porch steps, the exterior garden underwhelms me.

  Hilda reads my face.

  It’s been cleaned and weeded just for you.

  For us, I say.

  Sí, for us.

  I give the garden a second chance and notice yellow bougainvillea, poinsettia—the name of my street in West Hollywood—and a Gaudí-esque path of multicolored tiles. Hilda reminds me that from here you can see the park where Albertico ran from the police who caught him taking photos too close to the Commander’s Health Clinic.

  Sold.

  To the blonde in the black dress. (Wore it backward and with flip-flops. Voilá: church-approved.)

  I open the bag, cross myself, say a few words, and give Hilda a handful of ash. She stares at it and I realize why: she usually spreads the flowers while I handle the ash. This is the first time she’s touched the cremated body of her son.

  I squeeze her shoulder and step away.

  The sun intensifies as we spread him in the poinsettia, on the roots of trees, and in the flowerbeds.

  He would like this, Hilda says finally. This was the right place for us to come.

  I nod in agreement.

  Time to go?

  Okay, I say, taking a last lap around the garden and heading inside to wash up.

  As I pass through the hall, the unmistakable notes of “Girl from Ipanema” float from a bedroom radio and follow me into the bathroom.

  I got my song.

  I got my sun.

  You got another resting place worthy of you.

  I scrub pen stains and ash residue from my hands and take another pass through the room where he slept. The courtyard he once photographed. And toward the sun-filled porch where everyone waits.

  I memorize the view from the entry and close Mercy’s door behind me.

  * * *

  We are quiet during our drive to Pinar del Río, where one of Cuba’s greatest living artists resides. His work is sociopolitical enough to attract global collectors but subtle enough to not attract attention from the Ministry of Culture. One of his framed watercolors hangs in our apartment: a souvenir from Alberto’s own visit to this studio a decade ago.

  The artist welcomes me with two besitos, introductions to his young son and a bottle of beer from the icebox. His studio is whitewashed and spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pinar del Río, which seems to be more lake than river.

  He takes us through the studio and into his adjoining home, which is the most modern and well-maintained residence we’ve visited: no broken tiles or crumbling staircases, no sad piles of cardboard, no exposed electrical wires. Our tour ends in a small garage dominated by a shiny, late-model Nissan Pathfinder.

  Wow, I exclaim. New cars exist in Cuba? ¡Felicidades!

  The artist beams before blushing and turning toward the river.

  He really wanted this truck, Hilda whispers. So he saved for the truck, paid for the truck and now? He can’t find the right tires for the truck.

  Sure enough, the tires are small and passenger-sized, unsuitable for a light truck.

  So he can’t even drive it, I sigh.

  Fucking Cuba, Hilda shrugs.

  Back in the studio, the artist shows me his greatest hits in oil, ink, and watercolor. A color photo is taped above his worktable, and when I look closely, my eyes widen. Towering over a very young version of the artist is Fidel himself, who stares intently at the artist’s most famous piece.

  Alberto loved that painting, I gush. He saw it as a brilliant metaphor for Cuba’s post-Revolución state.

  The artist gestures enthusiastically and opens a drawer. From it, he produces several watercolor and ink studies of his famous painting.

  Choose one, he says, holding my gaze.

  Muchisima gracias, I say. Pero cuestas demasiado caro. But I can’t afford you.

  He shakes his head.

  Mi regalo para ti, he says. My gift to you.

  ¿En serio? I ask, fighting sudden tears. Really?

  He nods and I smile gratefully before lowering my eyes. I linger over the three pieces before selecting the study most similar to Alberto’s favorite piece.

  Muchisima, muchisima gracias, I repeat.

  De nada, he smiles, and begins rolling up the canvas.

  As I watch him choose a canister to store my gift, I’m overwhelmed.

  I am standing in the studio of this artist.

  He’s giving me Alberto’s favorite piece.

  Holy Havana.

  Had I never met Alberto, this moment wouldn’t be happening.

  But also?

  Had I never lost Alberto, this moment wouldn’t be happening.

  * * *

  It’s our last full day in Cuba so we’re spending it the way Hilda always spends her penultimate day in Cuba: at the hotel pool and without obligations.

  Today, we do nothing, she says. And I mean nothing.

  Our day of nothing is
the least complicated day we’ve had on this island. And from what I’ve heard, today is exactly how most tourists experience Cuba.

  But for nothing would I exchange the technology lapses, sketchy bathrooms, near arrests, lack of leché, or conversations lost in translation.

  * * *

  When I return to New York, it’s with less baggage than I hauled from London or Brazil.

  Literally.

  (I lived out of a single suitcase for twenty days.)

  And figuratively.

  (I released most of Alberto’s ashes.)

  In an afternoon taxi between JFK and Chelsea, I access three weeks of messages and texts.

  Thinking of you, everyone says. How’s Cuba?

  Cuba was exactly how Alberto described it: a Spanish-speaking slice of the U.S.S.R. in the middle of the Caribbean. An island where anything is possible but toilet paper is not guaranteed. But it was also stranger, more generous, and far more farcical than he ever mentioned.

  Your father and I followed your Facebook updates, my mom confesses. But it’s so good to actually hear your voice.

  I’ve missed yours too, Mom.

  We’re still on the phone when I unlock the front door and collide with a thick scent of bergamot, citrus, and jasmine.

  Holy wow, I gasp.

  What’s going on? she asks.

  Need to call you back, I say, dropping the phone.

  I don’t know what I should’ve expected, but it sure as sugar wasn’t this.

  Not only are the three-week-old orchids on Alberto’s urn not dead, but the candle in front of his portrait is inexplicably burning. I move toward the flowers and touch them. I can maybe rationalize the orchids—angled stems and nutrients go a long way—but the candle?

  I’m sure I snuffed it out the night before I left for Miami. I know it wasn’t lit when I did my pre-airport sweep through the apartment, checking windows and appliances.

  Yet here it is.

  Ablaze in a glass of liquid wax.

  I look at Alberto’s 8x10 portrait and back at the candle, waiting for an explanation.

  There isn’t one.

  I inhale a sob and exhale a smile. When my breath meets the flame, it dances and waves before burning out.