by Duke, Renee
“Don’t worry. We have to give them our cedulas. They order us to give them. They will not put us in prison for being a public threat to the morals but they must show them to the head of the police. I know him, and I’ll get them back tomorrow, never fear. They won’t hurt our family, we’re too important.”
“Am I allowed to go in the house now?”
“Yes. Lucky your mother’s name is Spanish. If you were not a member of the family, I hate to think what would have happened to you.” His face is pale, faint pock marks show in the hard pre–dawn light. I can’t bear to think what I look like.
“Juan, who could have tried to cause this? We could have had an international incident over the two of us necking in the car. It would be so embarrassing for us all.”
My main feeling is shame. My eyeballs itch from the champagne and the shock.
“I really understand, Andrée. Let me take you in to the house before they get any new ideas about going to jail.”
The sooner I close and lock my fortress door behind me, the better. I feel unclean. Defiled by the whole thing. I’ll sleep and maybe by tomorrow morning I will think more clearly. Juan will handle it but that’s the end of midnight romps in this country. No amount of passion and frustration is worth it. Who was behind this? No one will say but the sooner we leave Venezuela, the better.
Chapter 4: Slavery
1957
Is it magnolias or gardenias or lilies? The sweet heavy night smell of Cuba wraps itself around me as I step off the plane. Standing at the top of the airplane’s step, the edge of the runway has the dark green darkness of jungle leaves, pressing close. It’s the first time I’ve been here since I was a little girl, the memory of the long white beaches and the curving bays staying with me for years.
I am pariente with the island. My great–grandfather freed his slaves but he regarded them as family. We have been here since the beginning, intermarrying and breeding in a feudalistic way.
“Evans!” I wave to him, silhouetted against the building. Then I run and kiss him. He feels like wire under his tropical clothes, he smells the same, with a light metallic difference that I can’t identify.
“We’re going straight to Jack’s house. We’ve gotten together with some members of your enormous family and we’re having business talks tonight on setting up a business in kenaf. We won’t go out dancing tonight.”
“That’s fine, I’m just glad to be here. But what in the world is kenaf?” Basically I would rather talk about anything, rather than discuss my adventure with Juan last week. I’ve been a model citizen ever since. I even brush my teeth three times a day.
“It’s a new substitute for jute, absolutely amazing. Jack has finally invented a machine to harvest it, as it’s so strong that a machete can’t cut through it. We’ll have to train workers, of course but we should be able to set up a tremendous new business for Cuba. Tomorrow we’ll go down to Varadero and stay in the Kawama house with Edgie[10]. I’ll bet you never thought to see him!”
He looks at me enormously pleased with himself, in a way that seems remote from me. He feels alien, wrapped up in a venture in what I almost consider my country, with my family, but there seems to be barriers. What is there about him that frightens me? A ruthless quality. Crazy.
“Andrée, I’ve discovered a wonderful composer in Havana. He’s written a great commercial for us. We must see him. There is an artistic life in Havana. I’ve been thinking about our lives and how shallow they’ve become. There is so much to say and do besides the little world of Caracas business. We must do more interesting things together.”
“You’re wonderful, Evans. I’d like to make a new start too. This corrupt society we’ve been in isn’t South America, it couldn’t be. We have to start to talk to each other. We used to read and think and we’re sinking.”
His arm is strong around me but I feel strained. My misdeeds? I push through enormous barriers that we’ve both put there. If I can just hold on and let it ride, we may be able to understand each other again.
It’s funny, just saying we must do something does not cure the actions that have been done. Action erases action. Complete honesty too. I’m afraid total honesty is no longer in either one of us.
Driving to Jack’s house, we pass on a special detour by my great–grandfather’s old palace, turned into a cigar factory. There is the balcony on which Honoree took her last gasp after over–eating at the table. Family legends, often savory, crowd to my mind. I think about these tempestuous ancestors as I look out over the esplanade to the sea, foaming and phosphorescent at the foot of the ocean wall.
“How is the political situation, Evans?”
“Not so good. Be careful of what you say and where you say it, even in this rented car, there may be recorders. Batista has sent so many people to jail recently. You don’t leave his jails. There’s this man, Castro, in the mountains...”
“Here, let’s stop and get out of the car.”
Like some cheap thriller. We get out, look around and over the sea wall to make sure no one is hiding near it. We go far enough from the car so nothing can be picked up by an eager transmitter. Evans’ black hair stands up in the wind, I anchor mine behind my ears. The wind blows hard but so warm and gentle smelling that no danger seems near. Still, this is a violent country.
“Business men are still behind Batista. He keeps American investments secure. Cubans know times are changing. Your family, for example, has gradually lost all their money. Your great uncle has taken his first job. There is no more Kawama Beach Club. The sugar plantations are broken up and this is just one family.”
“Castro’s men are in the mountains and they made a successful raid last week, just after Edgie went to join them. We all feel that it’s only a matter of time. We are for Castro, all of us. The young people know that this tyrannical government won’t survive. The dictator is afraid of everyone. Please, never mention politics anywhere. The walls have ears.”
“Oh, Andrée!” The moon dramatically lights his face; intense black eyes, eyebrows meeting at the bridge of the nose, he grabs my shoulders. “It would be wonderful to build a new Cuba. I love it here!”
I have an odd feverish feeling, as if events that have happened before are happening again. I don’t like Cuba. I don’t care how beautiful a place is, I’m tired of dictators and aggression. Once a country has had civil war and tyranny, it has it again and again, as if memory is tied up in the earth and stones of the place and has to repeat itself.
“Evans, it doesn’t feel safe. I’m getting a fever. My head feels queer. There’s nothing happening in Mexico right now, is there? Let’s go.” The soft night is full of screams, pushing in under the air currents. My body trembles. Better to pretend that I’m sick rather than psychic.
Jack and his Cuban wife. Good to see his honest Irish face. She’s sweet and pregnant. I feel a million miles away, nothing seems real. I get no feeling from Evans and I’m not giving it, either. We’re like two mechanical dolls in a nightmare, wound up and going through the motions. Whatever he’s been doing the past week, he can’t or won’t say and neither will I. Oh, Lord, I wish I could be truthful. I’ll just have to get it out in bits and pieces. The house is simple and airy, I’ll be best off in bed. They can talk business all night if they wish.
Morning. No better. Havana is affecting me like a bad cold. Out of my continuing fog, it seems to me that the kenaf thing is terrific but the threat of civil war makes it unreal. Hurry up, you boys! The world is about to blow up. The Year of No Lord, 1957. Trouble everywhere: Hungary, Venezuela, Cuba, everywhere the Communist message of “let’s change it by killing them all” seems to rule. We’re too lazy and tied up in business deals to think of anyone but ourselves. The people would not be rising up if there were not so much hate and dishonesty.
Wake up! I’m just as bad. I can’t tell the truth. I run to each person who knows a few truths about me and piece myself together in conversation. A company wife. I go where my husband wishes, we eat well and sleep
in nice beds and we talk business. Our children eat and sleep well and hear their fathers talking business and hangovers. What do their mothers talk about? Complaints and small talk, hangovers and possessions. It bears no relation to them and the life they need. We’re not doing anything for ourselves, for our children, for men. Now is the time to find a new faith. Lucky Graham Greene. He found religion. All I can do is worry about people. Not too helpful.
We’re going out to Varadero by the Yacht Club, the boats are bobbing up and down in the wind.
“I saw Edgie at the nightclub the night before last, and we heard Katyna Ranieri. It was great. He hopes he didn’t corrupt his cousin’s husband too much.”
“Did he?” I ask. Woops. Leading question not accepted. His jaw tightens.
I’d better change the subject. “Let’s stop off and see Eugenia’s sailboat. I hear she won the race last week.”
“No, the hurricane at sea is making it too rough to go out. Your cousin gave us a membership, you know. We can go if we wish.”
“Let’s not. You know my thing, with all the sharks jumping around out there, I feel better on land.” What am I going to do anyway, blurt out my peccadilloes? To hell with it. I’ll try and give us a new start. Yes, I will, God.
***
Here are the long beaches of Varadero, palms waving violently in the air. It looks different from when I was seven but not all that different. Never saw it in weather like this. There, the little cottage. Is that all the family has left after all these years? We ran through the money, we did. I would have liked to have done some of the running.
Edgie runs out to meet us, tall and lean, chiseled Spanish features and flaming red hair and freckles. Mendelian genetics regressed back to the Conquistadors and our red haired, rapacious ancestors.
“Andrée, muy buenas, how good to see you! Last time we were babies.” He hugs me warmly and I look up into his green-blue eyes, so like mine. A chance meeting, then he’s back to Castro in the hills. Will he live? So slim and strong.
“What are you going to do with this Castro? Edgie, I am afraid for you.” Edgie’s warm and silent girlfriend, very closely related to him, smiles from brown eyes and shrugs. She goes to the kitchen after shaking our hands.
We go into the little house. The rain comes down heavily, beats against the small panes of the beach cottage. The rattan furniture and old cushions smell heavily of damp.
“I shall follow him, bring him to power and then leave for Brazil. They’ll need mercenaries there. Fidel says we shall be in Havana by next year. We are doing guerilla warfare now. He is a wonderful man. I wish you could meet him. A great leader, we love him.”
“If you love him so much, why don’t you stay with him? He’ll need you. There will be lands to take care of, things to do for the people.” It seems very depressing to me.
“I am a revolutionary, Andrée. I don’t stay for the boring time of setting up a government. No, I like to fight and I get well paid for it. I go where there is fighting, that’s how I like to live.” His philosophy does not jibe with him. If this were true, he should be in the French Foreign Legion.
Edgie’s girlfriend comes to the door of the little kitchen. “There are some cans of beans and hot dogs. Shall we just make them?”
We must have rice with the beans. How could my cousin know she was home without rice? I wonder. This is not the luxury vacation I was looking forward to– everyone is as broke as we are. At least we have the expense account. Edgie’s not making money. Could he be fighting for his ideals?
“Do you know that Honore is related to us? The same name as our ancestor who ate too much.” Edgie draws Honore closer to him. It feels sad. “Someday we’ll get married, if the Church does not call it incest!”
And so we pass the afternoon and evening, playing genealogy, canasta, gin and bridge. The rain has not stopped for a minute and we’re down to the last coffee. Edgie wants to stay quiet and unobserved. We are happy together. The time passes slowly, then it is early morning and Edgie and Honore have melted away. Will I ever see him again?
***
By now, back in Havana, I feel like spies must feel. Divisions of feeling and ideas, each sealed off from the other. What a long day and night. Blazing sun and unease in the shadows.
Now, night. Carola’s patio, deep and dark, circles around the fragrant flowers and fountain. There are no lights but a few candles, the splash of water and the rich smell of good Havana cigar. We recline in our chairs, gazing up at the stars. Genealogy again. Carola jumps up, bringing back trays of jewels. The hurricane lamp is moved closer.
“Here are old stickpins, let’s design jewelry from them.” She clusters diamond, pearl and sapphire stick pins together. I wish they were my grandfather’s, so delicate and beautiful. Carola and the other women group together exclaiming softly in Spanish, planning new jewels.
All thoughts spring from yesterday, none look to tomorrow. Jack and his wife have their escape planned, if it should come to that. Even we have our escape planned from Caracas. These cousins are lost in dreams. What will happen to them when Castro comes through?
The night wraps itself around us, the women murmur. Evans and I, outsiders, watch.
“I want to tell you something, Andrée.” Evans voice comes out of a tobacco filled darkness as he violently puffs on his cigar.
“I want to talk to you, too.” I murmur. Heart pounding fear in my midsection.
“Elena was on the plane, you know that. I asked her to meet me in Cuba.”
“Is she still here? Do you want to stay with her?” Strange, the actual moment of shocking news is never the worst. Thinking later will make it worse.
“Would I tell you if it wasn’t over?”
“I don’t know, to tell the truth. Did you go to her because there was nothing better to do?” Might as well learn the worst.
“You have become very provincial, Andrée. She is an Italian princess and has more understanding of the world than you do.”
“She’s older. When I reach forty, I’ll have the same amount of knowledge, I hope. What about her husband?”
“It was a marriage of convenience. She is very unhappy.”
“And you soothed her sorrow, right?”
“Don’t be nasty. I look on it as a beautiful relationship. I learned a great deal from her. She admires you, you know. She feels you are so gay and glamorous, so devoted to your children. She wanted me to stay with you.”
“Thanks a lot. I suppose she can’t get a divorce, anyway.”
“True. In Europe they are more sophisticated about these things. I’m surprised at your reaction, you should be grateful to have her as a friend.”
“There’s something about this conversation that I can’t quite believe. I should be glad you had an affair with another woman?”
“It isn’t my first, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. I’m naive. I thought when we got married, we agreed to stick together. I didn’t know there were other rules. Do you want to tell me about your other girls now? I’d rather not hear too much. I would rather trust you.”
“Certainly you have looked at other men.”
“In a way. I’ve flirted. I flirted rather heavily last week and got into some trouble.” Well, that’s out of the bag.
“As a man I have just gone farther with the flirtation. It’s about the same thing. I’m sure you would have done the same thing, given the chance.”
“No, Evans, maybe I get excited by another man but I feel committed to you and our family. I don’t want to go to bed with anyone else. My feelings would get too involved. I couldn’t be like your Italian princess, I’d cry and do everything I could to be with a lover.”
“The only reason you haven’t had an affair is because you are afraid. I would kill anyone having an affair with you. I think I’d kill you first.”
“What are you talking about, Evans? It’s you that is confessing a love affair and suddenly you want to kill me!” I circle out of ear shot, l
ean against the still warm pillar of the patio roof. There is something in his talk that makes me feel that he is insane. The stomach pangs have moved up to thuds in my chest. He has lost his moral bearings. Did I also? What can I say? How can I protest? I would have gone willingly into any scandal, the way I was feeling.
“And what was it that happened to you last week?”
“Juan and I were picked up by the police in front of our house as he was kissing me goodnight. The police gave back our cedulas the next day but it was very embarrassing. Nothing really happened.”
“Oh, really? Well, I think it did. I’m not sure we should stay married. No doubt you have done this before.”
His eyes, caught in the sudden light from a guttering candle, cast no reflection. They are still as black stones.
“Come on, Evans, double standards! Am I in Ibsen’s Dollhouse[11]?” I’d better not forget that we were students together at Harvard. Although I’m being pounded into inequality, we started out the same.