“Niño, no more complaining,” Mama told me. “Complaining is a sign of weakness, and with your father gone, you are the man of the house. We have no room for wimps here.”
“I wish I could be a wimp just for an hour a day,” I said. “It’s hard being the man of the house all the time!”
Mama said, “You think I don’t know about hard? Someday I’ll tell you how hard all this has been for me. But now is not the time for that. We all have burdens in life, niño, and it makes me very sad to see my young son have to shoulder such a big one. But you must do it without complaining, because that’s what your father would do if he were here. Pretend he’s standing next to you, watching everything you do. Maybe that will make it a little easier.”
I was too old for such little-kid games, but all the same, Mama’s advice worked. I pretended that Papa and I were having long conversations, and even though they were imaginary, I always felt better afterward. As I sat on my grandparents’ roof, surrounded by my bird friends, I imagined what Papa would say, recalling the sound of his deep voice and the feel of his warm hand on the back of my neck.
“Be a man, son!” I would say to myself, imitating his way of talking. “Don’t let the family down! You can do it!”
Then I would feel a little bit better . . . but only a little.
Panetelas de Vainilla
One afternoon a few weeks after Papa’s first visit home, Mama called us into the kitchen and sat us down.
“Guess what? I am going to make panetelas de vainilla,” she said.
“Yum!” Esther and I said. Panetelas de vainilla were vanilla sugar cakes, simple concoctions of sugar, butter, flour, and vanilla. In better times, they were a favorite treat. Now the ingredients were almost impossible to come by. It had been ages since we’d tasted Mama’s panetelas.
But Mama said, “No, no. They are not for you.”
“Who are they for, then?” I asked.
“They’re for sale, my niños. I am going to sell them on the black market.”
“But, Mama!” I said. “If you get caught, you’ll be reported! You might even get sent to jail!”
“I have no choice, Eduar,” Mama said. “I’m telling you this because I am going to need your help. Esther, you will help me make them, and Eduar, you will deliver the panetelas to your tía Luisa. I’ve spoken to her, and she’s agreed to sell them for me. And you will both keep quiet about it. You must not talk about it with anyone, not even your grandparents.”
“Aren’t you going to tell them?”
“Of course I’ll tell them. That’s not the point. You have to learn, kids, that in these times, it’s better not to speak of anything that puts us at risk, even with the people you trust. If you don’t talk about it, then no one can overhear you. You understand?”
“Yes, Mama,” we both said.
“Good,” she said.
Mama’s first task was to locate the ingredients for the panetelas. The only thing that wasn’t in short supply in Cuba was sugar. But one lady had extra butter for sale, another had a few cups of flour, yet another had the vanilla. None of these things was available in stores anymore, except to people with strong political connections. They had all been obtained illegally, and Mama had to barter for them in secret. She had to swear her suppliers to secrecy, too. That was no problem—they would have been in just as much trouble as we were.
Once Mama got her ingredients, she set to work making the panetelas. Then I was given the job of transporting them to Tía Luisa’s house. Tía Luisa was my father’s sister. She was married to Tío Jesús and they had a daughter, Maricela. They lived pretty far away, by the port.
One day, as I came out of our house with a bag full of panetelas, I saw that my friends were hanging around in front of the Jagua Movie House on the corner.
“Calcines!” Rolando called. “Where are you going? Let us come with you!”
“No!” I said, walking faster. “I have to go alone.”
“Come on,” said Tito. “We’re bored, and Luis is sick again.” My cousin had terrible asthma attacks and was often sick.
“What’s in that bag?” Tito asked.
“None of your business,” I said. “You guys are worse than the C.D.R. Now leave me alone!”
“Fine,” said Tito, obviously hurt. “You want to go by yourself, you go ahead. See what happens to you if some gang catches you. They’ll break your legs!”
“They’ll have to do worse than that to get this bag from me.”
“Why? What’s in it?”
“Nice try,” I said. “See you later.”
I had to choose how to travel: by bus or on foot. As Abuelo had explained to me, all the auto parts in Cuba had been “nationalized,” meaning they’d been stolen by the army and the police for use in their own vehicles. Their Soviet-made replacements were of such poor quality that they often either broke on first use, or they didn’t work to begin with. The chance that the bus was running at all was only about fiftyfifty. If it did come, it would probably be so full that not even a little kid could cram in. And the bus was slower than a lame snail. In the time it took me to ride to the port, I could have walked there and back. So I chose to go on foot.
The port held a lot of pleasant memories for me. When I was younger, Abuelo Julian and I used to go there sometimes, to meet up with his friends from the sugar mill. They’d started working there together just after the turn of the century, when they were still in their late teens or early twenties. One of their favorite pastimes was to sit on shady benches in the cool of the morning, sipping coffee, smoking cigars the size of zeppelins, and reveling in the cool ocean breeze.
I loved going to visit these old men. They all smelled like Abuelo, with aftershave on their cheeks and scented water in their hair. Whenever a lady walked by, they lifted their hats and nodded. And they were full of stories of their youth: who could work the most hours in a row, who was the strongest and the fastest and the best. They joshed each other in a constant, pattering stream, and I, young sponge that I was, took in every word.
Once I asked Abuelo why we didn’t go to meet his friends anymore.
“You know, Fidel has outlawed public gatherings,” he replied.
It was against the law for my grandfather to sit and talk with his friends. Yet another wonderful Cuban tradition was now nothing more than a memory.
Another reason I loved the port was visiting Tía Luisa, Tío Jesús, and my cousin Maricela. Tía Luisa was short and plump, with fair hair that she wore on top of her head, and with beautiful green eyes, just like all the Calcineses. She was perhaps the friendliest and warmest person I knew. She maintained a permanent open-door policy. Anyone was welcome in her kitchen, day or night, and whether she knew you or not, she greeted you with a big hug. If you were hungry, she fed you—and, because Tía traded clandestinely with sailors from all over the world, she always had something tasty in her kitchen. If you had no place to go, she would even put you up. Once, for a while, an old Chinese man had lived with them. Nobody knew how he had come to be in Cuba. One day he just showed up, and a few weeks later he was gone again.
On this particular day, I made it to Tía’s without any trouble.
“Eduar!” she greeted me. As usual, she was in her housedress and slippers and she was kneading some dough on the table. A smear of flour decorated her forehead, and a broad smile lit her face. “How’s it going?”
“Hola, Tía,” I said.
“How many did you bring me today?”
“A dozen.”
“Put them there.” With a nod, she indicated a spot on the counter. “Now, pick up that envelope. It’s got your mama’s money in it. Tell her I can sell all she can make. The sailors love them, especially the Russians.”
“I can’t carry any more than this,” I said. “I need to be able to move fast if I have to.”
“Have you had any trouble?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Where’s Maricela today?”
“She’s over at a
neighbor’s house, playing with a friend. How are your friends treating you these days?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Your friends—those Caballero brothers—their father is a Communist, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “He joined the Party a few years ago.”
“And still they hang out with you?”
“He didn’t say they couldn’t. We’ve been friends since we were babies. We don’t talk about stuff like politics, anyway.”
“All the same, you be careful what you say around them. They might let something slip to their father without meaning to. Then we’ll all be in trouble.”
“I know how to keep my mouth shut, Tía, and besides Luis, those guys are my best friends,” I said. “In fact, I think—well, can you keep a secret?”
Tía threw her head back and laughed. “Can I keep a secret? Who do you think you’re talking to? The black-market queen of Cienfuegos, that’s who! Go ahead, tell me. I’m so full of secrets already I won’t even notice one more.”
“The way they talk about America I have a feeling they’d like to leave Cuba, too.”
“Really? The sons of Communists? How surprising.”
“They don’t have it any better than we do. And just because their dad is a Communist doesn’t mean they are, too,” I said.
“Good for them. Shows they’re smart.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t hang around with dummies.”
Tía smiled. “Eduardo, have a bite to eat, and then you’d better get on your way.”
“Gracias, Tía.”
Leaving Tía’s, I had a bunch of cash—about twenty pesos, equal then to six or seven American dollars—and I stashed most of it in my underwear. All I could think about was all the wonderful food this money would buy, and how desperate things would get if I lost it. I was so nervous about getting stopped by the police that I felt sure my pants were transparent.
My next stop was the home of Tío Amado, my father’s older brother. He lived in the barrio of Tulipan, and it so happened that next door to his house was a market. Tío had long ago made a point of becoming friends with the man who ran it. Thanks to this connection, we were sometimes able to purchase a ration of real meat. It was still pathetically inadequate—one pound per person, per month—but it was better than nothing, and sometimes the shopkeeper would throw in a few extra scraps. If there was no meat available, then I would at least be able to buy a few loaves of fresh bread from Tío’s friend, instead of the stale bricks that we got at our usual store. So off to Tío Amado’s I went.
Tío took me next door to the market, but there was no meat left, so I bought four big loaves of bread and said goodbye to my uncle. Now I had to decide again—walk home, or take the bus? It was hot by now, so I decided I would ride. I would have to wait at least an hour at the bus stop, but I needed a break, so I sat down on the curb. Papa was coming home this weekend, and Abuela would take some of this bread and make bread pudding to celebrate, and then we would sit up late and tell stories . . .
Ping! A pebble bounced off my forehead.
I shot to my feet and looked around. There was no one in sight.
“Who threw that?” I yelled. “Coward! Show yourself!”
Ping! Another rock, a bigger one, hit me on the temple. This one broke the skin, and blood began to trickle down my cheek.
Suddenly, I couldn’t stand it anymore. “That’s it!” I said. “You’re a bunch of little girls! Get out here right now, and I’ll break every bone in your bodies!”
From around the corner appeared a gang of boys—four or five of them. Their leader was the biggest kid my age I’d ever seen. His knuckles practically dragged on the cement.
“What did you say?” the big one said. “Who are you talking to?”
“You!” I said. “I’m going to wipe the street with your face. Let’s go, right now.”
“I’m ready whenever you are, punk,” said this behemoth.
Then I remembered the bread. Looking down at the bags at my feet, I realized that if I lost this fight, the bread would be lost, too. These kids looked like they were even hungrier than I was. The leader of the gang caught on right away.
“What’s in those bags?” he demanded. “Is it food?”
“None of your business!” I said.
Quickly, I sized up my options. There weren’t many. I could defeat this kid in a fight, but there was no way I could defend the bread from the others at the same time.
I wasted no more time. I dashed back across the street to Tío’s—just as he opened the door.
“Booooooooy!” he bellowed. “What is going on out here?”
I tossed the bread into his house.
“Tío, watch that bread for me!” I said.
“What do those kids want?” he demanded.
“They want to fight!”
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get over there and kick their butts!”
“Tío, I’m working on it! I just need to make sure the bread is safe!”
“Bread, shmead! There has not been a Calcines yet who’s backed down from a fight! Get in there and mix it up, boy!”
“Aaaaaaaaaagh!” I yelled, turning and putting on my best game face.
The effect of Tío’s presence was visible on the faces of the gang. Now they didn’t look so brave, and the big one didn’t even look so big anymore. But there were still four or five of them, and only one of me. I had to adopt a new strategy. Quickly I decided on a technique that I’d been practicing in private—the Helicopter of Death.
The basic theory behind the Helicopter of Death was that I would swing both my fists as wildly and quickly as possible. Come to think of it, it was a technique similar to the one Tío William had used during the rumble of Noche Buena. My hope was that I would score enough random hits to convince the enemy to retreat. When the odds were this bad, it was the only tactic that made any sense.
I charged at the gang, eyes closed, screaming.
But I connected with nothing. I opened my eyes, and all I could see was dust. And all I could hear was Tío Amado’s laughter. I turned to see him doubled over in the doorway, slapping his knees.
“What was that? Boy, I’m telling you, that was the best fighting I’ve ever seen! Hooah! Yah! I now know that you are a Calcines, niño! Wait’ll I tell your father! Hee hee hee!”
He wheezed and puffed a few minutes longer, and then he paid me the ultimate compliment: “I’m proud of you, sobrino! Now, nephew, take your bread and get on home before your mother starts to worry!”
I needed no further urging. I grabbed the bread, decided that the bus was a lost cause, and started walking.
When Papa came home the next weekend, as promised, Tío Amado told him all about what had happened. Afterward, Papa came to me and put a hand on my shoulder.
“I hear you defended yourself very bravely, my boy,” he said.
“I tried, Papa,” I said.
“You tried, and you succeeded,” he said. “I’m not happy to hear that you were fighting, but I’m proud that you didn’t back down, even when the odds were against you.” He was silent for a moment, his eyes twinkling. Then he said, “I’ve been thinking about something. What would you say to a little reward?”
“A reward?” What could it be? “Sure, Papa! That would be great! What is it?”
“There’s this man I know who raises tropical fish in his home. I think Mama and Esther would like to have a fish around the house, don’t you? Maybe you and I should go over there and see what he has for sale.” Papa winked at me. “You know, I hear that man has a very pretty daughter about your age, too. Maybe you’ll make a new friend.”
I blushed. “You think?”
“What do you say? Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now!”
I knew how tired Papa must have been, and how uncomfortable his hernia was making him. But that he wanted to spend time with me proved to me all over again what I already knew—I had the most loving
father in the world. And it was an honor to stand next to him at the bus stop, feeling his warm hand on the back of my neck, and listening to his deep voice, knowing for a change that I didn’t have to imagine his presence, because he was right there with me.
The Ashes of Spring
One morning early in 1967, I awoke to find San Carlos Street covered in a light coating of ash. This was a yearly occurrence, and I knew what it meant: the sugarcane harvest had ended. Abuelo had explained to me that after cutting the cane, the workers set fire to the fields to clear the stubble. All over Cuba, the same thing was happening. For several days, the air above our island grew as dark as if a volcano had erupted.
I went into Abuela Ana and Abuelo Julian’s yard and held out my hands. Flakes of burnt cane collected on my palms. I looked at them glumly. The ashes of spring always gave me a pit in my stomach, because they meant that Abuelo would be going away soon.
At that moment, Abuelo himself came out onto his porch, holding a litde cup of coffee. “In the north in America,” he said, “snow falls all winter, just like diis. The children go sledding and skiing on it. Someday you will, too.”
“I’m not even sure I want to go to America anymore,” I told him. “Maybe we should just stay here. Then they would let Papa out of the work camp, and there wouldn’t be any more of this waiting.”
“And you can forget about your dreams of freedom, too, in that case.” Abuelo looked at me with concern. “What’s the matter, niño? You look sad.”
“You know what’s the matter!”
“Aha. You’re upset because I’m going away again.”
I nodded. When the harvest ended, the refining process began. This was where Abuelo’s expertise came in. As First Sugar Master, his presence was required for every moment of the three to four months it took to render tons and tons of cane into sugar. It meant that he had to live at the mill, twenty miles away. When Abuelo left, I had no one to play catch or talk about life with. And with Papa gone, I was without my two most important male role models. It was going to be a lonely spring.
“Don’t be sad,” Abuelo told me. “You’re practically a man now. You have two households to be in charge of while I am gone—yours and mine. And make sure the women listen to you in my absence!”
Leaving Glorytown Page 9