In the absence of any particularly cruel teachers, life had become tolerable again. October and November passed quickly. Now I had a new date to fear: April 4, 1970. That day I would turn fourteen and a half. I was going to have to begin plotting my escape much sooner than that. There was no time to lose.
I had a plan, so secret I hadn’t even told my friends about it. If the telegram didn’t come, I would try to escape to America. I would go alone, for never in a million years would I have wanted my parents or sister to attempt such a thing. I didn’t want the boys coming along, either. If I was going to die, I didn’t want to take anyone with me.
It was impossible for Cubans to get access to good maps, especially maps of America. But there was a globe in one of my classrooms, and I would study it, staring at the tiny sliver of water that separated Cuba from Florida, imagining how easy it would be to cross it. I knew that the current went from south to north, and that if I could just make it far enough out to sea, I could drift to safety. I knew also that I’d have to bring plenty of water, and something to shield myself from the sun. As far as the sharks went, I would just have to trust that they would find better pickings than my skinny little self.
But the one thing I hadn’t figured out yet was my flotation device. Would it be an inner tube? Should I try to put together some kind of raft? Everything was in such short supply that it wasn’t possible to gather even empty milk jugs or pieces of scrap lumber. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that there was really only one practical solution: I would have to steal a boat. And the only boat I knew of belonged to a kid in my class. We called him Manzana, short for Cara de Manzana, or Appleface, because he spent so much time fishing his face was always sunburned red like an apple.
One day in early December, managing to elude both my family and the boys, I went down to the beach where Manzana kept his skiff. Manzana used the boat to go fishing early in the morning, before school. The authorities allowed him to continue his fishing because he was not quite right in the head—too simple, they felt, to try to escape. The skiff was anchored in a secluded area, and there was never anyone around. If I timed it right, I could slip down to the beach at dusk, weigh anchor, and head northwest. That I had never sailed before in my life was no deterrent. How hard could it be? I would be gone before anyone noticed, the navy wouldn’t bother with me if they thought I was a simple fisherman, and I would be in Florida by the next morning. It seemed like a foolproof plan. Now all I needed to do was decide when to go. Part of me said it made no sense to wait any longer. Obviously, the telegram wasn’t coming.
But I was scared. Several times I went down to the beach just to look at the boat. Even in the light surf that caressed the shore, it bobbed like a cork. How would it handle in the Straits of Florida? What would I do if it sprang a leak? How would I know which way to steer?
A couple of times, I gathered enough courage to wade out into the surf and rest my hand on the gunwales, wondering if I should just go ahead and do it right then and there. But I couldn’t even bring myself to crawl over the side. Why not? What was wrong with me?
Finally, I made my decision. My departure window would be the last two weeks of March. If the telegram hadn’t come by then, I would steal the boat and make a run for it.
School let out for winter break on December 19. That Sunday, I went to Abuela Ana and Abuelo Julian’s house. Abuela had made a special treat for me called nata. This was a dish of cream and sugar, and she could prepare it only when she had fresh milk—in other words, hardly ever. I had loved nata since I was a small boy, and I sat now on the living room floor eating it out of a bowl, scarcely pausing to wipe my mouth.
“You know what today is, niño?” asked Abuelo.
“Noche Buena?”
“No, Noche Buena is on the twenty-fourth. Today is the winter solstice. The shortest day of the year.”
“So?”
“So if you listen tonight, you’ll hear the santeros starting up again with their drums and their singing. This used to be an important holiday, long before the Communists came along. Long before Christianity, even. The old ones used to have special ceremonies on this day to awaken the sun from its long sleep. They believed that the sun was a god, you see, and they worried that if they didn’t make a lot of noise he would stay sleeping forever, and no crops would grow anymore.”
“Didn’t they notice that the days got longer again even if they didn’t have any ceremonies?”
My grandparents exchanged amused glances.
“Well, they weren’t stupid,” said Abuela. “But their ceremonies were important to them. Just like going to Mass used to be for us.”
“Well, Abuela, those days are over.”
“Yes, but they will come again.”
I shrugged. I had long since given up hoping for change.
“You can still hold important days in your heart,” Abuelo told me. “Days such as the birth of Jesus.”
“Well, what’s the point of that?”
“The point is that even though we may forget Him, He will not forget us, niño.”
“Okay, Abuelo!” I said. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I have to spend four hours in line for a loaf of hard bread.”
“Good,” said Abuelo, oblivious to my sarcasm. “Maybe it will bring you some peace.”
“The winter solstice is a time of rebirth,” Abuela said. “It’s a reminder that everything dies and is born again. And it also means anything can happen, niño. Even those things that you may have given up on.”
“That would be great, Abuela,” I said. “Thanks for the nata. I gotta be going now.”
All this talk of rebirth and hope was starting to give me a headache.
That was a Sunday. The next Tuesday, as it seemed I’d been doing every spare moment of my life since I could remember, I joined the boys on the steps of the movie theater, watching the shadows move inch by inch. We were so bored and sluggish that if Fidel himself had walked by and tipped his hat, we would scarcely have bothered to sit up.
“Here comes a jeep,” observed Luis.
“Who cares?” said Tito.
“It’s turning down San Carlos Street,” said Rolando.
“Big deal,” I said. “We’ve seen lots of jeeps on this street before.”
“It’s slowing down in front of your house, Eduardo!” said Luis.
I was motivated enough now to raise my head and look. Not only was there a jeep in front of our house, but there was an officer in it, wearing a neatly pressed uniform and a cap with a shiny black visor. He leapt out and marched imperiously to the front door of our house, a piece of paper clearly visible in his hand.
“Oh boy,” said Luis. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!”
“Calcines?” said Tito.
“Is that the—” said Rolando.
“Shh!” I said.
I watched my mother come to the door and accept the paper from the officer, who then turned and stalked back to his vehicle. With a roar of the engine, he was gone.
Neighbors began sticking their heads out of their front doors. Mama still stood on the porch, holding the paper. I saw Abuela emerge from her house and scuttle across the street. Mama took a couple of steps out into the yard. Then she fell to her knees.
“Mama!” I screamed.
I was across the street and in our yard in the blink of an eye. Tears streamed down Mama’s face. Abuela came rushing to her side.
“Concha! Get up, hija. Is it the telegram?”
Mama nodded.
Abuela and I looked at each other in disbelief.
“Okay, okay. Come into the house now,” Abuela said as she helped Mama to her feet. “Don’t get the telegram wrinkled or dirty, Concha. Let me hold it for you.”
“No!” said Mama. “No, I am not letting it out of my sight!”
“Conchita, Conchita,” said Abuela soothingly. “The telegram has come. It is not going to go away again. Come inside, sweetheart.”
“Is it the telegram?”
cried a neighbor.
At the same time, Rolando yelled from across the street, “Calcines, what is it? What did he bring?”
I turned and yelled as loudly as I could, “The telegram is here!”
There was dead silence among the dozens of neighbors who were outside now. Then they erupted into a massive and spontaneous cheer. People flooded the street and invaded our home, yelling, clapping, and dancing for sheer joy. A memory flashed through my mind: Noche Buena, 1961. That was the last time I’d seen the whole neighborhood so happy. The winds of freedom had finally blown my family’s way.
Esther appeared at the front door, hands clasped to her face. “Mama!” she cried. “Is it true?”
“My baby girl!” Mama sobbed. “Since you were six years old, we’ve been waiting for this piece of paper! Esther, we’re going to America!”
“Aiee!” shrieked Esther. “We have to tell Papa!”
“Papa is at work,” I reminded her and Mama.
“Someone must go tell him right now!”
“I’ll go!” said Emilio Pérez from across the street. Like a jaguar, he was off.
Suddenly, I realized Papa’s assignment to the work detail was officially over. He had been punished enough for his disloyalty. Now they were letting us go.
We had one week to get ready. Our flight to freedom would take place on December 30. But before that could happen, we still had the military to contend with.
Later that afternoon, the same officer came back. This time he carried a clipboard. As family, friends, and neighbors gathered curiously, he made a great show of strutting through our house, checking off each and every item on his checklist, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. We already knew that all our property belonged to the state. Now he was making sure we weren’t trying to steal anything from Cuba.
“Excuse me, señora,” said the officer with mock civility as he stood in the living room and pointed up at the blank space above the windows. “My records indicate that there were curtains in this room. Where are they now?”
The whole family held our collective breath as we waited for Mama to answer. We knew she’d given the curtains away to another family who were far worse off than we were. She never thought the curtains would be missed. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she was breaking the law.
“I—I—” said Mama. “Well, we—”
“Señora, let me remind you of something,” said the officer. “If you gave those curtains away, that constitutes the crime of theft against the state. That makes you a criminal, and that gives me the right to revoke your visa right here and now.”
We froze. The panic that gripped me now nearly turned my bowels to water. Was it possible that this evil snake of a man could ruin our dream when we were so close?
“So where are those curtains?” he pressed. “What have you done with them? Who is the criminal in possession of them now?”
“Please, sir,” said my father.
“Silence, worm!” said the officer. “I was speaking to your wife!” Papa clamped his lips together and went into their bedroom. I could hear him praying aloud to Santa Barbara, not caring if the officer heard him.
“Sir, I have to be honest,” Mama said. “I—I gave them away.”
The officer’s eyes grew wide. Then he strode out to his jeep. I went to the window and watched as he sorted through some files in the back.
“I had to tell him the truth!” Mama said, to no one in particular. “He would have known if I had lied!”
The officer was in his jeep for a very long time. Papa’s praying grew louder. Mama closed her eyes and clasped her hands. Esther was crying. I didn’t know what to do. Finally the officer came back in with another piece of paper.
“Very well, I have decided to make an exception,” he said. “But I will only give you two hours to vacate this house. If you are still in it when I come back, you will be arrested and sent to prison. Get out now! And the rest of you people, go back to your homes! It’s against the law for more than three people to assemble!” And with that he turned and went back out to his jeep. It roared to life, and he careened through the cheering mob on San Carlos Street.
We spent the next two hours moving the personal belongings we would be taking with us—clothes and toiletries, legal documents, photos—into Abuela and Abuelo’s house.
Quco Bemba came running up to me. “Calcines, is it true?”
“Yes, man,” I said. “We’re out of here.”
“Wow! I can’t believe it!”
“Me, neither.”
Quco dug his toe into the dirt and looked around shyly.
“What is it, Quco?”
“I was just wondering . . . since you’re going to America, can I have your shirt?”
I laughed. “Of course, man,” I said. “But can you at least wait until we’re on our way? I need something to wear for the next week.”
“Okay!” Quco smiled. “Thanks, Calcines! I will never forget you, ever!”
“I won’t forget you, either, Quco.”
Now the hard part began—the goodbyes. For the next five days, a constant stream of relatives and friends trooped through my grandparents’ house. There must have been five hundred people, including all my aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, all of their spouses and children, all of our friends, friends of friends, various people we barely knew but who wanted to wish us well, anyway, and, no doubt, a few complete strangers who were simply curious. I quickly wearied of shaking hands and accepting congratulations. It was all too surreal. I felt as if we had become royalty or movie stars.
The boys hardly left my side. They didn’t want to miss a moment. I knew they were happy for me, but the expression on their faces, especially Rolando’s, was almost more than I could take.
“You guys want to get out of here?” I suggested on the day before we left.
“What, are you telling us to leave?” Tito bristled.
“No, no. I mean, let’s go somewhere. If my cheeks get pinched one more time I’m going to go crazy.”
Luis brightened. “Let’s go to the field and play baseball!” he said.
Rolando snorted. “With what? Our only baseball came apart a year ago, and I’m sick of playing with wound-up rags.”
“Calcines is going to be able to get all the baseballs he wants soon,” said Tito. “Hey, why don’t you send us a new one when you get to America?”
“Sure, sure,” I said, irritated. All these guys seemed able to think about was how much stuff they wanted me to send them once I was free. “But I’m not there yet, so quit asking me, okay? Seriously, I need to get out of here for a while. Do you guys want to come or not?”
“Let’s go to the cemetery and pick mangos,” said Rolando. “It’s not far, and we can’t get into trouble.”
We all agreed that that sounded good, so off we went. I didn’t even bother telling Mama and Papa. They were too busy talking.
The cemetery was located on an isolated stretch of dirt road leading out to the countryside. Mango trees grew there in abundance, and their fruit was bigger and sweeter than those of other mango trees, including La Natividad’s. Naturally, we said this was because they fed off the bodies underground. It was a disgusting thought. But Papa had explained to me that that was just part of the cycle of nature. All dead things decomposed and fed new life, he said. Someday our bodies would nourish the earth as well, and in this way we would continue to live on.
We climbed the fence and helped ourselves, sucking on the sweet flesh as we read the dates on the tombstones. A lot of them were very old, and nearly all of them belonged to people who’d died before the Revolution. These people may have known hardships, I thought, but none of them knew anything about Fidel. I wondered if the dead were aware of what had happened since their passing, and how they felt about it. Would they want me to stay on the island and work to make things better? Or would they approve of my leaving?
“Someday Fidel will join you,” I whispered to the tombstones. “And
then he will be judged, and Cuba will once again be free.”
“Calcines is talking to himself,” said Luis.
“He’s going crazy,” said Tito.
“That’s what freedom does to your head,” said Rolando. “Already he thinks he’s sitting in Yankee Stadium, watching Mickey Mantle and Joe DiMaggio.”
“Ah, stuff it,” I said. A wave of anxiety came over me. What was I doing here? I should be getting ready to leave, not acting as if nothing had happened. “I gotta get back home.”
“Why? I thought we were gonna have an adventure!” complained Luis.
“I don’t have time. Tía Luisa and Tío Jesús are taking us to a restaurant tonight for a goodbye dinner.”
“A restaurant?” The boys looked shocked. None of our families had had the money to go to a restaurant for years. I had never even been to one. There was little point—there was no more food to be had there than there was in our bare cupboards. But the very word “restaurant” was exciting and glamorous. “The high life is starting for you already, Calcines!”
“Ah, he thinks he’s too good to spend his last day with his friends,” said Rolando in disgust. “Come on, let’s go.” He got up and stalked off.
“Don’t worry about him,” said Tito. “He’s just jealous. He’ll get over it.”
“I hope so,” I said.
But I didn’t have time to worry about it. There was just too much going on.
The Covadonga Restaurant was once world famous for its paella, a Spanish dish of yellow rice and various kinds of seafood. In its heyday, former and current U.S. presidents had eaten there, as well as lots of other wealthy, famous people. Now it sat empty and forlorn, falling apart both inside and out—because, like every other business in Cuba, it was run by the state.
Leaving Glorytown Page 16