I Was Never the First Lady

by Wendy Guerra

  SOUNDTRACK: The sound of a spoon stirring sugar into liquid in a glass.

  Several months ago your father found a new woman. A twenty-four-year-old girl who’s a reporter for the official newspaper. She’s a recent graduate and writes news and opinion pieces. Sometimes she thinks she has our country in her hands. One day she’ll figure out who’s allowed to have opinions and who has the last word on this island.

  Well, my love, let me get to it . . . She came into our house and ransacked it, stole my diaries, a novel about that friend I’ve told you about. The one who just died. She revealed the secret you and I shared.

  The novel has vanished, and now there are questions at work. They call me, they ask me for reports, they ask me questions I don’t understand and that are going to drive me crazy, Nadia.

  Staying would be detrimental to you and your father. I’ve always been the black sheep, the madwoman, the deranged. They censor your father, but they let him go on making movies. They won’t tolerate me. They can’t forgive me for who I am. There are people watching me at every turn.

  Although it’s not always easy to see, they persecute me. I feel them; they’re here. There are eyes watching me everywhere. A lot has happened at home over the past few weeks. Posters with our names accompanied by profanities went up. The orange notebook we loved was burned at our front door. They threw your grandfather’s antique table down the stairs, broke it. That’s why I sent you to be with Aleida, so you wouldn’t get upset.

  Your father’s ex-lover is the spearhead of the mystery; she’s been promoted very quickly at that official newspaper. Lover of politicians and leaders. Unique, tough to beat. She’s the daughter or granddaughter of a minister—I’m not sure—but she’s got lots of license and has no scruples and doesn’t care about your age or our life plans . . . I’ve complained, but nobody listens to me.

  I’ve thought about publicly protesting, saying it loud . . . but why bother? Actually, we can’t really fight against that sort of thing. It’s like trying to knock down the Berlin Wall. These are cruelties you all will have to eliminate someday. With force. From “a world more just than yesterday’s world,” as your school song goes.

  I can’t do anything here anymore. They’ve kicked me out, they’ve won . . . I’m leaving.

  There are a ton of anonymous notes and letters she and your father wrote each other. It’s all very vulgar. What was secret is now exposed. It makes me sick. Our lives are now open to everyone—impossible for a woman like me.

  All this scares me, my girl, it scares me (heavy breathing). Photos of your father and me left ripped up by the front door, handfuls of salt, red ribbons—I don’t understand anything. Shit on the walls in the foyer. Witchcraft, eggs, objects I don’t recognize. Private conversations I’ve had with your father later reproduced at public assemblies, on this station—anyway, a nightmare, the perfect plot, like the movie Rosemary’s Baby, La semilla del diablo. Whatever you want to call it, this looks like a Polanski film.

  Nadia, if you ever want to come be with me, you’ll be welcomed. I’ve never been a good mother. I’m a great friend who gave you the opportunity to come into this world and to know there’s another. That’s where I’m headed. If it doesn’t beat me, I’ll reclaim you, and if it does, I want you to know I do all this for you. I don’t want to mark you; I don’t want you to be stigmatized because of me.

  I love you, my skinny girl, and I’ll always be broadcasting on this frequency for you.

  Listen to the soneros, the bolero players, go with your father to hear the troubadours, they live and sing, listen to what they say. They’re the greatest thing on this island, my love. And I want you to know something: This is not your mom and dad’s revolution. This is just a big misunderstanding.

  (Tearful.) Skinny girl, I want you to be better than us, but I can’t help you with that. Your father is a weak man; he doesn’t even know how to defend his own talent. I’m leaving because I’m shattered and I can’t help you by going on in this condition.

  A huge kiss.

  Hopefully I can rewrite the novel about our friend. Why do they fear a tribute to someone so clean and admirable?

  Someday you’ll see it published and then you’ll know your mother did nothing wrong. Nothing worse than abandoning you . . . (silence), because of this fear that overwhelms me.

  I already saw the Camejo puppets on fire at the Guiñol; they’ve already expelled me from art school for being homosexual (though I’m not); they’ve already accused me of loving foreign things; they’ve separated me from those whom I’ve loved the most. Enough, enough, my skinny girl! I don’t want that for me or you. I’m going to hold my head up high in the real world, in the jungle.

  How will everything be in 2000? I hope better than today. That’s what all this sacrifice is for . . . Make sure it’s not in vain. Nadia, I quit. I can’t take it anymore, my little daughter. You, go on.

  Remember these things:

  If your nose bleeds, throw your head back and stay calm.

  If you get lost, call the station; everyone here knows you and they’ll take you back home.

  Never tell on anyone, no matter what. Don’t cry for no reason; there’ll always be an excuse.

  Don’t fall in love with someone who doesn’t deserve you. I’m saying this from experience.

  Don’t miss me. There’s no need; I’ll always be with you.

  I’m going to stop giving you advice and go. My girl, we’re a couple of disasters, your parents. I hope your father stays with you until the end. In the worst-case scenario, there’s a list of friends who know about this. I know nothing will happen to you.

  Don’t stop looking for me when you’re older, and I’ll do the same, no matter what happens.

  I love you so much, my long-haired girl. You’re a piece of me, of Cuba . . . I’ll carry you with me. I’ll miss you from this moment on. I’ve recorded this song for you. Don’t forget it. Learn it by heart. We are both entwined in this music.

  SOUNDTRACK: Steps and then the noise of a door opening and closing, then a sound as the tape disconnects.

  SOUNDTRACK: The song “If It Weren’t for You (Si No Fuera Por Ti)” by Pedro Luis Ferrer starts immediately.

  If it weren’t for you

  and your faith in things . . .

  Red Diary

  Now I understand my mother’s poems. And I increasingly understand my obsession with radio. I was left in the care of the radio. That’s nuts! Now radio is in me. I walk alone, trying to put together, out of nowhere, this sound puzzle.

  I’m facing this black cardboard box, having surrendered to the penance of the past. The worst part is confirming that, even in 2006, things are still unknown. Nothing’s been solved; everything runs like sand through our hands. I understand my mother’s motives, and the wrongful testimonies given by her witnesses. I copy the poems she wrote at the station, looking for clues. I’m her spare memory.

  NOTES IN THE MARGINS OF A PHOTOGRAPH

  Do you remember, Aleida, the story of the frog photo? We didn’t know then we were happy, when in the real photo you, my daughter, and Maricela showed your kindest faces. Time gilds and beautifies images, but I know, I’m sure, we were quite a little gang at the assemblies. We weren’t nice to our detractors; we had no mercy.

  That’s why they’ll never forget us, even if they leave room for a little gall along with the memories.

  But here’s the photo: Maricela, you, and my daughter, champions of the dead words that now keep us so distant from each other.

  The sun hits you in the face, and my daughter narrows her brow until she squints. Maricela borrows her mother’s expression, lost in a vision of gypsies who come through childhood in a caravan, and you, like in that tormenting story about the frog, you don’t know how to hide your deep joy; your face can’t do it. Take care, Aleida, so that nothing ever shuts down that look, that laugh, that it may always be a constant sound in your ears.

  Rare and Valuable Collections

  I
listened to the Orwo tape without saying a word. I couldn’t cry. I just lay down next to my mother, curled up with her, apologized for not understanding her.

  I keep looking in the box with curiosity, reading documents from this messy attempt at research for a novel and a lost life. My mother randomly stitched her fragmented ideas together. I remember afternoons with her at the library. I had just learned to read the big poster: “Rare and Valuable Collections” department. She fished for clues through loose papers, for ideas for her lost novel.

  I listen to the tape several times, which keeps going around in the deluxe recorder until it gets tangled and stops abruptly. My mother wakes up, looks at me, scared, and closes her eyes again. I kiss her.

  “Who are you?” she asks, exhausted.

  “It’s me, Mami. Your daughter.”

  “I don’t want to meet new people. I already have quite a lot with those I know.”

  Now I cry. I want to close my eyes, take ten of her pills, and not wake up until I’ve forgotten everything. I want to be blank and not think about what’s happened to us.

  Dear Diego:

  I need you.

  My mother is finally here. Lujo and I went to pick her up at the airport. The trip has affected her. She seems worse to me than during my visit to Russia. They put her in a wheelchair the minute she landed. She had no luggage; she’s wearing my clothes now. She arrived completely crazy, hugging a cardboard box and a Chanel purse with seven books with homemade jackets, very little money, and all her documents (Russian, Cuban, and French).

  Her mind has stopped working. Lujo and I cradle her like a little girl. I don’t know if you’re traveling outside Mexico. I need to talk. Tell me when that can happen. I’m dying just seeing her like this. She forgot Lujo, and she speaks to me as if she’s never seen me before.

  The few hours she manages to sleep, she curls up, frightened, in the bed. I can’t believe she’s here. I don’t know what Lujo did to get her here, but she’s with us.

  I adore you. Help, I’m drowning.

  Nadia

  Who Am I?

  Someone has plans for me, and the worst part is that I don’t know. Three men in white rolled-up shirts open and close their hands at the same time. They’re here to donate blood. I see very tight, café-au-lait-colored garters strangling their arms until the blood flow is cut and sterile cotton wool scorches their skin. Two dry taps of the nurse’s fingers means the needle’s coming; it goes in rigorously until I feel it at the blue point of my origin. The blood splatters into the syringe, and then everything is red and thick.

  We are in the sterile act of investigation. Who am I and why are they preparing this exhaustive exam? They drive into my flesh: it burns, it hurts, I feel empty, and then they give me back my arm and gather my genetic information. They give my “self” a coagulating agent. The nurse asks why I don’t complain.

  “I don’t feel anything anymore,” I say as I roll down my sleeves and leave with no particular place to go.

  All the suspects have given permission to get pinched. Each at a different point on the planet. Lujo is a frustrated soap opera writer and is determined to find out who my father is. I could not care less. My father is and will always be the same man; I don’t want another. He made me who I am, lowered my fevers, saw me cry, menstruate, love, leave, leave again. I don’t believe in anyone else. The imprecise thing is that I still can’t quite say: “This is my father; this is my country; this is my mother; this is my home.”

  May 28

  My dearest Nadia:

  I returned to Milan from Zurich yesterday and spoke with Paolo B. I brought him my father’s will; he’s the only lawyer my father trusts since he left Cuba. Once we finished that business, we talked about you.

  Paolo told me something related to you and yours that I think will touch you very deeply, especially given what you’re going through right now. Get ready for that. He’s going to Cuba with the sole purpose of speaking to you.

  Your mother’s impoverishment is no surprise, and although it’s cruel, you have to accept it. Don’t let Paolo B.’s news bring you down. As soon as you need me, call me.

  It was dusk when we finished talking and, on my way home along the semi-snowy Alps, I wondered if I had been happy when I was a reporter in this part of the world, if I really enjoyed that stage, seeing the wondrous, windy Alps out my window, traveling all over Europe, being paid to do what I’d always dreamed of. Why do vanity and the desire for notoriety and pseudo-transcendence always take precedence? I can’t be more aware of how privileged I’ve been. Fate has provided me with an uncommon life, but I insist on worrying about trivialities at work. Lately I’ve had insomnia, working nonstop without rest.

  It doesn’t matter what I get out of it. I’m as bad a winner as I am nefarious a loser. If something doesn’t go well, I find it difficult to accept defeat; if something goes well, I’m an even worse winner, because the euphoria passes and I’m off, already thinking about the next goal. I might be a kind of insatiable predator, although, evidently, my prey is either insufficient or hidden and doesn’t always come my way. The result: permanent frustration.

  It’s not fair, Nadia. There’s so much to worry about in the world, and so many people burdened with terrible situations. And then there are the lucky ones, a legion, convinced that our sorrows and anxieties are indeed heavy. We know little and understand even less. I send you many kisses. I know I don’t deserve this beauty. I want to share it with you, but it’s still not the right time for you.

  I share your pain, and every day I sleep with you and love you.

  Your Diego

  Part III

  My Mother’s Unfinished Book

  (FRAGMENTS FOUND IN THE BLACK BOX)

  Meeting Celia

  I stared at the wooden house on stilts: the pines, the taro, the bugs . . . There was no one in the house; they’d left for Miami because they didn’t approve of what was happening to the country. Leaving me and my sister was supposed to be provisional. We’d come to live with that unusual condition and, without realizing it, being on our own had turned into forever.

  I was alone and decided to use my time painting everything; with our parents gone, the house would be lost to us. I wanted to leave my mark. Without the slightest forethought, I started on the white linoleum floor. Using a Chinese pen, I inked soft autumn leaves, bells, black cherries, umbrellas, high heels, clovers, golf clubs, moons. They made the impeccable surface shine, the one we’d praised so much last Christmas.

  For the first time, I felt free—without the obligations of the American school, or Christian efforts on Sundays, or the daily despair of my mother, awake until four or five in the morning and standing at the door waiting for my father to return from the Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. I painted walls, doors, furniture, counteracting the strange sensation of liberation and orphanhood provoked by the emptiness.

  My sister, fantasizing about our parents’ almost impossible return, couldn’t stop laughing while imagining their shoes on the floor tiles, their surprise at seeing my careful and profuse drawings. A house illustrated with incongruous figures.

  My sister had been taken to Tía Dora’s chalet before, which was on the corner, very close by. They wanted to convince her of what they could never convince me, but she was firm and came back immediately to be with me; Digna, our Black nanny, ran back and forth from one house to the other, trying to attend to two rebellious girls. Digna, in fact, had always taken care of us, but this world was ending for us, and no one was able to intervene at all.

  A different life began for us; the previous one didn’t exist anymore. A good life, making our own decisions and eating, from time to time, what little we found in the cupboards.

  I said I would stay to work on the literacy campaign, that I’d go be with our parents later. I was only fourteen years old, but I was interested in more than just working for a company. Later I could study in the United States. I didn’t want to harangue like a Quaker or Protestant minist
er (which was, in fact, what my parents wanted for me). When the ’60s caught us in their whirlwind, all those projects went nowhere.

  My sister stayed with me, but not out of conviction. She was sixteen years old. We became members of the Conrado Benítez Brigade, but we worked on the literacy project in different areas. She wasn’t trained for the life she was leading, and from what I could tell, she volunteered for whatever popped up. That’s a trait of hers I like a lot, something I don’t share: she’s adaptable, doesn’t complain, and she thinks the best is yet to come.

  The day we went to hear Fidel at the plaza, we were both chosen to go to the Habana Libre Hotel to meet a group of journalists who wanted to interview us.

  While we were standing in line, a very delicate woman discreetly approached me and asked if we’d been to Varadero, enjoying some time as a reward for our work on the literacy campaign. Standing by her, and almost in a whisper, I told her that no, we’d had to go to Banes, to close the family home and gather our documents. My parents had left the country, and we’d had to divide things up and come here.

  The woman gave some thought to my story. She led me out of the tumult with two escorts, then we looked for the brigade to which my sister belonged. We left in a car as we heard Fidel’s hoarse voice come on the speakers. We went through the Habana Libre lobby with two militiamen guiding us, asking everyone to move along.

  I liked the place. It was a hotel built in the ’50s, carpeted and luxurious. I looked in the mirrors, breathed in the air-conditioning and the smell of French perfume and fine pastries. We went up in a silver elevator, and when the suite doors opened, Celia—Celia Sánchez—appeared with her back to us, looking at something on a dresser she was using as a desk.