Revolution Sunday

by Wendy Guerra

  What most throws me are the contrasts, from a raid to an interview to a red carpet. Who can understand my life? No half-measures for me, the extremes have always been and will always be where I’m most at home.

  I’ve noticed that, when I’m not at the highest end of a risky enterprise, I can’t find my comfort zone. I suffer from a kind of hyperactivity that demands danger so I can use my powers. There’s no longer any doubt: I’m a warrior’s daughter. My blood carries a kind of clandestine restlessness, a tense nerve that won’t allow me to quiet down or leaven my spirit.

  * * *

  —

  We arrived in Cannes after a brief stay in Paris.

  Paris is the only city where I feel fine by myself. It’s full of secret tunnels that provoke such subtle emotions that I still haven’t quite figured them out, personal passageways, involuntary reactions, visceral gestures project themselves on unknown experiences and wait for me at the other end of my life, on the other side of the bridges I still haven’t encountered, and that apparently I’m not yet ready to cross. It’s time to cross the neighborhoods in silence, to walk out on tiptoes from 31 rue de Fleurus, where my publishing house resides, right next to where Gertrude Stein lived for years, pick up the pace to reach the river, board a drunken boat for a quiet dinner at dusk, and move, move in circles, as if waiting for someone who’s not quite ready to dwell in my ship. For now, I persist, I wait, because waiting has been and is my great talent. There’s no one like me to incubate patience within four walls on an abandoned island.

  Tomorrow, while we walk the red carpet, my new book, The Warrior’s Daughter, will be launched in Barcelona and Paris; it’s my new novel, full of secrets, clues, and historical twists that unravel the complex path to my father.

  * * *

  —

  I tried to put on the shoes that came with the dress, but they were too small for even my tiny feet. I finally left them behind in the room and came down barefoot. I thought no one would notice because the dress went down to the ground.

  Once in the lobby, Gerónimo introduced me to the rest of the team. I hugged Armando, got a thumbs-up for the dress from everyone, but Olatz and Miguel realized immediately that I wasn’t wearing shoes. Looking tall while barefoot is not a gift I think I have.

  I said something to Gerónimo about the fact that he hadn’t let me see the completed film, and that I’d only been able to view fragments of the documentary parts. He was too nervous to pay attention and just asked me to walk calmly, looking off to infinity and, above all, to not respond to any media questions, and if they insisted or bugged me too much about personal things, he said I should just smile or pull out my phone, indicating I had other priorities. Why in the devil did he bring me here? I asked myself, staring him right in the eyes.

  “Why can’t she respond to questions?” Miguel asked him.

  “You’re looking very elegant, Miguel,” Gerónimo responded, avoiding his question.

  Armando was silent but clearly had a million concerns. Just then Olatz came back with new shoes in hand.

  There were camera flashes and screams directed at the stars presenting their movies. Everyone was there, and when I say everyone it’s because it’s not even worth naming them all. It was the precise moment to realize that in a sea of stars and celebrities, you simply don’t exist. A name can replace another, a photo can replace another, but by the end of the night, there’s just a pastiche of memories that confuses you and hinders your mind.

  I walked the red carpet quickly, holding hands with my friends, who protected me from whatever virus or aggression was out there. I walked the red carpet like somebody on a tightrope fifty-five stories high.

  “Move along, Gerónimo’s here,” Lidia kept shouting at us, rushing us along.

  I walked the red carpet and it was as if nothing had happened.

  * * *

  —

  I walked straight into the theater, with Olatz’s incredibly tall shoes on my feet. I glanced at the rear windows, looked for my name on the seats and, what a surprise, I’d been seated right next to Gerónimo. He really did want to legitimize his story with my presence. I smelled his scent; this time it was the same cologne he’d used in Havana. I had a knot in my throat, and from then on decided to just feel rather than look.

  Gerónimo stepped up on the stage with his team. For whatever reason, he left me behind; he didn’t ask me up with them. Miguel, Armando, Olatz, and I looked at each other. Why? Well, maybe it was because I’m not an actor, nor a producer, nor a photographer. Whatever. Everybody gave a little speech. They spoke in English, of course. There was applause, shouting, whistles.

  The lights immediately went down. The actor returned to my side. My friends were behind me, touching my shoulder, letting me know they were there, sending signs of love and moral support. The movie didn’t strike me as good or bad. It was a strange film, too long perhaps, saturated with speculation that he tried to save via fictionalizing. Gerónimo has always been an excellent actor. When I saw the images of my house, I thought of Márgara, who came out of the kitchen like a ghost, very quiet, as I looked over photos of my father. When did he take these pictures? I don’t remember. Seeing Márgara there in Cannes made me remember all we’ve gone through together, and what awaits us when I decide to go home.

  Gerónimo came into the frame. I saw him move with the lightness of the man I’d fallen in love with, who got me involved in this project and led me to accept who I am, and where I really come from. I quickly understood these images had come from the cameras set up to spy on us. The angles coincided, the grain and consistency of the images were the same as those the officers would play for me during the long raids and invasive interrogations. How did he get them?

  Two tears dropped on my hands and my sobs awakened Gerónimo’s compassion. Employing the same tone he used just before he left Cuba, he hugged me anxiously and told me he couldn’t forget me. I hate compassion, both the word and gesture. I didn’t believe a word he said now because he was under the powerful spell of his first public presentation as a director.

  I saw my family photos gradually go by, of both the known and the unknown. I confirmed that all the information I’d used in my book was correct, and also that my older brother had died of an overdose in Miami. It was a very sad story and the film was increasingly disjointed. When I focused on the screen a few seconds before the credits, I saw an announcement in English and Spanish: This film is a work of fiction, and is not inspired by actual events.

  “What do you mean it’s not inspired by actual events?” I asked Gerónimo, indignant, while the credits were reflected on my face along with my father’s face. The audience burst into a roaring applause.

  “Be quiet, please, we’ll talk later,” Gerónimo said in a very low voice, smiling, well aware the cameras could find him in the darkness.

  I rushed out of the theater, running with the shoes in my hand, terrified, and I didn’t stop until I’d reached the hotel. I thought I saw Sting when I left, but stopping to say hello was as ridiculous as standing next to Gerónimo supporting his “fiction.” I left Miguel and Olatz behind, not counting on them right then. Who remembers a woman as absurd as me who gets mixed up in things like this? I finally reached my room and, without undressing, headed straight for the comfort of a cold shower, which washed away my makeup and the voluminous dress that now seemed so silly. I threw up what little I’d eaten that day.

  After a few minutes, I heard Gerónimo’s voice from outside the room, asking me to open the door.

  I didn’t leave the bathroom but he somehow managed to get somebody to let him in; after all, it was his production company that had paid for the room. He came in quietly and sat down on the toilet to explain things to me, impassively, not at all nervous, without any reaction to the spectacle he had before him, just barely acknowledging me under the furious shower that was melting me away.

  He arrived full of his success. He’d come only to defend himself, to wipe his image clean
, and to make sure I’d shut up so everything would remain between us. Beyond the pain I felt at being manipulated by someone who’d convinced me to confront the truth, there was the matter of his demeanor.

  He talked to me as if I were a little girl who can’t accept her parents’ divorce, or an unstable mental patient who needs to take her meds to calm down. He was very smooth as he explained the inexplicable, what he couldn’t take responsibility for even as he said he did. Even after everything we’d gone through together in Havana, he justified the censorship.

  According to what he said, it was the State Department who told him the files weren’t completely declassified, and that most of the information used to make the film came from unreliable sources. It’s going to take more than a decade to verify everything, it’s true, because the documents won’t be released until Cuba and the United States come to an agreement and take care of the details, which are connected to very delicate matters still to be confirmed. The film’s final frame was the only way he could protect himself. According to some biographers, my father had been implicated in the assassination of John F. Kennedy and, as everyone knows, that’s another matter that’s not entirely open to the public.

  I didn’t believe a single word he said. Who could believe him after such a series of betrayals?

  Armando came to my room, took off my wet dress, and asked Gerónimo to leave. We packed our bags and ran together from that place, full of photographers listening to a story that didn’t seem altogether true to them either.

  From up here, Cuba looks tiny.

  So many sagas from this land where water threatens to end it all and leave us talking to ourselves.

  The waves weave into the shore, as if the sea is trying to drown the country; but there are limits, and the water always returns to its levels.

  Today is Sunday. There’s nothing more depressing in Cuba than a Sunday at seven in the evening. Sundays depress me and it’s almost seven, the sun is setting and the salt-filtered light pierces the plane’s windows.

  I know sometimes life down there is infernal. But isn’t this my inferno? Here I go, swooping in, landing on what’s mine, the things I need to recover.

  Here is where I go to search for myself, here is where I belong. This is my scent, this is my light.

  I’m lost and I’ve come back to find myself.

  When the plane doors opened, I heard a voice calling out my first and last names. The French flight attendant kindly asked me to please remain in my seat and not leave the plane. I did as she requested. As soon as the last passenger had stepped off, a corps of uniformed and uninformed officers marched in. One of them informed me I could not enter Cuba, that my entry permit had been canceled.

  I would wait there, calmly, as the plane was cleaned, refueled, and the new passengers came aboard, and in nine hours, I’d be back in Paris.

  But I had no one in Paris. Why should I go back there? My home is here, my only home. Cuba is my family. Cuba is my home. I have no other place to go back to.

  I asked several times why my entry was canceled and each time I was told I didn’t meet the migratory requirements to return.

  I flipped through my passport with them and everything appeared to be in order. They checked my plane ticket for the number of bags and ordered that they be rerouted to my new flight.

  They suggested I go to the Cuban Embassy in France to initiate a new process and an investigation to clear up the matter. I reminded them I was on Cuban soil, that I was a Cuban citizen and I had rights…“Rights?” asked one of the officers, staring me in the eye.

  They suggested I keep my composure and left a young man, armed, to watch over me. He held my passport until the new passengers came onboard. Then he gave it to the chief flight attendant to give back to me when we arrived in France.

  A military officer kept guard on the plane until they closed the doors.

  The crew transferred me to first class and one of the flight attendants brought me a cup of tea.

  I had a claustrophobic panic attack. My country is right there, just outside. I need to run and take refuge in my house, but they won’t let me. This is a nightmare.

  We take off. Little by little, I feel Cuba leave my body. My soul tries to stay connected to the earth but it abandons me, detaches from me. In the air, I can’t breathe, I’m choking. Little by little, I scatter, I turn to water and salt.

  Without Cuba, I don’t exist.

  I am my island.

  CLEO’S POEMS

  EXCESS BAGGAGE

  If they let me take everything I miss

  If they let me take the island and the miracle

  I’d have no place to return.

  I wouldn’t come back to myself

  or to memories of you.

  POEMS IN CHINESE

  I rise every morning before anyone in the village

  just to open the cage for the birds that you later hear sing

  The night swallows them and silences with black velvet

  it betrays you and I awake broken

  opening cages swallowing tears

  exhaling the remains of my dead wings into the dawn

  My eyebrows were tattooed in Chinese and in a delicate

  fashion

  Summer in the Orient belongs to that harsh dynastic

  and dry dense pleasure

  passions that explode in the dazzling light poisonous

  and blind

  I hold on to my distorted inheritance trail of brief erotic

  Sketches

  lacey breasts

  I fleetingly return there to my Asiatic poverties of rice

  and Indian ink

  intimate sex

  Women moan with desire

  I call out your name in pain.

  You know my dead and my gestures and my prayers to

  those dead whom

  you call by name

  You offer them food and you serve my squalid body

  that doesn’t swallow that doesn’t drink that doesn’t

  sleep that hasn’t lived here for

  centuries

  You name the bird and determine if it is free or a

  prisoner by its trill

  It is I who lives inside the heart of the bird

  She who eats and drinks like the bird is the woman you

  touch and bless

  Don’t free me from the ritual that feeds your dead

  and keeps me alive.

  AUTOFICTION

  Everything is apocryphal, my life is autofiction, and if I

  write poetry, I return to the original idea

  …Certain nights when I’m asleep, the child I was

  returns, that girl I remember who hides

  under my skirt without a handler or a straitjacket.

  Everything is apocryphal and I’m a character in an

  unfilmed movie, a version of my

  wishes that doesn’t even have my name.

  A CAGE WITHIN

  And she who is I wants to open the cage

  cage that separates me from the living

  But we were already  yes  a bit dead what

  with everything and birds hungry for light

  Dead from all the words silenced in the

  darkness  you have reached us

  Ready to predict from the learned confinement

  I strive to translate with vigor my letters engraved on

  the body.

  TOY CAGE

  I see the traps along the way

  but they look like flowers compasses or mirrors

  The collection of cages I inherited from my mother

  made me female

  I fell as low as the deep sound of my orchestra

  That’s where I’m going arrogant and enslaved

  The onslaught promises the worst

  Girl toy cage

  My virgin heart flushed  doesn’t

  inherit insult or pain

  And it’s just that there are no cages inside the
body

  of a girl.

  A HOUSE WITHIN

  There is no possible hiding place here

  vanity or mirror

  clear translucent structure

  clean and deserted

  on a small scale

  A HOUSE WITHIN

  of an uncomfortable rationalism

  Japanese equilibrium of broken silk

  unjust and icy outcome

  without altars or flowers without photos without

  family

  passing through and insomnia

  patrimony and artifice

  A HOUSE WITHIN

  No one has gathered here

  Not children Nor men Nor ideas.

  BRIEF BIOGRAPHY OF RICE

  Orphan

  born and raised in Saigon

  I’ve paid my way since childhood

  Indigo keeps the heart of the lotus white

  In certain photos I look like a western girl

  they interrogate me when I row in the mangroves and

  sing the truths

  My job is to separate the jasmine from the rice

  my hobby is to draw you in silence

  to erase the excess clothing on your body

  You live naked in my silk diary

  I follow the line with a raised hand I tear up my figure

  and dislodge you

  All I have learned about bombs is read in the past

  I’m old to be adopted and young to be crazy

  I go on groping

  I know my penance kneeling and mute

  thick silence unknown and profitable

  I cross vain words on my bicycle

  my pedals are silver switchblades breaking the sound

  The trail of rice marks the brief path I follow every day

  I’m coming to take care of Saigon.

  PLAYING HIDE AND SEEK

  With my face buried in my arm without cheating

  with my back facing out

  leaning against a tree I counted to infinity while they

  hid

  one one thousand two one thousand and when I

  opened my sheds nighttime