by Karla Suárez
I know it might seem a bit silly to you but, even with the knowledge that Ángel had slept with Barbara, I believed what he’d told me in the park, believed that he loved me. I really did. If he didn’t love me, things would have been simple for him; he could couple up with Barbara, sell her the document and to fuck with everything else. He had no reason to justify his actions to me. Yet, as Leo pointed out, Ángel didn’t want to lose me. Fact. That’s why I believed him and also believed the rest: his desire to win Margarita back, the delightful story of returning the legacy so she would think well of him, his love for me and his decision to sell the document when Barbara appeared on the scene wanting to buy it. I believed it all. I also believed that his reasons for not confessing to possession of the document were to protect himself and gain my admiration; to become my knight in shining armour, as Leo had said.
Shall I tell you what my problem is? Because I have this big problem that, like everything else, depends on how you look at it. There’s a line from a sci-fi story I read years ago that goes something like this: When you’re on the bank, the boat moves, and when you’re in the boat it’s the banks that change. Everything is relative, right? Good old Einstein again. My problem is that I have no family traumas. I had a happy childhood, no one abandoned me or stopped loving me, I have a mother, a father, a stepmother and a stepfather, all happily mixed up together. They all love me and love one another. They love my brother and me and they love my stepmother’s children. Believe me, it’s disgusting. Pure harmony. And what’s more, I obviously grew up without any major difficulties because when people love one another, they can put up with all the other stuff: lack of water, power cuts, cockroaches, getting upset for no good reason... What does it matter? When people love one another, things just flow along sweetly. I swear, it’s incredible how my parents fucked me up. You might think otherwise, but growing up in that sort of environment causes real problems because it makes you too structured. How can I put it? It makes you very sensitive to the feelings of those around you, but you also have a great sense of justice. Other people’s pain wrings my heart. The emotional neglect Ángel experienced in his childhood wrings my heart, because you have to remember that he’d already been abandoned twice and was frightened that his sister would leave the island. So that’s also why I believed him and understood why he’d keep all that stuff about the document from me. In fact, the document was his only lie. And then, what did I actually want? To be with him, live with him. And that was what he’d just proposed. What else could I ask for?
Nothing. I wasn’t going to ask for anything. I understood my angel and was unwilling to lose him, although understanding didn’t necessarily mean forgiving. Understanding: that Italian woman wasn’t going to stay in Cuba forever, so I decided to give my angel a break, tell him that I could see what a fix he’d been in, and that I’d stick with him. Forgiving: continuing to carry out Leonardo’s plan of steering Barbara in the direction of Euclid and getting the document from Ángel to give to him. That was justice, aren’t I right?
Don’t look at me like that. Sharing Ángel with Barbara had really pissed me off, but I didn’t want to lose him and he had to pay for his lapse. Like I said, I’m both sensitive to the feelings of those around me and have a great sense of justice. You can’t hurt people if that’s the way you are. I’ve never been able to do that. For instance, a while ago I told you that I decided to leave the CUJAE when two of my students came into the toilets saying that I was grouchy because I was starved of it. Remember? Those words wounded me to the core. And you think I just sat there and took it? Of course I didn’t. There would have been no justice in that. Those two girls didn’t pass a single exam in that course. They weren’t particularly intelligent, so that helped; let’s say they played their part and the rest was due to mathematical inaccuracy. Both of them ended up in the August crammers, poor things, studying while everyone else was on holiday. One of them passed the following year and the other had to drop out of university, but I know they learned a lesson, because I taught it to them. When they came to the department before the crammer, I recommended that they work hard instead of making stupid comments about their teachers’ sex lives. Maybe it doesn’t seem that way to you, but it’s called justice, and the same goes for Ángel. I understood him, but I wasn’t going to sit there with my arms folded. I had to do something. We were living in chaos. Right? Barbara was an external element that had affected Ángel’s behaviour and I wanted to be the butterfly that would bring about a new hurricane.
When Euclid returned to the room, he was carrying a small lamp and announced that the power had gone off a while before, but that his mother was cooking on the kerosene stove if I wanted to stay for dinner. I accepted the invitation and then he moved closer to ask what was wrong. I remember that his face was illuminated in the semi-darkness and I felt a great warmth for him, but there was justice – a great deal of justice – in the fact that he didn’t have the document. Euclid had also lied to me and he had to pay for that. Right? If anyone deserved that piece of paper, it was Leonardo, because his novel would justly restore Meucci’s reputation: Margarita and I coincided in that belief. There was no going back by then, the chaos had to continue its evolution. I asked Euclid to show me a picture of his daughter and he gave me a very strange look. It was the first time I’d seen Margarita’s face. A princess as fair, as exquisite as you, Margarita.
18
Events began to speed up after that. I think it was the very next day that Leonardo phoned me at work to say he’d spoken to Barbara. As we’d agreed, he’d told her that Ángel didn’t have the document and, since stories were his line, claimed that he’d received a call from Margarita in Brazil; the poor woman had been drinking, was feeling homesick, as happens to almost everyone who leaves, and so had picked up the telephone to ring her old friend Leonardo, and during their conversation it emerged that it was her father who had the Meucci document, not Ángel. According to Leo, Barbara had no reason to distrust him; after all, if she’d believed the story about Ángel, why not this one about Euclid? In fact, she swallowed it hook, line and sinker and then expressed her concern that neither she nor Leonardo knew that Margarita woman’s father. Then came the masterstroke: Leo told her that I was the person closest to Euclid, so they had to do whatever they could to make use of that connection. Leo went on to say that Barbara had been silent for a few minutes, thinking this over, and he’d thought that she was going to tell him about her relationship with Ángel, but no, she was keeping that secret to herself, and finally said that if this was the case, Ángel was no longer so important and I, Julia, had moved to the top of the list. Touché, Leo yelled so loudly that I was afraid the director would hear him and remove my right to use Meucci’s invention. Luckily, she not only didn’t hear but, when I’d hung up, surprised me by asking if I’d mind looking after the office for a moment as she had a fitting with a dressmaker who lived nearby. Having time alone with the telephone was exactly what I needed right then, so I gladly agreed to her request.
Leo and I arranged that I would go to his place on Sunday to update our plan. We both felt that it was necessary to act as soon as possible. If Ángel hadn’t yet shown Barbara the document, it must be part of an attempt to raise the price; however, each day was one less of her remaining time in Cuba and he was obviously not going to let her get away before the sale went through. So, we needed to get our skates on. I imagined the director of the Tech arriving at the dressmaker’s door and dialled Barbara’s number.
She was delighted to hear from me. I asked how she was, how things were with Ángel and, although I moved the handset away from my ear because I wasn’t interested in her response, I did hear her little voice saying that she was going to do everything she could to win his affection, but she was worried because he’d be at home with his sister that weekend, which meant they wouldn’t be able to meet. Do you think he’s telling the truth, Julia? I felt the urge to put my hand through one of the tiny holes in th
e handset as far as the other end of the line, take that hand out and, using my thumb to propel my middle finger, rap her on the nose. Instead, I said that it might be true, that his sister did stay with him at times, so best not to worry too much, and why didn’t she tell me how other things – like, for example, her project on Cuban literature – were going. Naturally, I couldn’t care less about her project, but it was a good opening because, after she’d gone on for a while, I proceeded to inform her that I knew a young writer whom she might want to meet: the son of my best friend Euclid. Barbara only hesitated a second before responding: Ah. Then she asked if the young writer had published anything and I replied that I didn’t honestly think so, he was still only about twenty. Well, yes, that generation does interest me, she responded with completely believable earnestness, while I smiled to myself because the magic word ‘Euclid’ had done the trick. I told her that I’d be seeing my friend on Saturday, mentioning his name again, of course, and said that if she wanted, we could meet beforehand and go to his place together; his son visited regularly and sometimes even brought a few other young writers with him. I can tell you, it was as though Barbara saw herself as the Columbus of the nineties literary generation, as if the door to the most select group of the hidden Havana literary world had opened for her. I, however, was aware of her real intentions. And my own, naturally. We arranged to meet at the Coppelia ice cream parlour – I’d be there with Euclid after our study group meeting – and then we’d all go to his apartment. I added that my friend was delightful and she said she was sure he must be.
My director must have still been trying on clothes, so I passed the time cleaning the telephone. It was one of those classic black models that gathered dust under the rotary dial, sounded lovely and were so solid you could crack someone’s head open with one. With that thought in mind, I dialled the number I knew best and Ángel answered: Hello. What can I say? Nothing. I’m not going to bore you any further with my ridiculous love and how beautiful it was to hear his voice. I said hi, he called me his darling Julia and told me how much he was longing to see me, but that he couldn’t talk for long right then. Dayani was with him. Why didn’t I come around after work? I agreed that I would and hung up. I’ve no idea how well the director’s new clothes suited her, but she seemed very pleased with herself when she got back.
Dayani opened the door to me that evening. She looked exactly the same as the first time I’d seen her, dressed in black and with a tragic expression on her face. Although I have to admit that she was quite friendly. She invited me in, announcing that her brother was taking a shower. We sat together on the sofa. When she put her feet up on the coffee table to go on watching a music video, I noticed that, just as on our first meeting, she was wearing military boots. At the opening bars of the next song, she informed me that it was her favourite band, Extreme, her favourite song, ‘More Than Words’ and her favourite man, Nuno Bettencourt. What a pity there are no men like him in Cuba, she sighed: that was why she had to get away from the place. To tell the truth, I had no idea how to respond. And, anyway, she wasn’t even looking at me. I moved my eyes to the screen and saw two men with long hair: that Nuno guy was in fact good-looking, and the song was pretty too. I did know men like him, though: Ángel, for instance, with his flowing locks and his angel’s smile. It remained to be seen if the two men in the video would be capable of doing what her brother did, but there was no reason to say that to Dayani. She just went on gazing at the screen and singing along quietly. This idyll was interrupted by Ángel’s voice saying: Fuck it, Da, get your feet off the table. Dayani sulkily removed the offending items and I stood up so that Ángel could see me. He smiled. I gave a half-smile. Dayani sang along with the men on the screen: I love youuuuuuu.
Ángel told his sister that we were going out and instructed her to unplug the fridge if there was a power cut and take her boots off if she wanted to put her feet up. He wouldn’t be gone long. I waved goodbye to Dayani and hurried out. We needed to talk and that was exactly what we did: talk, scarcely even touching, as we walked along. He told me that Dayani was staying for the weekend, that he’d been waiting for me to call and was generally in despair about the whole situation because he loved me and so on and so forth. He said a great many things, but I’d already taken a decision, so at some point I interrupted him, asking when he thought he’d be able to sell the document to Barbara and get her out of the picture. He looked at me in surprise and said that it was up to me; I was the one who had to find the scrap of paper. Yes, but when is Barbara leaving? I asked. And he replied that he wasn’t exactly sure, it had to be fairly soon, so the faster we got things done, the sooner we’d be free. I remember that we’d reached Quijote Park, and as the pavement was crowded, as usual, I turned aside to sit on the low wall near the statue. How am I supposed to believe you, Ángel? He took my hands, looked into my eyes and those lips that melted my heart asked: Will you marry me?
You heard me right: he was asking me to marry him. There, in the middle of all those people waiting for the guagua, just a step away from the guy selling peanuts and in the shadow of that naive nobleman, Ángel asked if I’d marry him. As I was clearly frozen to the spot, unable to speak a word, he added that it was the only way he could think of to convince me of his love, that his fling with the Italian woman was just a product of the circumstances, an opportunity fate had laid before us, one we ought not to let pass; the blessed scrap of paper could change our lives, change Dayani’s too; if we were resolute and acted with intelligence, that moment would be behind us, and then we’d laugh ourselves silly because the two of us would be together. Because I love you, he concluded in a louder voice. I looked around and saw the guy selling peanuts observing us with a foolish grin, he made a gesture like a toast with one of his paper cones, accompanied by the chant of: getyerpeanutshere. I turned back to Ángel. We gazed at one another. I thought he looked downright crazy but also wonderfully handsome.
No one had ever proposed to me before, not that it bothered me; the fact is that people don’t get married so much here, you pair off with someone and what the hell... It’s simpler that way, although tying the knot has the advantage that you’re allowed to buy cases of beer at a reasonable price, and in those days that was a luxury; and getting divorced isn’t complicated; you go to an office, sign something and then you can marry someone else the next day. It’s that easy. But to be honest, hearing the words ‘marry me’ churned up so many emotions. I don’t know... it was as if my romantic spirit had reared its head with a Roberto Carlos song playing in the background. And the weird thing was that I suddenly saw myself wearing a long veil and heard the people at the bus stop cheering, ‘Long live the happy couple’; Don Quijote was declaring us ‘man and wife’ and the guy selling peanuts was throwing his goods into the air. Ángel must definitely have been mad, but I was too. And for that reason I smiled broadly and said: Okay. Okay what? he asked. Okay, let’s get married. If he really did want to do it, then it was fine by me. Ángel flung his arms around me, hugging me tightly, whispering in my ear that he loved me and, I swear to you, I experienced a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. It might seem stupid, but my mind went blank. For a second I forgot all my plans for securing the Meucci document from him and his lies about not having it. I forgot Barbara and her intention of seducing Ángel. I forgot Leonardo and his novel. I forgot all that, because nothing else existed besides Ángel and his embrace at the foot of the statue of Don Quijote de la Mancha.
We continued to walk for a while longer, but he had to go back home and take care of his depressive sister. As we wouldn’t see each other during the whole weekend, we agreed that I’d call him on Monday, as soon as he’d freed himself from Dayani, and we’d begin to plan our wedding. I arrived home gleefully full of my news. Perhaps it was a bit premature on my part, but to be honest I was bursting with joy and needed to share it. I remember Mum coming out of the kitchen, asking what all the fuss was about, and me, like Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot, repe
ating: I’m engaged, I’m engaged, while dancing a tango. My brother and stepfather moved closer together as if impelled by some strange force, and my brother asked to whom, while my stepfather said that whoever he was, he had to meet the family first. For her part, my sister-in-law smiled and commented that I’d kept it very quiet. I went on dancing and informing anyone who’d listen that I was going to marry an angel and live with him in El Vedado. The reaction to this second piece of news was different. Mum was incredulous. My sister-in-law shouted: El Vedado? No way! My brother frowned and said he hoped I wasn’t mixed up with some foreigner. My stepfather repeated that I had to introduce them to the man as soon as possible. And I was going to introduce him, but in my own time, when it was necessary, not when all I was capable of doing was dancing with a joy so boundless that it was spinning my body around. Why bother with so many words? My happiness had, quite simply, a limit approaching infinity. It was an explosion.
I didn’t give any further thought to the problems until the next day, when I’d arranged to meet Barbara: she was a bone stuck in my throat. I honestly wanted to throw it in her face that Ángel and I were in love, were going to be married and live together, and she had no place in that story, she was an extra piece that needed to be multiplied by zero. I wanted to tell her all that, but it wasn’t really appropriate: best to talk it over with Ángel first. On the day of his proposal, we naturally hadn’t even mentioned her, but we did need to discuss the situation calmly. My task was to continue to draw her away from Ángel and deposit her into Euclid’s arms, far from us, until she left the country. Ángel had the document and would hang onto it, because Barbara wasn’t meant to inherit it. No way was that going to happen. So, I decided that I wouldn’t tell Euclid about the wedding for the moment to avoid it cropping up in conversation because, given that he knew nothing about Barbara, he might well mention my news in her presence, thus provoking an awkward, inappropriate situation.
