The Distant Marvels

by Chantel Acevedo

  “I can’t leave Cuba,” I mumbled, though I could not come up with a reason why. After all, hadn’t I been born at sea? What claim did the island have on me? I had nothing left. True, my mother was buried not far from the tallér, and Agustín’s ashes, for I imagine his body having burned down to cinders, floated on Cuban breezes. Only God knew what had become of Mario. Corpses, and a loveless future, were all I had left.

  Blanca Lora shook her head and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. “Think on it,” she told me. “I’m leaving in a week.”

  Seven days later, I let her leave. It was hope that did it, kept me pinned in place. Soldiers often appeared in the tallér, boys who were once thought lost resurrected. And we witnessed reunions that would move a statue to tears. Mothers embracing their sons, wives their husbands, children their fathers. Perhaps there was hope that Mario would return to me.

  Blanca Lora hugged me hard and said, “Remember my name, Blythe Quinn, should you ever find yourself in New York City.” She handed me a piece of paper with her name and a foreign address printed in neat letters and numbers.

  “María Sirena Alonso, not Carla Carvajál,” I told her, and she laughed and said of course she would remember the real me.

  Then, she was gone, and letting her go was my first mistake. I watched her slim figure board a carriage bound for Havana. She thrust her arm out of the window and waved her straw hat at me. The hat’s red ribbon trailed in the breeze for a long time like a flag of surrender before she disappeared from sight.

  4.

  The Second Mistake

  Soon, it became clear that the tallér would be closed for good. There were no more soldiers to tend to, no more work to be done. I spent the days with the other women, learning to crochet long, sloppy chains of yarn while the baby slept, and trying not to think of Mario, or Lulu, or of anything but the needle in my hands.

  Then, a soldier stumbled into the tallér, dragging his left leg behind him. We rushed towards him, happy to have something to do. He let us take care of him, allowed us to discover his wounds. I mapped them out on his body, like a cartographer, drawing lines with a damp sponge across a scar behind his ear, connecting that to a fresher scratch on his collarbone, stopping for a moment at a coin-sized wound on his chest, soothing a flowering bruise at his hip, and ending at his leg, which was full of shrapnel. I thought of a globe that used to sit atop the dresser in Julio Reyes’s own room, back in the Havana of my childhood. How I used to make it spin. How I dug out the island of Cuba with a sharp pencil, and how Julio Reyes had pretended not to notice, to spare me the punishment Lulu would surely mete out. The world was small and hollow and covered in paper when I was a child.

  “What’s happened to you?” I asked him in a quiet moment.

  “I don’t want to speak of the war, señorita,” he told me, and he said the same to any of the women who asked him.

  But over the course of that first night in the tallér, the soldier’s wish was proving difficult. He awoke from what must have been a hellish nightmare, screaming. Once, he sat upright and shouted, “To the wall! To the wall!” then he stopped, looked around, and fell asleep as he sat.

  In the morning, over breakfast, we sat around him as he ate, and he told us about the reconcentration camps all over the eastern end of the island, of the skeletal children who haunted his dreams, and the twisting bodies of vultures over each camp, like flags marking the place where the soldiers of the Liberation Army were to go next.

  “I am the very last soldier, I think,” he said. “The last. All the rest are well at home, their uniforms hanging in their closets, or they are dead.”

  One of the nurses patted his arm. Another took his breakfast tray away. I sat very still, registering the impact of what he had just said.

  The last soldier. The others all dead, or safe. And me, alone in the tallér, waiting in vain.

  There was no hope for Mario, I thought. For days I repeated this to myself and my body always tensed when I thought of it, of never seeing Mario again. I would imagine him in a field, his dark eyes somehow pale and lifeless. I thought ceaselessly of shallow graves, and of his strong forearms withering away to the bone. I would tremble and swallow hard to keep from crying. After a while, the bouts of trembling ceased, and a weakness of my body took over. Perhaps there is a chance . . . I would think for a moment, then grief would come and I would avert my face if anyone was nearby. My nature once leaned towards hope, but no longer.

  In the days that followed the soldier’s appearance and recuperation I felt somehow more alone than I had ever been. The tallér would soon close. I had nowhere to go. I imagined the island like a map. I let my mind wander over the hills and valleys, down the snaking rivers, through jungles and onto open beaches. Then, in that space between wakefulness and dreaming, I shot out over the ocean, north, following the trail my parents had made sixteen years earlier at my birth, past lighthouses and rocky shores and arriving at New York City, with those buildings I’d only seen in sketches in the newspapers, and men and women in long coats.

  I rose and practiced saying her name a few times—Blythe Quinn, Blythe Quinn. When the opportunity arose, I would know what I had to do.

  The day after Christmas, a group of Americans arrived at the tallér. There were five men, and two women, who carried black books in their hands with half-filled pages. There were rows of numbers on the paper, and they scribbled incessantly in those books as the men spoke. Among them was a Sergeant Landon, who seemed too young for such a title. His hair was a brassy color, and his eyes were two blue buttons. He was very tall, far taller than Mario or Agustín had been. He wore the dark blue uniform of his rank, with a sharp-edged cap with light blue piping above the black leather hatband. He held the hat in his hands, twirling it playfully as he spoke with a chaplain who had come with the group of Americans. Sergeant Landon and the others walked through the tallér, pointing here and there at the ceiling, peering out the windows at the vast tract of land that surrounded the tallér, and avoiding the eyes of the women there, the ones who had called the tallér home and who now stood with their backs against the walls, wondering what would become of them.

  I do not count myself among these women. I would not simply wait for a future to develop slowly before me like the seasons. I would force tomorrow’s hand.

  I had picked up a little bit of English from Blanca Lora. I heard the Americans talk about real estate, and I heard the word “tobacco” again and again. The tallér would become a processing plant, American-owned by the looks of it. I followed the men as they toured the buildings, and they ignored me. Mayito was asleep in my arms. I listened, picking up what I could, and watched the scribbling women. I had found a savior in Blanca Lora, an American woman, and I hoped for another chance, counting on kindness and generosity of spirit as a national trait among these northern creatures.

  “Señores,” I called out once the men reached the courtyard. The breeze was cool and parrots squawked in the palms. I addressed Sergeant Landon first.

  “New York. Blythe Quinn. We go,” I said, hoping he could string together what I meant.

  “What’s this?” Sergeant Landon asked, wrinkling his nose at Mayito who had woken and smiled at the blond man.

  “We go New York,” I said. “Miss Blythe Quinn. Amiga mía,” I tried again. “You take. You take.”

  The chaplain pressed forward and stood next to Sergeant Landon. The women scribbled furiously, and I wondered what numbers they were deriving from this exchange. Mayito tugged at my hair.

  Sergeant Landon stuffed his hand into his pants pocket and drew out a piece of bread, still soft from the morning. He held it out to Mayito, the way one presents a bit of food to a wild animal, and like a wild thing, the baby snatched it fast, and stuffed it into his mouth in one motion.

  “No, no,” I said, taking the bread from him. He was too young for it, and I feared he would choke.

 
“Hungry,” Landon said, and I pretended not to understand that particular word. I waited for Mayito to smile at Landon, which he did, darling boy. I pushed towards Landon again, saying, “Take New York. Blythe Quinn.” I had the little piece of paper ready in the palm of my hand. “Mira,” I said, pointing to the address Blanca Lora had given me before she left.

  Landon and the chaplain conversed for some time, and they seemed to be in disagreement over something. All the while I repeated, “Blythe Quinn,” her real name, and, “New York City”, and I gestured by touching Mayito’s chest, and then reaching out to touch Landon’s. He jumped back at that, startled, and the women of the tallér who had been watching laughed. Landon’s cheeks reddened.

  I heard him say the word “Manhattan,” which Blanca Lora had mentioned as her home, and I smiled. It was working. We were going to leave the island, and perhaps, perhaps, the cold and the distance would sap me of affection, draw Mario and Lulu and Agustín’s memory from me like a leech draws blood.

  “Come,” Landon said, and reached out for Mayito. I let him take the baby. My God, I let him take the baby, who watched this enormous blond man with such interest. Landon handed Mayito over to one of the scribbling women, who took the baby and bounced him on her hip. I thought, look, they are kind, these American women. He took the paper with Blanca Lora’s address on it from me. His fingers were hard and rough as they brushed against mine, reminding me of bamboo stalks. He put the paper into a pocket on his breast. Then, Landon and the rest of his retinue turned to leave the tallér.

  I followed them, shouting about my meager things. “I have only a few clothes. And the baby’s things. Give me but a moment to collect them,” I said in Spanish. The group of Americans paused, turned, and gave me strange looks.

  “Money,” I heard the chaplain say. It was another word I understood.

  Landon drew out a ten-dollar bill from another pocket. He flattened it against his thigh before giving it to me. I shook my head and gave it back. The chaplain sighed, and drew a five-dollar bill from somewhere, added it to Landon’s money, and handed it back to me.

  “Perhaps they want you to secure your own passage to New York,” one of the women said quietly from inside the building. They’d been watching.

  “Sí,” said another. “It’s money for a ticket.”

  I faced Landon. “We go together or we don’t go at all,” I said, gesturing for my son.

  “What’s all this about?” asked another man striding across the tallér towards us. He wore a suit and vest. A golden pocket watch swung against his belly. He’d asked in Spanish, and before I could answer, Landon whirled, smiling broadly, and chittered away in English with the man. The two embraced, pounded one another on the back, and talked about things I did not comprehend. Soon enough, they both turned to look at me, and at Mayito, still in the arms of one of the American women.

  The man introduced himself to me. “Gustavo Bernál, a tu servicio,” he said. Short, stocky, but gallant, Bernál brought my hand to his lips and placed a warm kiss on my knuckles. “You are in need of help, I can see,” he said.

  “My son and I—” I tried to begin.

  “Your son? Yours?”

  I always forgot what others saw first—the differences between Mayito and me. “Sí, all mine,” I said, trying hard to keep frustration out of my voice.

  “Que bonito,” Bernál said. “His skin is like café con leche.”

  I did not like this man. But he was the only translator around at the moment. “Señor, I have here the address of a friend in Nueva York. She has promised to take my son and me in, to help us make lives for ourselves in América.”

  Bernál turned to Landon, and the two conversed some more. They both laughed a great deal, punctuating their sentences with mirth. I wished they were less jolly, more serious. So much depended on this moment, and I didn’t find a thing about it funny.

  “Can he help us? Can you?” I interrupted. “We have no means of passage,” I went on. “We have no way of getting to Blythe Quinn at the moment, and our moment is a very desperate one. We cannot stay here.”

  “These are desperate times for all Cubans right now, despite our victory,” Bernál said, very serious. “I mean to convert the fields behind this place into a world-class sugar farm, and here, where you stand, señora, will be the machinery to process the sugar. So, you are quite right. You and your son cannot stay here.”

  “Help us,” I blurted.

  “Sí, of course,” Bernál said. “I am a helpful man. Sergeant Landon suggests a two-part immigration. He can easily take your son with him. Many American soldiers are bringing with them orphans from the reconcentration camps. They are a generous people, you see.”

  “Mayito is no orphan,” I argued.

  “Of course not. Mayito? A sweet name. An apodo for Mario, sí?” I nodded. “Bien, bien. Once the boy is settled in New York with your friend Blythe Quinn, she can begin the paperwork to bring you, as well.”

  “Paperwork?” I asked.

  “When it comes to America, the entire country runs on paper, and the people earn a living from the work it takes to move it about. A curious place, you’ll soon see,” Bernál said.

  “I will wait with my son here for this paperwork,” I said.

  “That might be a challenge, to draw up papers for two Cubans,” Bernál said, rubbing his chin. “As I said, so many orphans are leaving the ports now. It seems to be what the Sergeant has in mind.”

  “I’m only seventeen. And I’m an orphan, too,” I said.

  “My darling, you are no child.” Bernál’s eyes betrayed him for an instant as they took in my body and lingered in places no gentleman would dare look.

  “I wouldn’t do it,” Teresa whispered behind me.

  “But what is she going to do otherwise?” another woman said.

  “Basta,” I said to them both. I was so tired of struggling, running, having to make decisions. All my life had been this way, and now, finally, someone was offering to help make things easy. Mayito would go, and I would soon follow, and we would learn how to navigate a big city like New York, and move papers about if necessary, and start anew. I could see it—the snowfall, the shadows of skyscrapers, the things I’d seen in books would make Cuba seem small and insignificant, and for once I would take a free and hopeful breath. It was settled. Fear would no longer be the weakness that undid me. I was seventeen and unsophisticated, and thought I could dig about in my soul for the mettle I needed, and that it would be enough.

  “Take Mayito New York?” I asked Landon. I still held the money he’d given me.

  Landon smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s it.”

  I took a long, trembling breath. It would only be a short separation. “Sergeant Landon,” I said, cementing the name in my memory. “C.L. Landon,” I read on his badge.

  “Christopher Lewis Landon, that’s right,” the Sergeant said, and I repeated it. They laughed at my accent.

  “They shouldn’t laugh,” Bernál said. “You speak English so well.”

  “Thank you,” I told Bernál. “For your help.”

  “It is nothing. And when the plantation is up and running, you will work for me as you wait. Yes?”

  I nodded again, unable to speak. Bernál said a few more words to the American retinue, and they shook hands with him, looking to me every so often. The moment was now, I told myself. Blanca Lora had set me on my feet again, given me a path to tread. I would follow it, no matter how hard it would be in the moment.

  Mayito began to cry, and it was as if my soul had grown a small voice separate from my body.

  Then, they all turned to leave. The woman carrying Mayito handed him back to Sergeant Landon at the man’s request, and he lifted the baby onto his chest, looking over his shoulder, so that Mayito was higher than he’d ever been. He turned his small, wet face to the sky and marveled at it. I
watched him go. Mayito did not lower his eyes to look at me. I watched until he was out of sight. Even then, I watched the place where he had just been, the air shimmering there, still trembling from his presence.

  I did not remember until later that night, while I wept for my son, that Landon had carried away Blanca Lora’s address with him, with Mayito. I hadn’t told them Mario’s last name was Betancourt. I’d forgotten to tell them he liked his milk warm, but not too hot, that he fell asleep by pulling my hair across his eyes, and that he’d just learned to clap for me, his little palms making the softest smacking sound in the world.

  5.

  Confessions

  There is a silence so profound it rattles the soul, makes one feel displaced, as if one has been born again into a new life, unrecognizable from the one that came before. It’s a feeling that lasts only a moment, but is unsettling, like a bad dream. That is the kind of silence I meet when I finish speaking. My voice is raw and my head is pounding.

  “Here,” Susana says, and hands me a glass of water.

  “You went to New York, then,” Dulce says, and it is a statement, not a question. I can see in her eyes that she wants this to be true. They all do. Some of the women are crying, and I know they have imagined themselves in my place, handing over their children to strangers. They shudder at the thought. They think: there but for the grace of God. Or else: I would never. Pity and disdain mingle in their features. It’s a toxic mix, and the women whom I have grown so fond of over the course of the storm seem strange and unknown to me again, the way they did those first moments on the bus ride to Casa Velázquez.

  “I did not,” I say.

  “But why?” Rosalia squeaks. “It was all settled.”

  “I never saw Gustavo Bernál again. Whatever plans he’d had for the sugar farm never materialized,” I say.

  “Blythe. What of her?” Susana asks.

  “I did not hear from her again. Not until it was too late, anyway.” I answer the questions automatically, as if I’ve answered them a thousand times before. It all ran like an old record through my mind. “Why? What happened? How? Por Dios, what have I done?” again and again, without pause, each night, for decades.