The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  Twice Celia put her hand on the door to push it open, and twice hesitated. Two other things gnawed at her. First, that she did not want to be seen as “not normal” by her best friend, and second, barely admitted to herself, she was not sure she wanted the hallucinations to go away—at least, not yet. Disturbing though they were, she felt that they were leading her. But where? Into an imaginary past, which might be another way of saying into lunacy? Or toward something unknown but infinitely tantalizing? Quickly, before she could be immobilized by indecisiveness, Celia pushed open the door.

  Franci peered around a pile of books on her cluttered desk. “Well, how did it go?”

  “Marvellous. When we broke for lunch they filed out, smoked up all their cigarettes, and pelted me with the empty cartons.”

  “Lucky you didn’t suggest they give up tomatoes.” Franci’s forced humour matched Celia’s, but her eyes were worried. “Ready for lunch?”

  “I—” Celia shook her head. “No.” This was going to be harder than she thought. The plaque on the door reminded her that Franci held a responsible position at the medical school. She felt uneasy about confessing that she was about to play hooky from a conference she was attending at state expense.

  “No, what?” When Celia remained silent, Franci took off her reading glasses and gave her the once-over. “Well? Are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?”

  Celia doubted that Franci could guess, but the possibility alarmed her. So she did something that by her own ethics was despicable. Without lying, she told a truth that would throw Franci completely off the scent. “José is back.”

  Franci tilted back in her chair, causing it to squeak alarmingly. “Ah. You didn’t mention that this morning.”

  “I—I am really confused. With Liliana and work and, well, you know.” Celia took a deep breath, as if about to go off a high dive. Which in a way, she was. “I need a time-out. I want to skip the rest of the conference and go spend a day or two in the mountains. Maybe take a bus up to El Saltón or somewhere like that.”

  El Saltón was a rustic mountain resort about two hours from Santiago, a place Celia knew because Philip and Franci had taken her there on a previous visit.

  Celia could see disappointment written all over Franci’s face. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it? It’s not like we’ve ever kept secrets from each other.” Her eyes were warm, inviting trust.

  “Of course I want to talk to you about it,” Celia agreed quickly. “It’s just that right now I am at a loss. How can I know what I feel when I have had no time to feel?” Her voice took on a pleading note. “I am simply desperate for some solitude, Franci.”

  Franci responded instantly to the pleading. With wisdom gleaned from a decade of psychiatric experience, not to mention her essentially practical nature, she took charge of the situation with an alacrity that left Celia speechless.

  Franci stirred in her handbag and extracted a ring of keys. She took the one to the Fiat from it and thrust it into Celia’s hand. “Get ready to roll, girl. You’re out of here. Oh, and since you’ll have to stop by the house to change and pick up your bag, grab whatever you want for lunch. If you’re not hungry yet, you will be, so take something,” Franci came around the desk and wrapped Celia in a strong embrace. “It will be okay, mi hermana. What your instinct is telling you to do is exactly what you should be doing. I’m just glad you got here before all those feelings you’re repressing blew up in your face.”

  “So am I,” Celia whispered. One thing she had not considered was that what she was hiding might, as Franci had put it, blow up in her face. The very thought filled her with dread. “It never would have come to this if I could have got some down time.”

  Franci smiled wisely. “Down time is all normal people usually need to get things sorted out in their head—or heart, as the case may be.”

  Celia hugged Franci long and hard. “Down time and a friend like you,” she murmured, knowing as she said it that she was not making full use of what Franci had to offer as a friend. Nor could she any longer consider herself a “normal” person.

  FOURTEEN

  CELIA felt comfortable in the borrowed Fiat, or as comfortable as she ever felt at the wheel, given how infrequently she drove. Except for the colour, it was exactly the same as Luis’s car, which was the one vehicle she did drive from time to time. She took Avenida de las Américas out of the city and curved along the Carretera Central into the foothills of the Sierra Maestra. She had been this way twice before, once on the weekend trip to El Saltón with Franci and Philip three years earlier and once on a school field trip to visit historical sites when she was eleven or twelve years old.

  The historical sites were still there. From a long way off she saw the Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Cobre, where a four-hundred-year-old effigy of Cuba’s patron saint, the Virgen de Caridad, resided. The church itself was overshadowed by a monstrous slag heap from copper mines that had been in operation since the days when Hernan Cortéz was governor of the province. She passed El Cobre without stopping and farther along took no notice of historic markers indicating where men and women of previous generations had died fighting for the island’s independence from Spain.

  Three times she passed turnoffs to El Saltón, but she did not take any of them. The mountains of the Sierra Maestra remained in the distance as she continued along the main highway through rolling ranch lands and citrus groves.

  She stopped just past Palma Soriano to buy a string of mandarins from a roadside vendor, a small man with sun-dried skin. He took the coins she poured into his hand with a beatific smile and waved her on with the ancient formality of vaya con Dios still common among older-generation rural people.

  Celia glanced at the gas gauge and saw that she would need to fill up in Bayamo. Recalling its shady main square, she briefly considered spending the night there. In Bayamo she had one close friend who, like Franci, dated back to childhood. Joaquín had followed in his father’s footsteps, first as a member of the national fencing team and now, with a speciality in sports medicine, as one of its doctors. Joaquín’s father and Celia’s had died together in the 1976 plane crash that had claimed the lives of the entire Cuban fencing team as it was returning victorious from the Pan American games in Venezuela. Joaquín’s dad had been one of the coaches, Celia’s merely a civil servant travelling with the team to deal with visas, hotel reservations, and the like. Luis Posada Carriles, a Cuban expatriate working with the CIA, had been arrested in Venezuela and charged with the bombing that downed the airliner. Posada spent nine years in a Venezuelan jail before anti-Castro Cubans in Miami bribed him out. He had immediately returned to the CIA fold, working for Oliver North on the Contra resupply operation. Celia and Joaquín followed Posada’s well-publicized career as a government-backed terrorist up until the bombing of several Habana hotels in 1997. At about that time, Celia, having recently assumed the responsibility for Liliana’s care, recognized the debilitating nature of her hatred for the man and determined to put him out of her mind.

  Driving along a near-empty highway lined with citrus groves, her hands lightly atop the steering wheel peeling a mandarin, thoughts of the tragedy that killed her father brushed her mind but she did not allow them to alight. Instead she thought of her father. For the first time, she realized his resemblance to Luis: a tall yet unobtrusive bureaucrat deeply dedicated to the political aims of the Revolution. Celia recalled him holding her, then a pre-schooler, in his arms as he danced to music from a crackling radio. As far as she could remember, it was only when her father danced that he became playful and revealed his natural athleticism. In that way Luis was very much like him. Except for being danced around a crowded living room in her father’s arms, Celia’s memories of him were indistinct, with no recollection of his features apart from those preserved in a few faded photographs her mother had left her.

  By the time Celia reached Bayamo, she knew that she would not visit Joaquín. For one thing, it would be impossible for them to
not discuss the deaths of their fathers and the fortunes of Luis Posada Carriles. Celia did not want that—not now or ever again. Furthermore, if it was the comfort of old friends she was seeking, she might as well have stayed in Santiago, for she could not have done better than Franci and Philip.

  She pulled into a gas station. While an attendant filled the tank, Celia walked next door to a rental car agency and looked at a road map. She had a vague notion of driving on to Manzanillo to see a street that had been turned into a memorial to Celia Sánchez, but as soon as she looked at the map, she knew she was not going to Manzanillo. Realization of her actual destination hit her with such force that she could not believe she had not known it all along.

  • • •

  She cleared Bayamo traffic and headed southwest, still skirting the Sierra Maestra but moving ever closer to its rugged terrain. At Bartolomé Masó, the road turned due south and Cuba’s highest mountains loomed before her. Within minutes she was surrounded by steep slopes covered with royal palms. Their straight white trunks took on a pink tinge that matched rose-coloured clouds floating in the afterglow of a sun just set. Celia would have liked to stop and take in more of the scenery, but night was just minutes away and she did not want to be driving this winding road in the dark. The Fiat complained strenuously at the precipitous climb. She slowed down, geared down, and kept climbing.

  One car passed her, its door bearing the emblem of the provincial department of agriculture. It pulled into Villa Santo Domingo just ahead of her and a lone man got out. There were only a few cars in the parking lot.

  Celia had changed into shorts in steamy Santiago. As she followed the khaki-clad driver of the other car to the reception desk, the cool mountain air caused her legs to prickle with goosebumps. The desk was not precisely indoors, but was set back under an overhanging apartment—the manager’s, she presumed—to protect it from the weather. Two polished wooden rocking chairs sat on either side of the unwalled reception area, inviting guests to relax and chat. The clerk, a trim young man with crew-cut hair and military bearing, greeted the man ahead of her familiarly and slid a registration card across the desk. “Bruno! What brings you back? Not another outbreak, I hope!”

  “No, just a routine inspection. Can’t take chances with something capable of destroying the entire coffee industry.”

  “But we got a clean bill of health over a year ago!” the clerk protested.

  “I know. Like I said, it’s just a routine inspection.”

  Celia understood that they were talking about a coffee pest that had hit the area, so serious that La Comandancia de La Plata had been closed to visitors and the entire mountain region quarantined for two years. The media had made much of it at the time, but there had been little follow-up.

  The man named Bruno passed the registration form back to the clerk and turned to smile at Celia. “Up for the weekend?”

  Celia ignored the question and asked, “Did they ever find out the origin of the . . .” She hesitated, unable to recall whether it had been a beetle, a moth, fungus, or what. She settled on “the pest?”

  The agricultural inspector leaned on the counter, a little too obviously sizing her up. “It wasn’t a CIA plot, like swine fever, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “There was some talk of that,” Celia said, a touch defensively.

  “Well, naturally. Given all the documented incidents we have of US bio-terrorism, that’s the first thing the lay public would think.” His emphasis made it clear that he did not share the lay public’s ignorance. “But this had nothing to do with the CIA. The coffee bore was in Jamaica, barely one hundred kilometres from here. It didn’t even need a human carrier; it could come in on birds. Just a question of time.”

  “I see.” Celia moved up to the desk in hopes that the clerk would provide her with a registration form to end a conversation that was benign enough but had overtones calculated to impress that she did not much like. Instead, the clerk extended the discussion by joining in.

  “But we were prepared, weren’t we, Bruno?”

  “Totally. The campesinos in this area were all trained to identify it, so when it arrived they knew exactly what to do. We had traps, and in no time our researchers had developed effective bio-control methods. But vigilant farmers, and the education to know what they were seeing when they saw it, those were the main weapons. The minute they spotted an infected bush, they burned it.”

  Traps, Celia thought. So it must have been a beetle. Or perhaps a moth. She did not ask for clarification. Instead, she asked the clerk, “You do have a room, don’t you?”

  He frowned, as if the question was a difficult one. “Just you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “For how many nights?”

  “One.”

  He consulted a list. “We have two buses coming in tomorrow; we’ll be completely full. But tonight, no problem.”

  “Perfect,” Celia said quickly. “The trail up to La Comandancia will be open?”

  “Oh yes.”

  At last he produced the registration form. She filled it out quickly, paid for the room, and held out her hand for the key.

  “I’ll show you to your cabaña,” the clerk said.

  Celia smiled and kept her hand out. “That is not necessary.”

  Reluctantly he handed over the key. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” Celia said, supposing that cottages would be numbered and she could easily find the one with a number to match the number on her key.

  “See you later,” the agricultural inspector said with hope. His eyes climbed her bare legs like beetles. Or moths. “In the bar, maybe?”

  She balanced a noncommittal reply that might be mistaken for encouragement against the rudeness of no reply and opted for rude. Apparently to no avail. As she took her bag from the car, she realized with a sinking heart that he had taken a step or two toward her, probably intending to accompany her to her cottage on the pretense of looking for his own.

  Just then the clerk whom she had so firmly dismissed walked out and reached for the bag. “Permit me,” he said. “The path is rough and the light is not very good.”

  Whether he was aware of the other man’s intentions and did not approve or did not want to miss an opportunity for a tip Celia did not know, but she relinquished the case with relief. The other man, seeing that she would be accompanied, headed in the opposite direction toward the bar. Celia gave the clerk a grateful smile and fell in behind him.

  They followed a rough sidewalk lined with sword ferns and mariposa flowers, past small citrus trees and large mahogany trees with orchids and bromeliads clinging to their trunks. Celia could hear but not see a stream gurgling somewhere below.

  “How far is it to the village?” she asked for the sake of conversation.

  “Just across the river. Follow the lower road to where the bridge was.”

  “Was?”

  “It was destroyed by a hurricane. We don’t get much wind here, but rain turned the river into a torrent. It’s back to normal now, though. You can cross on the stones. There’s a museum over there if you’re interested.”

  They arrived at the cottage assigned to her and she handed him the key. He opened the door and flipped on the light.

  “How far is it to the Comandancia trail head?” she asked.

  “Five kilometres. You can drive that far and leave your car in the parking lot. But you must first stop at the park office for a guide. It opens at eight.”

  “Gracias.” He accepted the tip with a polite nod and was gone.

  Celia looked about the rustic room. They could call it a villa if they wanted, but it was barely above a campismo. In fact, she was almost certain it had been constructed for groups of young campers and other Cubans who still came by the busload to visit one of the most sacred sites of the Revolution. The only improvement that she could see was the installation of a window air conditioner, which seemed absurd in view of the altitude and shady surroundings. The temperature was very
pleasant. She wound the jalousied window open and stood listening to the gurgle of the river. A mosquito flew lazily in between the glass slats and landed on her cheek. She swatted it, only to feel the bite of another on her ankle.

  “So much for fresh air,” she sighed, winding the window shut again. She would mention to Luis the inappropriateness of air conditioners in areas where temperatures were moderate. Screens would be perfectly adequate, and night sounds were infinitely preferable to the hum of an air conditioner.

  As much to wash away thoughts of Luis as to rid herself of road dust, she stripped and showered. The water was not hot so she did not linger. She dried herself hard with a thin towel and jumped into bed nude and shivering.

  In a few minutes she had warmed up enough to reach for her case and extract the sandwich she had made at Franci’s. Poor Bruno, she thought, sitting alone in a dreary bar waiting for her to come in so he might have someone for company during dinner. She did not exactly feel sorry for him, but in a way it was kind of sad. Sad that there were so many times when words were not appropriate and body language was not enough.

  She got up and brushed her teeth, then crawled back into bed. Warm and fed, she felt utterly peaceful. Oddly, she also felt keyed up. Her emotions carried a current of excitement, but it was not the kind that generates tension. It was anticipation. Somehow, by luck or intuition, she had come to the right place. She was nearly at the epicentre, where it had all begun. If she was to find clues as to why her psyche had become entangled with what she imagined to be that of Celia Sánchez, might it not be here?

  Eyes open in the darkness, she tried to recall historical accounts—or, more accurately, historical footnotes. For several minutes thoughts flowed in a logical, linear channel. Then, like a river in flood, her mind overflowed its banks and began sweeping up images without regard for source: books she had read, fragments from stories her mother had told her, half-listened-to conversations, and details that could not have been known or remembered by anyone except the woman her subconscious was shadowing.