The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  “No!” Liliana’s shrill voice struck his eardrums like a sharp object. “Tío Luis wants to send me to a stinking re-education camp. Him and Tía Celia.” She began to sob.

  “All right, all right!” Anything to shut her up. “Just—let me think.”

  “Tía Alma said you were going to Pinar after the show. Can I come along? Please? Just for tonight?”

  There were other courses of action he might have taken, which later he would wish he had taken. But in his befuddled state, Liliana’s suggestion had the appeal of simplicity. “Okay,” he said. “But I don’t want to talk. Stay back there. Go to sleep.”

  He wasn’t sure why he told her to stay in the back seat. Partly, he supposed, because he didn’t want her to notice how drunk he was. Partly because he knew that in his impaired condition he would drive more safely without the distraction of her chatter. And partly because, given the sexual vibes he’d seen her giving off at that poolside dance in Varadero, he didn’t entirely trust her. Joe Lago did not like complications in his life. Driving to Pinar alone was the simple, uncomplicated thing he had planned to do after the Tropicana show and what he wanted to do right now. If she was willing to pretend she wasn’t there, fine. Otherwise . . .

  But she did exactly as he asked. She either slept or faked sleep all the way to Pinar del Río.

  Joe very much doubted that things were as bad as she claimed. On the other hand, she must be pretty desperate to be so compliant. When they reached the hotel, she walked quietly in with him like a sleepy child. While he registered, she wandered off to the far side of the lobby and pretended to be interested in the birds in a small aviary.

  “A room with twin beds,” he told the clerk. That, too, he would later recognize as bad judgment, but tired and unsober as he was, the idea of sex so far from his mind and the nearness of sleep so tantalizing, it simply didn’t occur to him to put her in a separate room. The clerk may have thought that they were father and daughter, or perhaps client and hustler. Joe didn’t know, didn’t care. He just wanted to hit the sack so as not to lose what few hours of rest were possible between now and his morning meeting with the mayor of Pinar.

  The small room was not luxurious, but it was the best Pinar had to offer. Liliana sat down on one of the twin beds and bounced with real or feigned enthusiasm.

  “Nice! I like your lifestyle, Tío Joe.”

  She was wearing the same white shorts and red-and-white striped top she’d been wearing the day they found her hitching to Varadero, and carried nothing, not even a purse. It must’ve been quite a blow-up, he thought, for her to walk out empty-handed. He glanced at his watch and reached for the phone.

  “Two AM. I should have called Celia before we left Habana.”

  “Oh no! You’ll wake her up!” Liliana said quickly. “She has to be at work at six. She said she didn’t get any sleep at all on the train last night.”

  “She’s bound to be worried.”

  “No! I told you. She kicked me out! She’s really mad at me!”

  Joe sighed. “I assume there was a reason.”

  “Well, yeah. Her and Tío Luis went through my room and found, you know. Stuff. And went ballistic.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Just clothes. From the dollar stores.”

  “I see. And where did you get dollars?”

  Liliana drew her legs up, folded her hands across her knees, and laid her cheek on her hands. Eyes dancing like a child confessing a prank that she expects will incite admiration, she said, “Oh, sometimes I go to Varadero. And go dancing, like I did with you and Tío Luis. Guys buy me things.”

  Joe clicked his tongue with disgust.

  “It’s not like I go up to their rooms,” she protested. “All the shops are off the lobby. And they have such neat stuff!”

  Joe averted his gaze from the view she was offering him of lace panties peeking from beneath the drawn-up cuffs of her shorts, the panties no doubt part of the “neat stuff” she had picked up with some schmuck’s dollars. “Let me get this straight. You dance with them, they take you shopping, then you say, ‘Adios, amigo’ and go home?”

  “More or less,” she said nonchalantly. “I say I’ve got to go to the restroom. And I don’t come back.”

  Joe gave her a contemptuous look. “A real propio, aren’t you?”

  “What’s wrong with being a flirt?” she demanded indignantly. “At least I don’t act like a puta!”

  “For your information, that’s exactly how some whores act.” Joe hung his jacket in the closet and headed for the bathroom.

  “Well, if you want me to—”

  He closed the door on her words and called, loud enough for her to hear, “All I want you to do is go to sleep. And let me get some.”

  When he came out she appeared to be asleep. He fell into bed and, if his ex-wife’s complaints were to be believed, was soon snoring.

  How long he slept he had no idea, nor did he have any idea where he was when he emerged into semiconsciousness, only that the erection was real and not self-induced. A hand was stroking his penis through the sheet. He opened his eyes. The window drapes, not quite closed in the centre, let enough light into the room to see Liliana perched on the bed beside him. Joe rolled violently to the opposite side of the bed and jumped up, taking the sheet with him. The signals being fed to his brain were jumbled but one was clear: bad situation, a trap.

  Liliana was around the bed in a flash, pressing her body full-length against his. “Hold me,” she murmured. “Can’t you feel how cold I am? I’m shivering.”

  “Take the goddamned blanket,” he said through clenched teeth.

  By way of an answer she moved her hips in a way which, to his dismay, incited his penis to remain at the ready.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He tried to back up in the narrow space between bed and wall, but there was no farther back to go.

  “I’m not doing anything.” She giggled. “You’re the one getting all excited. We could share the blanket.”

  The indignity of being wrapped in a sheet, his body in non-compliance, and cornered by a manipulative female infuriated Joe. “We’re not going to share a goddamned thing, not even this room if you don’t get your ass back in your own goddamned bed!” he snarled, shoving her away, hard.

  Liliana stumbled backward, crumpled to the floor, and began sobbing.

  “Get up,” Joe ordered. “And into your own bed. Now.”

  She rose and shuffled toward her bed, sobs becoming more heart-wrenching with each step. She dropped down beside the bed and buried her face in the coverlet like a child saying prayers. “I’m sorry, Tío.” Her words came out muffled, between sobs. “It’s just that I’m so scared.”

  “I’ll bet,” Joe muttered. He double-wrapped the sheet around his lower body, relieved to see that the embarrassing erection had wilted. Obviously there was no going back to sleep, not while she was bawling like a four-year-old.

  He sighed. “All right, kid, let’s have it. What’s going on? Are you pregnant?”

  “No!” Liliana choked, looking up at him through lashes glued together by tears. “I thought you’d understand, that’s all.”

  “Oh I understand all right.” He gave her a look of undisguised disgust.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she sniffled. “Just because I want to be free, like you are? You live in a place where everybody has loads of beautiful clothes and everything. Why do I have to be stuck on this stupid island the rest of my life?”

  Joe blinked, trying to compute her out-of-the-blue revelation. The last thing in the world he would have expected was any similarity between Liliana’s aspirations and his own, present or past. He walked to the closet and rummaged through a pocket. He came back with a packet of candy and held it out to Liliana.

  “Lifesaver?”

  Still sniffling, she peeled one off and popped it into her mouth. For a moment she studied the package. He knew she was deciding whether to politely hand it back or pret
end he had given her the whole thing. Sadly, she handed it back. “You know something, Tío? We don’t even have Lifesavers in Cuba.”

  “Don’t they have everything in the dollar stores?” he asked, returning the Lifesavers to his jacket pocket.

  “Yeah, but you know what it takes to get dollars.”

  He stood in the middle of the room, looking as stern and fatherly as possible for a man wrapped in a bedsheet. “Luis says you speak French, and are studying English. You could get a job in the tourist industry.”

  “Sure. Waiting tables. Waiting for dollar tips. Is that what I ought to aspire to?”

  Joe shrugged. “I thought you aspired to becoming a doctor. Mamá says you have been talking about it since you were a little kid.”

  Liliana was silent for a moment, sucking on the candy. Finally she said, “Claro. I’d like to be a doctor. But in Cuba? Tía Celia is jefe de sala, with I don’t know how many doctors under her, and she only makes six hundred pesos a month. That’s about thirty US dollars. Tío Luis is way up the ladder in government; he’ll probably be an adviser to the next president. And he doesn’t even make that much.”

  Joe sat down on his bed. “There’s more to life than money,” he said heavily.

  Liliana gave him a sardonic glance. “Like love ? Is that why you left Tía Celia? And went to Florida and made all that money?”

  Joe was no longer drunk or sleepy. He was just tired. And depressed. Maybe that accounted for what he said next, something he had never told another living soul. “For your information, my life in Miami has been a living hell.”

  Liliana climbed onto her own bed, pulled the sheet up over her bare legs, and stared at him in complete disbelief. “How could it be?”

  “Oh, having to work two or three jobs just to survive. Exploited by Cuban Americans. Hated by blacks. Treated like scum by whites.” He bit down on the Lifesaver, but its sweetness was not enough to counter the sour taste in his mouth.

  “If it was so bad, why did you stay?”

  “Why does any immigrant stay? To make money. And I did. Five years ago. No more shit jobs.” He paused and muttered, “Just a shit home life. And now no home life.”

  “Don’t you live in a big house, like . . . ?” She waited for him to fill in the details.

  “Like you’ve seen in magazines? No. I live in a rented apartment half the size of my mother’s. I could afford better. I could afford a house in a good neighbourhood. Had a house in a good neighbourhood. But that was just one more fuck-over.”

  He could almost hear the sound of tinkling glass as Liliana’s picture of his State-side life shattered. Minutes passed before she spoke again.

  “Did you come back to marry my tía?”

  “It never crossed my mind.”

  “But are you going to?”

  His answer, when it came, surprised even him. “It’s out of the question. I got nothing she wants.”

  Again there was a silence, until Liliana’s voice floated across to him, cool and confidential. “She wants me to be happy. Take me to Miami with you. Please?”

  “And what would you do in Miami?”

  “I could help you in your business. Be a mule. Nobody would ever suspect me.”

  He was so startled by her implication that he switched on the bedside lamp to get a better look at her face. “You think I’m a drug dealer? Where’d you get that idea?”

  Liliana shrugged. “I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

  “Luis? He told you that?”

  “Not exactly, but the way he said it . . .”

  “You mean”—Joe raised an eyebrow and mimicked in a skeptical voice— “pharmaceuticals ?”

  “Yeah,” Liliana agreed. “Like that.”

  When Joe said nothing, just sat there, chagrined, she asked, “You’re not a narco-traficanto? You honestly got rich without dealing drugs?”

  Joe generally tried to avoid lying, so he dodged the question with an obvious truth. “Everybody takes some stupid risks when they’re young. But if they’ve got half a brain they don’t keep taking chances.”

  Liliana didn’t pursue the subject, being less interested in his past than in her own future. “Or I could work for your company. You wouldn’t even have to pay me.”

  “If I didn’t pay you, where would you get the money to buy all that cool stuff you want? Takes dollars to shop in Miami too, you know.”

  “Oh yeah.” She lay back on the pillow, no longer a tart but the very image of an alert, intelligent teenager. “I’d think of something.”

  “I’ll bet. Like doing in Miami what you’re trying to do here. There you could drive Celia and me both crazy.”

  Liliana sat up. “No! I promise! Just get me there and I will never cause you or Tía Celia one minute of trouble, ever.” Her face was wretched with hope and despair. “Please, Tío Joe! If you don’t help me, who will?”

  Beyond Liliana, dawn light filtered through the crack where the two halves of the drapes did not meet. Joe looked past the girl, not to this breaking dawn but to one ten years past, to a sky turning from pearl to blue over the Straits of Florida as he waited for the boat that would take him to the magic Land of All.

  “God,” he groaned. “It’s daylight already.”

  He got out of bed, located his shaving kit and garment bag, and went into the bathroom. He shaved before showering, as he always did, to avoid the hassle of a steamed-up mirror. On what was meant to be the last stroke of the razor, he nicked himself.

  “Fuck.” While pressuring the nick to stop the bleeding, he studied his reflection. A shower, coffee, breakfast, would erase most of the tiredness. But something else . . . He studied his face a little longer. Sadness?

  Well, shit. Liliana had a problem. Celia had a problem. He, Joe Lago, did not have a problem or one damn thing to be sad about. All his life he had known that the key to happiness was not letting other people’s problems become his own.

  In the shower he did not think about what he had learned in the course of the night’s unexpected revelations. However, by the time he got dressed he knew one thing: he might help the kid. Not because it was easy, which it would be, and not to solve what she imagined were her problems. If he decided to do it, it would be for the sole purpose of solving his own. And as yet, he didn’t think he had any.

  • • •

  He came out and found Liliana lying in bed, awake. He ignored her hopeful take-me-with-you look. “I’m going to a meeting,” he announced. “You stay here.” He pointed to the floor for emphasis. “I mean right here. Call room service if you get hungry. And call Celia. Tell her where you are and that I will have you home by noon.”

  When he got back three hours later, Liliana was sitting on her bed watching CNN, the remains of a room service breakfast on the nightstand. He flipped off the TV.

  “Let’s go. Did you call Celia?”

  “Yes, Tío. I called Tía Alma too.” She looked genuinely contrite. “You were right. They were worried.”

  There was virtually no conversation on the two-hour drive back to Habana. Liliana spoke only once, just before they reached Habana del Este.

  “Are you going to tell Tía Celia?”

  “You said you called her. Didn’t you tell her where you were?”

  “I mean about . . .” Her voice trailed off miserably.

  Joe knew he wouldn’t, but felt she deserved a little suspense. So he said nothing. Not until he pulled up in front of the apartment did he glance over at her and answer the question. “No. There’s no need to tell anyone.”

  “Gracias, Tío.” She got out and wiggled her fingers in a child’s wave. “Bye-bye.”

  He nodded and pulled away. In the rear-view mirror he saw her standing there, looking after him like an abandoned puppy.

  TWENTY-THREE

  LUIS could not believe that Liliana was not in the apartment. She had told both Alma and Celia that José would have her home by noon. It was now twelve noon. Luis was here, Liliana was not. Had she been wi
th anyone other than José, Luis would have assumed an ordinary delay. José, though, had always had a thing about promptness. He liked to prove that he could control his life to the extent of predicting exactly what time he would be at a particular place. It made him furious when something beyond his control prevented it—and he always called.

  Luis phoned from Celia’s apartment, first Alma, then Celia, having her paged at the hospital. Neither had heard from Liliana since the morning call, and both told him more or less the same thing. “For heaven’s sake, Luis, it’s only a few minutes past twelve. They’ll turn up.”

  Alma’s assurance had been consoling, Celia’s curt. She seemed to regret having agreed to his coming to talk to Liliana. Actually, that was not quite what she had agreed to. When Luis insisted, she had suggested that he take Liliana for a walk on the beach.

  “Keep things light,” she had advised. “Liliana does not respond well to scolding.” It would be more helpful, she suggested, to find out exactly how Liliana had ended up in Pinar with José. “That is something I will want to know before deciding on a course of discipline.”

  Now, on the telephone, Celia was saying, “There is no reason for you to wait around, Luis. This is not the best time for a talk anyway. There are some things I would like to discuss with her myself before the whole family gets involved.”

  Luis gave a noncommittal response and hung up. As if the whole family is not already involved, he thought bitterly. She just doesn’t want me involved. Fine. Soon it will be out of my hands and hers.

  But Liliana, it seemed, was out of everybody’s hands. The social workers left within the hour. They had more pressing problems than a teenager who had only stayed out one night and had called to let her guardian know she was with a family friend and would be home soon. Luis drove them back to their office and returned to wait for Celia.

  She cycled up just before sunset. He could tell by the set of her mouth that she was not pleased to see him. Instead of coming to the car, she headed directly for the building. He followed her in and waited as she parked her bike. She already had her foot on the first stair when he spoke. “Liliana did not come back.”