The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  “I would be grateful if you did,” Celia encouraged. “It would save me a trip.”

  “Well, it’s not certain. That is, there was one occasion when Liliana seemed to have an attack and was allowed to go home. But the second time, the nurse thought, well, she thought it was not as serious as Liliana made it out to be. So she didn’t let her go, and the next day Liliana seemed fine. Then last Friday—” She stopped. “Is that the day she disappeared?”

  “No,” Celia said. “She was at home most of the weekend.”

  “Well, this past Friday Liliana did not go to the nurse, maybe because she had been turned down before. She left a note that said she had gone home because she felt an attack coming on.”

  Celia frowned. “I am surprised the nurse didn’t call me.”

  “Well, you are a doctor.” Emily looked at Celia as if that explained everything. When she saw that it did not, she clarified. “We have had notes from you in the past, excusing Liliana’s absences on account of her asthma. The nurse probably didn’t want to appear to be calling your medical opinion into question.”

  Celia suddenly felt unbearably tired. She knew she should ask to see the notes, but why put herself through that? They were forgeries, and their very existence revealed yet another side to Liliana that she would have to look at squarely. But later. Alone.

  “Magdalena’s address is here?” She touched her shoulder bag. “And the boy’s?”

  “Danilo Silva. Such a gorgeous boy!” Emily fingers flew to her mouth and she flushed, as if she had uttered something sexually explicit.

  “They are at that age, aren’t they?” Celia said, to ease her embarrassment.

  “Um, yes.” Emily seemed to recover herself. “Please don’t think I go around eavesdropping on the students, but my room is at the end. They often stand out back, just under my window, for privacy, you know. They probably forget I’m there.”

  “I doubt that,” Celia smiled. “My guess is that they appreciate your sensitivity. And trust your discretion.” She paused and added, “Just as I do.”

  “Thank you,” Emily whispered.

  “Thank you,” Celia put her arms around Emily’s thin shoulders, feeling, as she did so, how needy the woman was for physical contact. But Celia’s mind was on the boy, whether, if she tried to locate him here at school, she might be thwarted by the director.

  Emily must have guessed as much because she pulled away and said, “Danilo goes with our best athletes to work out at the Estadio Panamericano. That will be tomorrow, around four in the afternoon.” She paused and said uncertainly, “He did ask Liliana to meet him there.”

  Celia’s heard leapt with possibility. “They’re meeting? Are you sure?”

  “Um, no. It’s just something they were talking about before the last break. I don’t know what they decided.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  LUIS drove down Avenida 5 toward the Convention Centre in something of a daze. He knew he was not a particularly flexible person. But a major career change on top of Liliana’s disappearance, Celia’s walkout, his mother’s all-night crying jags, and José being in town, no wonder he had been caught off-guard. He had sat in the meetings, understood what the discussions were about, and correctly identified which actions had got approval from higher up. Or so he thought until the minute a broad smile was directed at him, along with the words, “You, Compañero Lago, are our man!”

  The smiler was his own boss three levels removed—minister of the department of energy. The man was not a veteran of the Revolution and dared not imply that he was by wearing a beard. He compensated with a Pancho Villa–style moustache that gave him an eerie likeness to the Mexican bandit. Despite the minister’s moustachioed pretensions, Luis liked the guy and felt respected by him. Nevertheless the whole thing caught him unawares. For a good fifteen minutes he could not figure out what was coming down.

  The conference had offered plenty of clues in the form of remarks that were essentially self-evident truths, with lots of nodding all around. Luis’s professional life had been spent in such meetings so he knew this meant that a decision had been made, probably at a level higher than anyone there. Waiting for what that decision might be, he listened to the head of the energy department state the obvious.

  “Meeting Cuba’s energy needs is largely a waiting game; waiting to see whether the US succeeds in preventing Venezuela from selling us oil, and waiting to see if Canada will continue investing in oil exploration. But while we wait there is more we can do.”

  Then his immediate supervisor, a bifocaled engineer, chimed in with what Luis later realized was meant to reassure him that the new position was not a demotion. “Food self-sufficiency is as important to national security as energy. It was fine to focus on export crops as long as we had markets and could get the food we needed from abroad. That has changed. National security now lies in self-sufficiency. That means we must produce the food Cuba needs without infusions of pesticides, herbicides, and chemical fertilizers from abroad. And most of all, without infusions of energy from abroad.”

  Luis had nodded along with the others and continued to nod when the thread was picked up by Alba Renan, head of the organic agriculture program, whose presence in the meeting had struck him as peculiar from the start.

  “The road to sustainable agriculture is now paved,” she stated with pride. “Cuba is on it and moving fast. No nation in the world has a program as comprehensive as ours. But while we focus on cloning, bio-pest control research, organic soil enhancement, and small farmers whose production is continuing to break records, we also have to keep our eye on costs, especially energy costs. If we can produce more food and use less energy simultaneously, the benefits to Cuba will be incalculable.”

  The meeting had continued in that vein for an hour. Everybody’s polite agreement with whatever anyone else said was proof that after months of sometimes heated discussions, the moment for an agreed-upon action had come. Then the shoe dropped. The minister announced that he, Luis Lago, was to become the liaison between what, next to tourism and the military, were Cuba’s most important ministries: energy and agriculture.

  When Luis protested out that he had no background in agriculture, he was quickly informed that agricultural output would not be his responsibility. “See here, Compañero Lago, it’s the broader view we want to develop,” explained the minister as he twirled one tip of his moustache to a fine point. “To see energy not merely as something we must get access to internationally but as something we can create right here in Cuba. Solar, wind, methane gas, animal traction. Well, animal traction is already pretty far along; probably not much new you can add there.” He glanced toward Alba Renan by way of acknowledging her expertise in the area.

  Luis turned to her too, as it had just become apparent to him that she was the person in agriculture with whom he would be working most directly. However, his own boss spoke, giving Luis his first clue as to what the new job would entail.

  “There will be experts on both sides providing input. What we need is someone to liase with the farmers and the sustainable energy experts and make recommendations to Compañera Renan and myself. That’s where you come in, Luis.”

  Luis still didn’t get it. Why wouldn’t the experts make recommendations directly up the chain of command, and those responsible select the projects to receive funding? He looked to Renan, who nodded vigorously, causing her straight grey hair, cut to ear length, to swing back and forth.

  “That is exactly what we need, Compañero Lago. Liaison with both sides, followed by recommendations to ensure maximum efficiency.”

  At last Luis understood. Efficiency was not exactly what they were looking for. When a high-level policy decision was taken, cost was rarely the main concern. Efficiency was a buzzword for honesty. Luis knew that if he had a reputation for anything, it was for incorruptibility. That was why he had continued to advance in the bureaucracy even after his flaky brother defected to Florida. For the government, the problem was that every farmer
and engineer working with alternative energy sources would be trying to gain funding for his or her particular project. What the people at the top wanted was somebody they could trust, who could talk to both sides, or rather listen to both sides, and make recommendations as to where the government’s limited resources should be put for maximum results.

  • • •

  Well, maybe they were right, Luis thought as he pulled into the Convention Centre’s underground parking structure. He had been sent to attend the international conference on sustainable agriculture not so much because they thought the conference would bring him up to speed on the subject but because it was the best place to begin networking in a segment of the population with whom he would soon be working, and within which he had few contacts. For a few minutes he sat there, still trying to come to terms with the change. He did so, finally, the way he always did: by accepting the direction of his superiors. After all, who was he to question their judgment? Back when he played baseball, hadn’t he taken whatever position the coach asked? And hadn’t he done equally well at all of them? It was with good reason, he thought with a touch of nostalgic pride, that the coach occasionally called him the team’s “secret weapon”—a player they could put in anywhere on a minute’s notice and the team would be stronger for it.

  A smile flickered and faded from Luis’s face. That was then and this was now. He would go home and tell the family that he had been made the liaison between the energy department and agriculture, and his brother would make a joke of it. Alma respected his competence and under normal circumstances would be quick to point out what an asset to the nation he would be in his new position, but these were not normal circumstances. He doubted she could stop sobbing about Liliana’s disappearance and his break-up with Celia long enough to register the change. And there was Celia, whom he should have been able to count on above everyone else to say something warm and wise—Celia, who was not there for him now and might never be again.

  Luis reached for a large manila envelope on the seat beside him. Hotel Palco was adjacent to the Conference Centre. He would make copies there before heading over to sit in on one of the discussion groups Compañera Alba had marked in the schedule. Later he would drop the copies off at Celia’s apartment. Maybe when she saw what he had done she would understand that he cared and could help; that he had something she needed after all. Maybe she would talk to him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  JOE had discovered Hotel Palco on a drive out to the western suburb of Cubanacán. If he needed concrete evidence that the Cuban government was doing its utmost to make itself attractive to foreign business, Hotel Palco and the adjacent Convention Centre were proof positive. From the minute Joe walked through a glass door and took in the hotel’s quietly elegant, no-frills corporate atmosphere, he knew that for the rest of his stay in Habana, the Palco would be his home-away-from-home office. The business centre was quiet, its computers fast. He finished exchanging emails with his Miami office in record time and headed across the lobby to the long-distance office to get a pretty young thing (whose legs he had already checked out) to place a call for him.

  He had just reached the bank of elevators when, unbelievably, he saw his brother, Luis, coming toward him. Luis saw him at the same time and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “José! What are you doing here?” Luis demanded, as if the sight of Joe disoriented him and caused him to think he was not where he thought he was.

  “Using the business centre. What about you?”

  “Same thing,” Luis said quickly. “Actually, attending a conference. I need to run off a few copies.”

  “How about lunch? You eaten yet?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Good. I have to make just one phone call. Make your copies and let’s meet at the bar. Or the dining room if you’d rather.”

  “Uh, no.” Luis still seemed confused, as if there was too much coming at him at once and he didn’t know whether to face it head on or dive for cover. “The bar is fine.”

  “Sandwich and a beer? Might be just what you need to get you through—did you say a conference?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Meet you there in ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes later Luis was not at the bar but still standing where Joe had left him, staring at a multicoloured parrot in the atrium that kept squawking, “Aye, Mamacita! ”

  Together they walked to the other end of the lobby and took seats at the near-empty bar. Luis waited till Joe ordered a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a beer, then said, “The same.”

  “What’s the conference about?” Joe asked.

  “Sustainable agriculture.”

  “Agriculture?” Joe wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “How does that tie into energy?”

  During the next thirty minutes he learned more about his brother’s professional life than he had ever known or cared to know. Joe recalled their mother mentioning something about Luis holding an important government post, and Liliana had made a remark to that effect too, but he had not taken either seriously. When Luis finished explaining his new role, Joe gave him a congratulatory grin. “Sounds like a promotion.”

  Luis shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You know how it is in Cuba.”

  “In what sense?”

  “Everybody earns about the same, so position is not that important. The real question is whether I have the skills to do what’s expected of me. Otherwise I would let the country and my comrades down.”

  “I guess.” Joe washed down the last of his sandwich with a swallow of cold Cristal and decided this was a time to bring Luis up to date on his own plans.

  “I’m heading back day after tomorrow,” he said.

  “To Miami?” Luis’s half-eaten sandwich paused in mid-air.

  “México first. I’ve done about all I can do here without getting some critical links nailed down there. But it’s been a good visit. I didn’t expect to get as much done as I did. Business-wise, things still move like molasses over here.” He grinned. “But that’s better than no movement.”

  “Are you—does that mean you will be coming back?”

  “Definitely,” Joe assured him and then wondered, from the way the oomph seemed to go out of Luis, if that was what he wanted to hear. If it wasn’t, well, too damned bad. Joe took another swallow of beer. “I expect to be doing a lot of back and forth. For the good of the pater-land as well as for the good of ye old Miami Joe.”

  “Oh yeah?” Luis gave him a cynical smile and slid off the bar stool. “I have to go. Is this your treat?” He waved at the empty sandwich plate.

  “You bet. Not every day I get to hobnob with one of Cuba’s governing elite.”

  As Luis walked away, it occurred to Joe that while “governing elite” might be an exaggeration, having a close relative well placed in the federal bureaucracy could be an asset once he was actually doing business in Cuba. Only belatedly, after Luis had disappeared down the long hallway leading to the conference centre, did it cross Joe’s mind that Luis might have government contacts that could help Celia locate Liliana.

  THIRTY-THREE

  CELIA arrived home in late afternoon, feeling weak and exhausted. Little wonder, since she had again forgotten to eat. She heated Alma’s rice and beans, ate a few bites, and headed for the shower. She stayed under the spray a long time, letting it wash away neck and shoulder tensions. She came from the bathroom nude, drying her hair. Then stopped short. She had the uneasy feeling that someone had been there. She glanced at the door, which she was sure she had locked.

  It was locked, and someone had been there. A large manila envelope lay just inside, too fat to have been slid under the door. She carried it into her bedroom, closing the door behind her as if a second door, without a lock, could make her more secure.

  She sat down on the bed, tumbled from nights of restless non-sleep, and pulled a sheaf of papers out of the envelope. Her heart caught in her throat when she saw that they were announcements, each with two pictures: one a clos
e-up of Liliana’s face, the other of her vamping on the beach in a new swimsuit the family had given her for her sixteenth birthday. At the top was the caption, LILIANA IS MISSING. And below, “If you see her please call . . .” Three numbers were listed: Celia’s, Alma’s, and Luis’s office.

  Clipped to the packet of pictures was a note. It read, “Dearest Celia, I have kept some to distribute in Varadero this weekend. Someone is sure to have seen her and will know where she is staying. Love, Luis.”

  She refolded the note and slipped it back inside the envelope. As she did so, she saw that there were other things inside. She dumped them out. A roll of tape and a key.

  She recognized the key at once. It was the one to her apartment that she had given Luis a year ago. He must have sensed her reluctance—perhaps because he’d had to ask three times before she stopped making excuses and gave it to him. Maybe that was also why, as far as she knew, he had used it only twice. He used it the day he brought social workers to talk to Liliana. He had entered the apartment and called Celia at work to let her know the girl was not there. And today. When Celia had not come to the door in response to his quiet knock (because she was in the shower and had not heard it), he must have opened the door to put the packet inside.

  Celia held the key in the palm of her hand, all at once knowing things that only added new aches to her heart: what a good, decent man Luis was, that she never should have given him a key to her apartment in the first place, and that she would not likely give it to him, or to any man, ever again.

  She fell asleep on the rumpled bed. She woke sometime after dark and for a long time could not get back to sleep. Her anguish lay in the fact that Liliana had not called—not the apartment, not the hospital, not the school, not Alma. The longer she went without calling, the more it suggested that she might be involved in something that she was certain Celia would not tolerate.