The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  “The art.” Lydia promptly launched into a discussion of Cuban painters that left Celia feeling as if she had been subjected to a seminar on the subject.

  “But here in Bayamo?” Celia asked, when Lydia finally paused for breath. “I would have thought that the best Cuban artists are based in Habana.”

  “Not necessarily,” Lydia contradicted. “I don’t think there’s a finer sculptor in Cuba, or in Europe for that matter, than Lecuey, who lives right here in Bayamo. I find the Afro-Caribbean influence at this end of the island very appealing. And many of them as yet undiscovered. For example, there is a tiny community on the coast, not far from Santiago, called Los Mamoncillos. The government set it up especially for artists with free housing and a gallery to display their work. But it’s so isolated—”

  The sentence was cut short by shouts from the street. One was female, high-pitched, and defiant. The other was male and angry. Celia glanced with alarm toward the open window, but Lydia waved airily as if shooing away a mosquito that had buzzed in on the warm night air. “They’re home,” she announced.

  “Puta! You showed him everything!”

  “Hijo de puta! It’s mine to show to whomever I please. At least he noticed.”

  Celia had no desire to witness a domestic quarrel or to spend an evening in the company of a quarrelling couple pretending for her sake that everything was fine. Leaping up from the table, she said hurriedly, “Please excuse me. I—”

  Lydia laid a restraining hand on her arm. “There is no need to hide. It will be over in a moment.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Joaquín is insanely jealous. When they go out socially, my sister taunts him. They quarrel all the way home, then fall into bed and make up, passionately.” Celia must have looked shocked because Lydia laughed. “Don’t you see? It is a game. Like fencing.”

  “But it sounds so—”

  “Intense? Of course. It is the thing that attracts them to each other.”

  As if to dramatize her statement, the front door flew open so hard that it banged back against the wall. Joaquín stalked in, looking like a cinema outlaw in tight black jeans, black boots, and a black V-neck T-shirt that revealed every ripple on his slim torso. He half turned to snarl at Sylvia. She was right behind him, wearing a leather miniskirt that hugged her hips even tighter than Joaquín’s jeans hugged his. As Sylvia stepped through the doorway she lifted a foot to take off one high-heeled shoe. For a second Celia thought she was going to hit Joaquín with it. He must have thought so too because he raised a hand as if to fend off a blow. At that instant it apparently registered with Sylvia that at the opposite end of the room, her sister was not alone at the table. The shoe remained suspended in mid-air.

  “Madre de Dios!” Sylvia gasped. “Celia Cantú! Where did you come from?”

  That brought Joaquín’s head snapping around, and both of them rushed toward her. Joaquín reached her first because Sylvia, with one shoe in hand, paused to remove the other. Joaquín swept Celia into his arms and hugged her so tight that she could feel his heartbeat. She was fairly certain that its pounding had nothing to do with the surprise of seeing her but was from adrenalin generated by the interrupted quarrel.

  Both proclaimed joy at seeing her, fussed over her, and chided her for not calling so that they could have been there when she arrived. Lydia shooed them toward the sofa and went to fetch coffee. Celia sank down in one of the overstuffed armchairs—not a common luxury in a Cuban household, as island-made wooden rockers were more durable and less expensive. Joaquín moved a footstool into place for her comfort and took a seat across from her on the sofa. Sylvia slid down beside him in a reclining position and thrust her shoeless feet into his lap. Joaquín wrapped his long thin fingers around one foot and began to gently stroke the underside of the arch—an intimate gesture he seemed unaware of as he quizzed Celia about their Habana friends.

  Lydia soon returned with the coffee. She smiled sardonically at Sylvia’s provocative pose. Sylvia gave her a defiant look and perhaps to provoke her older sister, squirmed so that the short skirt rode up even higher on her thighs.

  “Enough about people I don’t know!” Sylvia interrupted Joaquín. “Tell us, Celia, what brings you to this end of the island? A conference?”

  “No, this trip is personal. I—well, here. Let me show you.” Celia rose and went into the bedroom to get something from her bag.

  She heard Lydia say, “Have you no shame, Sylvia? You’re behaving like a child.”

  And Sylvia’s petulant response, “I’m tired. And Celia is family, yes, Joaquín?”

  “Claro, Celia es familia,” Joaquín was saying as Celia re-entered the room. He gazed indulgently at his supine wife. Neither seemed to remember the insults they had hurled at each other not thirty minutes earlier.

  On another occasion Celia would have found an excuse to retire, leaving them to pursue their passion. But her mission took precedence. From a manila envelope she removed copies of the flyer and passed them around. Just as the mood had changed in a heartbeat from heated quarrel to warm welcome, so it changed with dramatic suddenness in response to the information on the flyer.

  “Dios mío!” Lydia gasped.

  “Que terrible!” Sylvia cried, sitting bolt upright.

  Celia realized that these women, being Europeans, assumed the most frightening possibilities, such as a kidnapping or Liliana being spirited out of the country against her will. She was about to explain how those things did not happen here when Joaquín offered a similar thought. “What do you mean, ‘missing,’ Celia? This is not Argentina.”

  Briefly Celia told them what had happened. She did not mention that she had broken off her engagement with Luis, only that he had made the flyers and was helping distribute them. She asked if she might leave a few for them to circulate in Bayamo or anywhere else on the island where they happened to go.

  “Claro, claro!” they assured her.

  “Joaquín is about to take his team for demonstration matches in all the provincial capitals,” Sylvia said. She tapped the notice in her hand. “I’ll make more copies and he can circulate them everywhere he goes.”

  “Tomorrow I will be going to that artists’ community I told you about,” Lydia said. “There are four resorts along the coast east of Santiago. I will ask at each of them.”

  Joaquín was still staring at the picture, frowning. “Cuban girls don’t go missing,” he insisted. “They just don’t.”

  “I know,” Celia said. “But she did.”

  “In Cuba,” he said stubbornly, “children are safe.”

  “Yes,” Celia said, although as a doctor she knew it was a qualified kind of safety. She had never heard of the kind of abductions and child murders in Cuba that so often made the news in North America, but social workers had brought her young girls who had strayed into prostitution. She had first-hand knowledge of the damage some had sustained. She also knew that time was of the essence; that the longer it took to get them into care, the greater the chance of irreparable damage. She wasn’t sure she was doing all she should be doing, but was certain that the collective approach was the best, the Cuban, way. The more people who joined the search, the better.

  They sat for a moment, saying nothing. Then Sylvia stood up. “This is such a sad thing, Celia. I will pray for your little girl tonight.” She kissed the air next to Celia’s face and, with a meaningful look at Joaquín, left the room.

  Lydia clasped Celia’s hands in hers. “I am glad you told us. We will spread the word. If your lovely niece is in this area, someone surely will be able to tell us.”

  Lydia left the room and Celia started for her own. Joaquín put out a hand to keep her. “This is terrible news. And on top of the other—you must be devastated.”

  Celia’s heart leapt into her throat. “What other?” Too late she realized that it would not be some new terrible thing, merely some new version of the old. Joaquín was already answering the question she wished she had not asked.

  “Luis Posada
Carriles is on the loose again.”

  His words struck her mind like the slap of an open palm against her cheek. “No!” she burst out. “Impossible!”

  “It was the president of Panama, that bitch! On her last day in office she pardoned him. Of course the release was brokered by the United States—or so we can surmise, since Posada and his little terrorist entourage left Panama on a US government plane.”

  “You mean he is back in the United States?”

  “The plane put down in Teguchigalpa for a press conference. When it was time to reboard, Posada had disappeared. Who can say where he is now? You know he brags about all the passports he owns, how he can travel anywhere, anytime.” Joaquín made a sudden slashing motion with his arm and jabbed the air with an imaginary rapier. “That’s what it will take to stop him. Just that! Through the heart, to the spine!”

  Although the news shook her to the core, Celia pulled back. “Let it go,” she said in a low voice. “I have said this before, Joaquín. We have to let it go.”

  Joaquín wrapped his arms around her. She could feel him shaking with the intensity of his hatred. “You say that,” he choked, “but you can’t, no more than I.”

  “We must,” she insisted. “Posada will get what he deserves. If not in Panama, if not in Venezuela, if not in the United States, then somewhere.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I am sure,” she replied, although she was not at all sure. She pointed in the direction Sylvia had gone. “Go, old friend. Your wife is waiting.”

  Joaquín stared hard into Celia’s eyes. She knew he was looking for what he had always looked for in her—a reflection of the pain and frustration he himself felt. What he sought was not there with the intensity it once would have been, but he must have seen enough to validate his own emotions. He kissed her cheeks and bade her goodnight.

  The old anguish was there, of course; a knot in Celia’s stomach told her as much. But where Joaquín had had no new emotional upheavals to take its place, apart from those he and his wife created for their own amusement, she had one so fresh and raw that news that her father’s killer had again gone free did not generate the same turmoil it once would have. It was a reality, but it was not hers—not now.

  FORTY-SIX

  CELIA arrived at Franci and Philip’s place in mid-morning. The door was locked, and when she walked around back to see if the mothers were about, she found that they, too, were out—no surprise, as most Santiagans tried to get their errands done before the city’s sweltering heat reached its zenith. As she passed the bedroom window she peered in and saw that it was exactly as she had left it a little over a week ago. Even the teddy bear, a gift from Philip to Franci once when they mistakenly thought she was pregnant, remained propped against the pillow where Celia had placed it. The hope that Liliana might be here died within her.

  She got into the car intending to drive to Franci’s office but decided instead to get gas and go into downtown Santiago for—what? Clues? Luck?

  In central Santiago she found a line of tour buses disgorging tourists into Parque Céspedes. She went into Hotel Casa Granda to phone Alma, Emily, and the hospital and to leave a flyer at the reception desk. Then she climbed the wide marble stairs up to the terrace. She took a seat at one of the small tables that flanked the balustrade, where she had a clear view of the park, and ordered a plate of pasta.

  There were numerous jineteros in the park and almost an equal number of police. While visitors wandered about collecting impressions of the historic square, police and jineteros eyed each other suspiciously. The police were authorized to arrest any Cuban who approached a foreigner with the intent of hustling, but where did simple sociability end and harassment begin? If they moved to intercept hustlers too soon, foreigners were likely to perceive it as police interference in a harmless exchange. Yet if the police held back, foreigners were quick to complain that the police had looked on and done nothing while they were being harassed.

  Perhaps the police were being particularly vigilant in Parque Céspedes that day because the only contact between Cubans and foreigners that Celia observed occurred in alcoves along side streets where the odd visitor wandered alone. Even at a distance it was easy to tell when a foreigner was being approached because almost all the tourists were white and most of the jineteros were black. This would not have been true in Habana or Trinidad, but Santiago, having the island’s largest Afro-Cuban population, naturally had a higher percentage of black jineteros. If Liliana had got hold of an outfit more appropriate than the shorts and halter top she was wearing when she disappeared, she might be mistaken for a tourist, but she would have stood out among so many dark-skinned jineteras.

  Celia finished her pasta and went down into the park. She approached several of the policemen and showed them Liliana’s picture. They shrugged, neither interested nor helpful. Their job was to keep hustlers away from tourists, not to look for missing kids. If the compañera wanted to file a report with the youth authorities . . .

  The compañera did not. She walked up Aguilera Street to the Plaza de Dolores. In sidewalk cafés around the plaza there were many people, some exactly the kind of young foreign “backpackers” Celia had begun to imagine Liliana might have hooked up with. She stood in the shade of a tamarind tree and scanned the area.

  Three gay men sat on a bench exchanging witticisms probably meant to be overheard by a lesbian couple on a nearby bench. The women caressed each other, pretending to ignore the men. However, given the relatively small number of Cuban homosexuals who were out of the closet, Celia guessed that they would all end up at the same party that evening. One of the men rose and, flinging a forelock of black curls out of his eyes, came toward her. She recognized him from the café in Playas del Este. He was the one who, when she passed around the notice with Liliana’s pictures, had made a facetious remark about her not being “his type.”

  “Hello,” he said. “I don’t suppose you remember me, but—”

  “I do remember you,” Celia said. “We met at Mi Cayito.”

  He looked embarrassed. “That’s right. I just wanted to tell you that I have been on the lookout for your daughter. I’ve got the numbers, see?” He took a thin wallet from his pocket and from it extracted a slip of paper, which did indeed have the three telephone numbers listed on the notice.

  The thoughtfulness, coming from such an unexpected source, brought tears to Celia’s eyes. “Gracias, compañero,” she murmured.

  “Don’t thank me,” he protested. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Yes you have. You have made me feel less alone in my search.”

  “Oh.” He looked down at his shoes. “Then I guess—I mean, you shouldn’t feel alone, okay? Not in Cuba.”

  No, Celia thought as she walked back along Calle Herida. Everywhere she had been so far, she had come away knowing she had the support of friends and strangers. Whatever the problem, in Cuba one need not shoulder it alone.

  She walked until she heard the voices of a classical choir floating on the hot midday air, then changed directions to return to Parque Céspedes. As if to emphasize Santiago’s collage of musical traditions, she was barely out of earshot of the choir when she paused to listen to a street band of guitarists, flautists, and drummers. When the charanga ended, Celia approached the plump female vocalist, showed her Liliana’s pictures, and asked the tired question.

  Everyone in the band glanced at the pictures, but briefly, anxious to get back to their music. “Don’t know as we’d notice her out here on the street,” the woman said apologetically. “Try the clubs.”

  As Celia cut across Parque Céspedes toward where her car was parked, she noticed an elderly black man seated on a bench watching the human circus. Judging him to be a park regular, Celia sat down next to him. After exchanging pleasantries, she showed him Liliana’s pictures and asked if he had seen her around.

  He studied the photos, then called to an ebony-skinned young man with Rastafarian hair. “Julio! Come tel
l me if you seen this little girl around.” To Celia he said, “Julio play son over at the Casa de la Trova. You got time to catch the show this afternoon, he way better than most.”

  The younger man strolled over and took a seat next to Celia, his dreadlocks brushing softly against her bare arm as he leaned to look at the flyer she held. “This one I not seen. Not too many white jineteras around here.”

  Celia flinched at the word and started to slide the poster back into her purse, as if to shield her niece from that interpretation. But the old man reached out with arthritic fingers and took it from her to study the pictures. Finally he shook his head.

  “The boy speak true. This child most likely gone to Habana.”

  Celia rose and nodded her thanks. “If you see her, would you tell her—” She hesitated. “Tell her that her tía is looking for her.”

  “For sure,” the young musician promised.

  The old man patted Celia’s hand. “And you know, no pretty girl like that gonna come in this park without Julio seeing her.”

  “Ha!” Julio tossed the long Rastafarian locks in a way that Celia suspected drove women wild. “This old man got more girls sitting down by him in a day than I got in a week. And taking his picture. He make more money looking colourful than I make playing music.”

  “That’s true and that’s justice.” The old man winked a cloudy eye at Celia. “Learning to be a music man don’t take no time at all. Learning to be old, now that take pretty near a man’s whole life.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  CELIA parked the convertible at the curb, relieved to see that the Fiat was now in the driveway. “Hello?” she called through the screen door. “Anybody here?”