by Rosa Jordan
“But Dr. Leyva!” Celia protested. “You saw my data and the outline of my presentation. If you thought—”
“I thought they were fine. And I expected rebuttals. But I had no idea it was going to create such a furor. Discussion groups are being organized all over Cuba. Not only in the field of medicine and, I might add, not generally in support of your position.”
“It’s not a ‘position.’ What I presented were the results of two years’ research. And there is nothing radical about the conclusions. It has been thirty years since the US surgeon general warned against the harmful effects of second-hand smoke!”
“Ah yes.” Leyva smiled with one side of his mouth. “But his warning was based on US research. Where is the Cuban research?”
“Besides mine, you mean?” Celia waved her coffee spoon in the air. “How do I know? Maybe others sat on their studies to avoid controversy. Or maybe the data were excluded from scientific publications for fear of government disapproval.”
Liliana, who had shown a spark of interest at the beginning of the conversation, appeared to have tuned out.
Leyva sipped his coffee, the grey eyes noncommittal. “Well, Doctor?”
“Well what?” Celia tried to address his concerns, but she was distracted by Liliana’s withdrawn manner. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Defend our good name, naturally.”
“You mean retract—”
“Of course not. I mean more studies. Develop protocols in your unit, with focuses on specific age groups, onset of exposure, whatever. If we are going to be attacked from all sides, the least you can do is help me man the barricades.” He reached for the sugar and added another teaspoonful to the already-sweetened coffee. “Oh, and put together a couple of generic protocols too. Something I can pass out to other hospital directors who challenge me, to give them something to work with if they want to run their own studies.”
Celia could scarcely believe that in response to her request for time off, he was piling all this additional work on her. She was on the verge of protesting when he looked at Liliana and asked, “Can you type?”
“I’ve never used a typewriter. But keyboard skills I’ve got. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Your aunt has requested some time off.” He looked again at Celia. “If you could come in for a few hours a day, to keep the pediatrics unit from slipping into total chaos, you could spend the rest of the time at home, working on the protocols. Maybe Liliana can help input some of the data.”
Liliana slumped lower in her seat and did not respond.
Celia frowned. The casual way Leyva had handed her the home leave she had requested and at the same time burdened her with a huge assignment was enough to give her vertigo. “I could not do it without a computer, not in any reasonable length of time.”
“The hospital has just been offered some used ones from Pastors for Peace. You can have one of them.”
Celia nodded, but her eyes were on Liliana. All she wanted to do was get her home. Enough was enough.
FIFTY-SEVEN
CELIA felt sure, when they got home and Liliana tumbled into bed, that the girl would sleep for a couple of hours, so she hurried to the bodega, the bakery, and the agromercado to replenish the apartment’s bare cupboards and refrigerator. When she returned Liliana was still sleeping. Celia went to the kitchen and prepared a vitamin-rich vegetable soup, certain that the aroma would wake her.
It did not. As night fell, it became apparent that she would sleep on. Good, Celia thought. There was no better pain reliever than natural sleep. Liliana would wake up in the morning fully rested, one day further removed from her traumatic experiences and one day closer to recovery.
Celia was so grateful to Dr. Leyva for having given her the time off that she did not even wait until the computer arrived but began at once to jot down ideas for short-term studies of a year or two that she and the other doctors in her unit could carry out.
She went to bed early and woke refreshed on Sunday morning. Liliana, though, remained asleep. After breakfast Celia tried to work but as Liliana slept on she became increasingly distracted. She found herself looking in on her niece every half hour, then every fifteen minutes. Sleep was a normal response to physical and psychological trauma, but twenty hours at a stretch? Just before noon, Celia reheated the soup, woke Liliana, and insisted that she get up and eat. Liliana complied groggily, then headed for her room.
“Don’t go back to bed,” Celia said. “The computer person is coming soon. I want you to learn to operate it too, in case you want to use it.”
“I have a headache,” Liliana said.
“Then lie on the sofa. At least you can listen and help me if I get into trouble later. You know I am not as computer-literate as you are.”
• • •
Celia could not have said what she thought a Pastor for Peace would look like, although she probably had in mind someone similar to the excessively scrubbed, excessively serious, excessively perspiring Mormon missionaries who sometimes showed up in tandem at her door. That hardly fit the description of the ponytailed beanpole who stood there holding a computer. He wore denim cut-offs, a Pastors for Peace T-shirt, and sandals from which protruded toes that had not been well scrubbed, if at all.
“Hi. Dr. Cantú?” At Celia’s nod, he said, “I brought you a pet dinosaur. It’s too old to learn new tricks, but it is housebroken. Where do you want him to live?”
Celia looked around. There was little choice; it was either the coffee table or the dining table. “The dining table,” she said, deciding that it would be easier to eat on the coffee table than to work there.
He placed the computer on the table and walked over to Liliana, who was lying on the sofa with her injured knee elevated. “Hi,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Jimmy. Who’re you?”
“Liliana,” she murmured, offering him a limp hand.
“Bet I know what happened to you. You took a spill on your bike, right? I had one on mine about five years ago and got scraped up the same way. ’Course, I looked worse than you to start with, so I naturally looked worse after.”
“Are you a pastor?” Liliana asked suspiciously.
“Naw. Pastors for Peace are just a bunch of blockade runners I like to hang with. They started that program of rounding up American kids from the ghetto who want to be doctors and getting them into medical school here in Cuba. But their main thing is running the blockade to bring down stuff y’all have a hard time getting. I like it ’cause it’s a way of helping out and saying ‘up yours’ to our government at the same time.”
He turned to Celia. “Ma’am, there’s still the monitor and printer.” He glanced down at her well-muscled legs. “Maybe you want to help me lug ’em up? The quicker it’s all in here, the quicker I can get you started.”
“Of course!”
By the time she had slipped on her thongs he was out the door and clattering down the stairs, blond ponytail flying. She caught up to him at the van and accepted the small monitor he placed in her arms. He followed with the printer, surge protector, a tangle of cords, and ten reams of paper.
“Looks like they expect you to do a lot of homework,” he said in a slightly breathless voice that told Celia that she was indeed in better condition than he was.
“I don’t mind. It’s a favour, allowing me to stay home with Liliana until she feels better. I like my work.”
“That’s the thing about you Cubans. So many of you really like what you’re doing. I bet you never once told your daughter she ought to go into some particular field because that’s where the money is.”
“She is my niece, but no, I would never tell her that. I want her to do what makes her happy—and hope that whatever she chooses, it will not be for the money.” As Celia said those words, an unexpected image of the music box stuffed with bills brought tears to her eyes. She was glad Jimmy was behind her on the stairs and unable to see them.
They piled the rest of the computer equipment on
the table. Jimmy looked around admiringly. “I really like the way you folks fix up your places.”
“I’ll bet,” Liliana muttered with heavy sarcasm.
Celia scanned the room, trying to see it through his eyes. The only “fix-up” in the sparsely furnished room was two framed photos, one of her parents and one of Liliana’s parents, and a blue vase that sometimes held flowers but now did not. Celia laughed, embarrassed both by Liliana’s tone and by the compliment, which she did not understand. “What do you mean?”
“You go in for space instead of stuff. An apartment this size back home”—he waved his lanky arms around—“would be jammed with stuff. Even if the family was on welfare. They’d be collecting crap from garage sales or flea markets or what people gave them till they couldn’t turn around. Then they’d hate the place because it would feel too little. Most everybody I know thinks where they live is too little. That’s because they’ve not left themselves room to breathe. Me, I gotta have elbow room.” He flapped his elbows and grinned at Liliana. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she said and closed her eyes.
Jimmy suddenly dropped to his knees and crawled forward. “Ah, there it is. I was looking for an outlet. Now that’s something I don’t much admire about Cuban houses. Not enough electrical outlets. ’Course, old houses in the States are like that too. My grandma’s house has one outlet per room. You can guess how many fuses she’s blown.”
Throughout the afternoon, as Jimmy installed what he called “the old 386” and showed Celia how to operate it, Liliana remained withdrawn. She opened her eyes only when Celia asked her to pay particular attention to something Jimmy was saying.
Jimmy did not directly address Liliana again until he was getting ready to leave. He squatted next to the sofa and said conversationally, “Sorry I couldn’t bring you any games, but the old 386 is text only. Can’t handle graphics.”
Liliana opened her eyes. “I thought all computers had graphics capabilities.”
“Now they do. Probably did even when your aunt was in school. But not back in the olden days.”
“Actually,” Celia said, “When I was in medical school in the early ’90s, because of the blockade and it being the Special Period, we had very few computers.”
“Oh yeah,” Jimmy stood up. “I see the shortage even now. That stupid blockade!” He looked back at Liliana. “But at least you’ve got them, right? In school?”
“Yeah.” She closed her eyes and frowned as if in pain.
Perhaps she was in pain, Celia thought as she thanked Jimmy and said goodbye. Perhaps there was more pain than she could imagine or Liliana would ever reveal. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that Liliana find a way to cope with it, and heal.
Celia placed her hand on Liliana’s forehead. She was sweating but it was from the heat of the afternoon, not fever. Celia picked up a pillow from the floor to exchange it for the sweat-dampened one under Liliana’s head. That was when she noticed the telephone. She had taken it off the hook and covered it with a pillow from her bed so its ringing would not disturb Liliana. Reluctantly she put the telephone back on the hook.
“Is it okay if I go back to my room now?” Liliana asked.
“Yes, if you feel more comfortable there. Do you mind if I stick my head in occasionally?” Celia smiled. “I need to reassure myself that you are really here.”
“If you want.”
It occurred to Celia that she could prevent getting calls by placing them herself—which she ought to do anyway. She dialed Alma first.
“Celia, mi hija! We have been trying to reach you. How is Liliana?”
“Better. We were at the hospital yesterday and today she slept until noon. I took the phone off the hook so it wouldn’t wake her and forgot to put it back on. I am sorry.”
Celia gave Alma a quick rundown on Liliana’s condition, omitting only what the doctor had gleaned from the internal exam. “I want her to sleep as much as she can for the rest of the day, but I have to go back to work tomorrow. Would it be possible for you to drop by in the afternoon? It is not that she needs anything done for her. Just company.”
“Claro,” Alma exclaimed. “I’ll bring lunch too, and some games.”
“Buena idea,” Celia encouraged. “I will leave the door unlocked, so just walk in. If she is asleep, please wake her.” She lowered her voice. “She is not herself yet. A little ashamed, I expect. Not quite able to face up to what happened.”
“Well, naturally! Poor child! I drove an ambulance for twenty-five years, and I can tell you, I never heard of anything like this.”
Celia rang off, relieved that Alma had not insisted on coming over immediately. She saw all too clearly how such a visit would have unfolded. Being Sunday, Luis was not at work so he would have driven her. While Alma focused on Liliana he would try to get Celia alone, to let her know how desperately he wanted to revive their relationship. As if, when she was saying goodbye to him and the MININT officials, his face had not been plea enough. The happiness in his eyes when she thanked him showed that he was incapable of understanding that what she felt was gratitude, not love. But then, how good was she at distinguishing the two? Was it not that very confusion that had led her to become engaged to him in the first place? The whole situation shamed and depressed her.
Celia called Joaquín, Angelica, and Emily to let them know Liliana was back and asked Emily to tell Magdalena and Danilo. When she finished the calls she peeked in on Liliana, who was again sleeping. A good time to become familiar with “the dinosaur,” Celia decided. The computer was to be used only for word processing so she would start with personal letters. She was, after all, still on “personal time.”
She began with a thank-you letter to the Gómez family, followed by one to Franci. She told Franci everything—except about the Sánchez hallucinations and her encounters with Miguel Ortega Ramos.
There was one more letter she wanted to write, but not on the computer. She shut it down and moved to the sofa, pad and pen in hand.
Dear Miguel,
I am sorry about the way I left. I dreamed that Liliana was hurt, and since I didn’t know where she was, I had to go home and hope she would come. Strangers brought her home the next day. She has been hurt, although it was nothing like the dream, so it wasn’t a premonition or anything like that. Just luck that I got here before she did. I would like to visit again, if I am still welcome. But I don’t know when.
Celia Cantú
• • •
Seeing that she had signed her last name, she smiled. As if he knew a lot of Celias. Well, two at least. He might be curious as to which one of them had written the note. She had no idea what Miguel’s address was, so she posted it to the park headquarters in Santo Domingo. Guides went up and down to the Comandancia every day. Someone would take it to him.
It was past midnight when Celia finished her correspondence. She heated a bowl of soup and took it out onto the balcony to eat. She wanted to take advantage of this quiet time to process the events of the past week, but hardly knew how to go about it.
Given what she had been through—Liliana’s disappearance, helping Franci bury Josephine’s father; returning to Miguel with the desperate desire to ground herself in the multilevel intimacy they had had or she had imagined they had on their first encounter, only to deny that was what she came for and to flee without saying goodbye; the danger posed by those men on the trail and her and the mule’s adrenalin-fuelled dashes to escape; the surreal all-night drive back to Habana, slipping from one Celia persona to the next until she did not know, moment to moment, who she was; then Liliana’s return, her shocking story, their day at the hospital—how did one go about processing all that?
She thought of an old sugar mill her class had once visited. Muscular young men, showing off for the gaggle of secondary school girls, had dumped one wagon load of cane after another onto the conveyor belt that carried it into the maw of the crusher. Some spilled off along the way, but the silly boys so overloaded it th
at the belt overflowed the crusher, causing the decrepit old mill to choke, sputter, and shut down.
Celia wondered if her own system was doing that—spilling bits of her experiences off to the side, to be scooped up later, or never. Would she be able to assimilate what remained without breaking down? Perhaps, if she didn’t rush it. She gazed at the stars and decided that on this warm clear night the only thing she would “process” was the fact that Liliana was now safely asleep in her own bed.
But beneath that thought her body was processing something quite different: the knowledge that at the other end of Cuba there was a man whose bed she had shared, and might share again, who knew she was two Celias in one skin and did not seem to mind.
FIFTY-EIGHT
LUIS knew the meaning of Celia’s phone being off the hook. The request she made of Alma could not have been clearer if she had shouted it in his face. All night he alternated between depression, hopelessness, and anger. Not until Monday morning, when he reached his office and sat at the familiar desk, did his mind began to work in a clear and methodical way. He was not without resources. Using the resources at hand, had he not come up with a way of flushing out Liliana that was more effective than José’s flashy convertible? Using those same resources—concentration, planning, and patience—had he not won Celia before, after José lost her? And so he would again. Even as he reassured himself of this, Luis wondered if he believed it only because José had left Cuba. Would his hope dry up like a splash of water on hot pavement as soon as his brother returned?
Luis’s gaze fastened on the portrait of Che Guevara, as it often did when he was trying to get himself in the right frame of mind for serious work. José had never set foot in this office and if he ever did, Luis knew he would make some sarcastic remark about the clichéd image, repeated ad infinitum all over the island. But it meant something to Luis, which was why it was the single picture that adorned his office wall.
Che never compromised his ideals. After the war in the sierra many combatants tried to repay themselves for the hardships they had endured by behaving so decadently that their lifestyle had come to be known as la dolce vita. Not Che. He lived a spartan existence in Cuba and faced even greater hardships in the Congo when he sought to contribute what he could to the Africans’ struggle for independence. But he had found the behaviour of the Congolese rebels too barbaric, and so had returned to South America to help the Bolivians liberate themselves from a brutal dictatorship. Che had opted for a life of honour and service to humanity over a life of bourgeois ease, as had he. Luis Lago had not fought in the Revolution but he would defend it to his dying breath.
