by Rosa Jordan
Only one doctor in the group was older than Celia. Ana Menendez had been passed over as jefe de sala because her husband, also a physician, had gone to Spain on a government-funded trip and had not returned. The supervisory position required attendance at conferences abroad, and as Ana’s husband had defected, she was considered unreliable. In Celia’s view the administration was wrong about that. Ana was far too attached to parents, siblings, children, and grandchildren to ever leave the island, even to be reunited with her husband. She was a fine doctor, yet so anxious to prove her loyalty that she would never have taken the kind of risk Celia had just taken in speaking out against government policy. For that same reason, she could not be counted on to participate wholeheartedly in what Celia was about to ask of her doctors.
Next to Ana Menendez sat the two youngest doctors in the group, Carlos Urrutia and Beto Alfonsín, small wiry men, one of African descent, one of European ancestry. Both were graduates of the same medical school Celia herself had attended, although eight years behind her. They shared a keen sense of humour, took the social benefits of the Revolution for granted, and displayed irreverence toward Cuba’s leadership typical of their generation. If there was a raised eyebrow, a sideways smile, or a joke to be told about Cuban officialdom, it was sure to come from them. Their favourite line was that between them their initials spelled CUBA, and to know their hand-to-mouth financial status was to know everything one needed to know about the nation’s economy.
Opposite them at the table were two Oriental-looking doctors who might have passed for brother and sister, but their background could hardly have been more different. Ancestors of Lia Fong had been brought to Cuba in the mid-1800s to replace recently freed black slaves in the cane fields. But the Fongs, like many free blacks, had migrated to town. Lia had grown up in Habana’s Chinatown, where her family ran what was said to be the best Chinese restaurant in the city.
The similar-featured young doctor next to her, Kunio Saki, had grown up on the Isla de la Juventud. His Japanese-immigrant grandparents had been snatched off their vegetable farm on the main island in 1942, taken to Cuba’s largest offshore island, and there, together with five thousand other “enemy aliens” had been crowded into a US Navy prison called El Presidio. After the war the Saki family, having lost their mainland farm, remained on Isla de la Juventud and eked out a living as door-to-door vegetable vendors. They were staunch supporters of the Revolution, it being the education policies of the Revolution that made it possible for Number One Grandson to become a physician. Dr. Saki was fond of reminding people that just a decade after his grandparents were prisoners in El Presidio, Fidel Castro was locked up there by the Batista regime and “surely ate some of the vegetables my grandparents delivered to the prison.”
Doctors Saki and Fong, like Doctors Urrutia and Alfonsín, were bright and energetic. If they went along with Celia’s new approach it would not be because they felt compelled to submit to her authority but because they saw it as a more effective way to do their job.
The strongest opposition to the directives Celia planned to give her doctors was likely to come from Esther Cohen, sitting directly across the table from her, chain-smoking. Esther’s family history was one of good fortune and tragedy, which, it seemed to Celia, had shaped the woman’s conflictive personality. In 1939, Hitler had allowed a shipload of Jews to leave Germany, in a calculated move to show that Jews were no more welcome in other countries than in his own. He was very nearly proven right. Neither the United States nor Canada allowed the ship to land. It was permitted to dock in Cuba but only two children were allowed ashore. The ship returned to Europe, where other countries finally accepted the passengers. Most perished in concentration camps when the Nazis overran Europe.
One of the two children allowed to enter Cuba was Esther Cohen’s grandmother. Parents and grandparents had bequeathed to Esther a deep loyalty to Cuba for having saved a tiny portion of their family, entangled with equally deep bitterness toward Cuba for having forced others to return to Europe and to their deaths.
Celia valued Esther for her analytical abilities but found her tendency to take a contrary stance on just about any subject tiresome. Sometimes it seemed to Celia that Esther did so because she considered herself to be the better doctor. At other times Celia suspected Esther of taking the opposite point of view as a form of mental exercise, merely to show off her considerable debating skills.
Whatever her motivation, Esther Cohen could be a formidable opponent, Celia thought, as she unobtrusively studied her from across the table. She noticed that Esther’s smooth white skin was already beginning to show signs of aging from the effects of smoking. Celia smiled at the younger woman. Esther flashed a quick but challenging smile back. Celia knew then, if she had not known before, that unless she said exactly the right thing there would be polarization, some doctors siding with Esther, some with her. Even if the majority voted with Celia to pursue the studies she was proposing, those on the losing side would do so with less commitment than she wanted.
“I have copies here of the presentation I gave in Santiago,” Celia opened the discussion. “I want you to see exactly what I said at the conference because as you know,” she paused and looked around the table, “we are under fire.”
Someone, Celia wasn’t sure who, murmured, “We ?”
Celia gave a wry smile. “That is Dr. Leyva’s view. He says that various groups may try to bring the hospital in general and this pediatrics unit in particular into disrepute because of the link our data show between second-hand smoke and children’s respiratory ailments. He has asked for our help in ‘manning the barricades.’ According to him, the way we do this is with more studies.”
“And if they fail to support previous conclusions?” Esther asked sharply.
“If that should be the case, would it not be better for our reputation if the refutation comes from us than someone else?”
There was silence, Esther choosing to respond with an enigmatic smile.
Celia looked around the table. “Comments, anyone?”
“Is that all? Just more studies?” Lia Fong asked.
Celia gave the young doctor her attention. “Not quite, Dr. Fong. Based on the evidence we already have, I think it is time we made an all-out effort to ensure that parents understand how important it is for their children to have a smoke-free environment.”
Next to her, Dr. Menendez shifted uneasily. “There are community workers who discuss the health effects of smoking. That would be their responsibility.”
Naturally Ana would not want to do anything that might be construed as anti-government, Celia thought. If the Ministry of Agriculture suddenly decided to market cocaine, Ana Menendez would probably find a way to avoid criticizing it.
Celia turned to her. “True, Dr. Menendez. But as pediatricians, our word carries more weight. I do not want any of you to let a parent leave this hospital without a clear understanding of the damage second-hand smoke can do to their children—or has already done. No matter how many times you have told them before, or in how many different ways, tell them again. Is that clear?”
From the corner of her eye, Celia saw Esther Cohen’s lips curl upward in a tight smile as she blew a stream of smoke toward the middle of the table. “Given what all Cubans have been asked to give up, I don’t see how we can ask them to give up smoking too.”
“I agree. Smoking is very much a personal choice.” Celia paused just long enough to let it sink in that she was not asking Esther to forego her personal choice to damage her lungs and dry her facial skin to the consistency of a well-smoked ham.
Esther could not very well take exception to what, on the face of it, was agreement. When she said nothing, the other five doctors looked to Celia. Her next remark was phrased as a question, but there could be no doubt that it was a directive. “However, as specialists in children’s health, we should, don’t you agree, encourage them to not smoke around their children, particularly indoors, or with infants in arms?”
/> She was rewarded with nods of approval from Carlos and Beto. Celia had expected that from the two young doctors. Both were new fathers and, contrary to Cuban custom, forbade smoking in their homes. Ana Menendez, always quick to express agreement with whatever she perceived as the prevailing mood—unless it ran counter to the official position—bobbed her head in what might have been a nod of agreement.
Kunio Saki leaned toward Lia Fong and whispered something. She nodded. Then he asked, “This is to be primary research, using protocols developed here?”
“That is the idea.” Celia tapped the second pile of papers. “I have outlined ten possible areas of research. You can review these—” She glanced at Esther. “Or submit ideas of your own. Then we will take a vote as to which ones the department will pursue. Dr. Leyva’s only stipulation is that they be in areas where a substantial amount of data can be compiled in a relatively short period of time, say, one to two years.”
“I hardly see how anything we do can be original,” Esther sniffed. “The effects of second-hand smoke have already been studied ad infinitum in the United States and Canada.”
“Exactly the point I made with Dr. Leyva,” Celia nodded, again leaving the woman without a sparring partner. “But he insists we need Cuban research.” Celia flashed an ironic smile around the table. “Maybe he is hoping Cuban tobacco will prove less harmful than what is grown in the United States.”
That brought a laugh from the younger doctors. Beto’s dark face split into a wide grin. “How about a study designed to show the health benefits of smoking?”
“Yeah!” Carlos crowed. “Like, if kids learn young, from their parents, they might be less likely to set themselves on fire by smoking in secret.”
“Whatever, as long as we be on the same side as the powers that be,” Beto said with a comic roll of his eyes that put a lie to his concern about pleasing “the powers.”
Lia Fong leaned forward and injected a point that Celia had intended to make. “The bureaucrats in the Ministry of Agriculture may not be ready for this yet, but I listened to the speech Fidel gave in Buenos Aires. He cautioned young people against smoking. If that isn’t a change in the way the wind—or should I say, the smoke—blows, I don’t know what is. I think the government may begin a serious anti-smoking campaign within a year. We could be ahead of the curve on this one.”
Celia understood Lia Fong’s remark for what it was: a reminder to Ana Menendez and any others in the group who might be hesitant about doing studies that were likely to provide data that would undermine Cuba’s tobacco industry, that the nation’s highest power, not to mention its best mind, would approve of such research.
“Very perceptive, Dr. Fong. Dr. Leyva seems to feel the same way.” Thus Celia reinforced the fact that some people in positions of authority shared her thinking on this particular subject. She handed off the papers on either side of her to be passed around. Next to Lia Fong, Kunio was nodding, smiling. Next to Celia, Ana Menendez was not smiling, but she had taken a paper and was studying it intently.
Beto grabbed one of the protocol outlines. “Man, this is radical!” he exclaimed, without even reading it. Carlito snatched it from him. “Then it’s mine. You can study the effects of second-hand smoke on babies’ breath.”
Esther snubbed out her cigarette, took the remaining protocol outlines, and began flipping through them. Celia saw her lips part and thought, She’s hooked. It is going to be a unanimous vote.
Celia rose to signal the end of the meeting. “Sorry I have to run, but there is not much to discuss until you have all had time to digest these materials. We will meet again next week and take a vote. Parent counselling should of course begin immediately.”
Celia was not in as much of a hurry as she pretended; she merely wanted to adjourn the meeting before Esther Cohen could challenge her again. Cohen would do that anyway, but in private Celia did not mind. She already knew that Esther would play the contrarian to the end, then very likely turn in more comprehensive and better-analyzed research data than anyone else. That was why she considered Esther a valuable colleague. It was only in group situations where Celia was aiming for a consensus and Esther was trying to create competition that the woman became a thorn in her side.
As the doctors skimmed papers or stuffed them into briefcases to be read later, Celia headed for the door. She did not stop at her office but went out of the building to where her bike was parked. She flung her leg over the seat as if mounting a steed and raced off. She might lack the strength of her mother and sister, but on her own turf she had held her ground, perhaps even gained some.
The one thing she might have wished was that Liliana could have been there to see her take charge like that. While basking in the glow of success, another thought brushed Celia’s mind: that without Liliana’s blunt characterization of her as “not strong enough,” she probably would not have gone into the meeting so determined, remained so completely in control, or come out of it with exactly what she wanted.
SIXTY-TWO
CELIA opened the door and saw Liliana as she had found her every afternoon that week, sprawled on the sofa in underpants and a stained T-shirt. On other days Liliana had been staring dull-eyed into space, but now she held the black receiver to her ear.
“She’s just come in,” Liliana said. “You can talk to her. Chau, Capitán.”
Celia took the receiver from Liliana.
“Capitán? Thank you for calling.”
“Buenos tardes, Doctora. I knew Liliana was upset, or—” He corrected himself. “I knew any of my daughters put through such an ordeal would be suffering, so I considered it important to let her know what we learned.”
“Thank you,” Celia murmured and waited.
“We found his reservation, confirmed, for a flight out of Habana, so we waited, expecting him to show up. We also posted surveillance at the airport rental car agency, where we assumed he would return the car.”
There was a long pause, so long that Celia did not have to be told that this had failed. Finally Quevedo said, “The long and short of it is that the guy outsmarted us. He turned the car in on Cayo Coco, so its return wasn’t immediately registered in Habana. He rented another one, then drove to Holguín and left Cuba from there.”
“To Argentina?” Celia asked.
“To Costa Rica. We checked with the Argentine military and learned that he was one of those forced out after the dirty war. He is now running a police training program in Honduras. The Argentines couldn’t be more specific than that, and of course we got no co-operation from the Hondurans. So that’s more or less the end of the trail. Even if we managed to locate him, Honduras being under the US thumb as it is, would never extradite to Cuba.”
“Will he ever be able to return?” Celia asked. She glanced at Liliana, who was staring into space with the dull-eyed gaze Celia found so disconcerting.
“No,” Quevedo assured her. “We contacted the Honduran authorities and although they denied ever having heard of him, I am sure they will communicate to him the fact that he is a wanted man in Cuba. That should give him second thoughts about returning. Also, as I explained to Liliana, his data is now in our computer systems. Even if he returns under an assumed name and with a different passport, there is a good chance he will be apprehended.”
“You have been more than kind, Capitán. Liliana and I are grateful to you.”
“It was only my duty,” he replied stiffly.
“Your duty to investigate and to follow up so thoroughly. But a kindness to treat the incident seriously in the first place and to let us know the outcome.”
“All part of defending our Revolution,” he said brusquely. “Good luck to you and your niece.” He hung up before Celia could proffer more thanks.
She kicked off her crepe-soled hospital shoes and started unbuttoning her smock, anxious as always to strip, shower, and rid herself of hospital smells. “So,” she said to Liliana. “I guess he already told you everything.”
“Yeah. How
old Boots got out of the country.” Celia was halfway to the bathroom when Liliana added, “After he beat up another girl.”
Celia stopped in her tracks and turned around. “What ?”
“He didn’t tell you?” When Celia shook her head, Liliana continued. “A girl from Las Tunas. He picked her up on his way to the airport, messed her up, and threw her out of the car just like he did me. Well, not quite like me. He dumped her while the car was stopped. But she was already messed up. At least, that’s what Captain Quevedo said the girl told them at the hospital.” Liliana paused. “She remembered the boots too.”
Celia returned to the sofa, knelt by Liliana, and kissed her. “You were so brave!”
Liliana shook her head. “No I wasn’t.”
Later, standing under a tepid shower, Celia understood the remark for what it was: evidence of yet another wound in Liliana’s psyche. Perhaps she would not have noticed nor felt it so keenly had she not been struggling with the same question: exactly how brave was she? Was it that she—or Liliana, for that matter—actually lacked courage? Or was it that they had not demonstrated it in a convincing way; in particular, not when they felt they ought to have taken a stand?
Yet if Liliana had been bolder she might not even be alive now. As for herself—well, there was really no comparison between the kind of courage required of Liliana to deal with physical abuse and death threats and the kind a woman needs to hold on to herself when a man is trying to manipulate her. The only similarity was that, in both cases, to not capitulate required some sort of inner strength. Failing that, the challenge was to reclaim self-respect. How in the world did one go about doing that?
