The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  “My novias were women of substance, all of them. In Cuba’s most rugged mountains I find everything I need. But there are no universities there. No possibilities for political power. No place for an architect to realize her urban renewal ideas.” He squeezed Celia’s hand but did not look at her as he added, “No hospitals.”

  The air was sliced by shrieks of metal against metal as the train braked to a stop.

  Celia said, “But there are children who need doctors, no?”

  He kissed her lightly, hardly more than a brush of his lips against hers. “Yes,” he said. “There are children.”

  Then he was gone.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CELIA had called Franci when she changed trains in Bayamo to let her know when she would be arriving. Franci was waiting for her at the station, alone.

  “Where are the girls?” Celia asked at once.

  “Philip took them to the Centro Cultura de Africa. It was that or let Las Madres drag them to the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Cobre.” Franci grimaced as she unlocked the car doors. “Josephine has already been twice, once with each of them,”

  “Just what you were afraid of.”

  “So it was,” Franci said, but smiled. “That Josephine! You wouldn’t believe how she’s got those old ladies wrapped around her little brown finger. She chatters away in French about the Virgin to Philip’s mother, then in pidgin Spanish tells my mamá how Ochún is the same goddess her mother prayed to in Haití. Both mothers are absolutely convinced that she sees things through their own religious lens.”

  “Does Josephine actually believe in either the Virgin or Ochún?”

  Franci shrugged. “Yes and no. She told me one can’t have too many gods, but also said she asked all the ones she’d ever heard of to save her mother and father and baby brother and none of them responded, so she is doubtful they exist.”

  “A thoughtful conclusion,” Celia mused. “Agnosticism is unusual in a child.”

  “Josephine is an unusual child. Our personal miracle.”

  “You and Philip deserved a personal miracle,” Celia readily conceded. Trying to keep the anxiety from her voice, she asked, “What about me? Do I get one now?”

  Franci’s face clouded. “I hope so. But don’t count on it happening this week. You’ve got a pretty complicated situation on your hands, hermana.”

  “Where are we going?” Celia asked, noticing that Franci had turned the opposite direction from her house and was taking the road along the harbour that they had followed to find and bury Josephine’s father. “Not to visit a grave, I hope!”

  “No, no!” Franci looked horrified. “I’d never go back there unless Josephine asked to. So far she hasn’t mentioned it. It’s just that with Philip and the girls out all afternoon, I thought we could get off by ourselves. Sin Mamá, sans Maman.”

  • • •

  Franci pulled in at the Castillo El Morro and led Celia to a restaurant on the opposite side of the parking area. Entering the restaurant, Celia saw that the view of the coast far below was breathtaking. “Thanks, Franci. This is a real treat.”

  They sat at a table recently vacated by a group of tourists and placed orders. Then Franci leaned back and made eye contact in a way Celia recognized as her “conference” mode. “Okay, here’s what I’ve found out. Liliana wants to leave Cuba. Preferably go to the States.” At Celia’s silence, Franci said, “I take it this is not news to you?”

  Celia swallowed. “No.”

  “I haven’t seen Liliana in a while, but when I last talked to her, less than a year ago, I’m almost certain nothing like this was in her mind. She was full of questions about medical school here in Santiago—what kind of grades she needed, what approvals she would need to attend here rather than in Habana, whether she could stay with us if she didn’t like living in the dorm. Remember those conversations?”

  “Yes,” Celia nodded. “And she did follow up with the authorities to find out what the procedure would be.”

  “So when did this change come about?”

  “I can’t say for sure. She started cutting classes about three months before she ran away. That would have been in January.”

  “What was going on in her life then?”

  The waiter set drinks and a plate of banana chips between them. Celia heard Franci crunching into the chatinos without really hearing and looked down at the spectacular coastline without really seeing. She could hardly remember a time before the emotional earthquakes of the past month, a time when their life had been steady to the point of humdrum. Finally she fastened on Christmas as a date she could recall in detail. Neither her family nor the Lagos had ever done much more during the holidays than get together for a big meal. Alma of course went to Mass. Sometimes Liliana went with her, sometimes she did not. Last Christmas Eve, she had.

  Franci interrupted her thoughts. “Try to remember what you were doing.”

  What Celia had been doing Christmas Eve, while Alma and Liliana were at Midnight Mass, was giving Luis his “Christmas presents”—first sex, then a promise that she would set a wedding date within the next few months.

  “Around Christmas Luis was pressuring me to get married but I didn’t tell Liliana. Oh, and her best friend moved away. Her parents joined a literacy team to Venezuela and she went to stay with her grandparents in Las Tunas. But Liliana has so many friends . . .”

  Celia stopped speaking. Franci pointed to the chatinos, “Eat. Some pieces are starting to fit together, but I want to get them—well, you know how it is with a jigsaw puzzle. It helps to get all the pieces right side up before you try putting them together.”

  Celia munched on banana chips and managed to stay silent for perhaps two minutes. Then said, “Enough already, Franci! Think out loud!”

  Franci was running a finger around the rim of her daiquiri glass, periodically stopping to lick the salt off it. “Children don’t have to be told when something’s going on with the adults in their life. Liliana would always have a pretty good idea of where your relationship with Luis stood. Don’t you think she knew marriage was in the wind?”

  “Probably.” Celia took a deep breath. “I was on the verge of giving in. I really did not want to marry him, but I was also tired of living in limbo.”

  “You could have broken it off.”

  “I wanted to but I guess I was not strong enough. Not strong enough to say no when he asked me to marry him, not strong enough to break it off after I had said yes. I kept drifting. Making excuses instead of decisions.”

  “Then José came back and that changed everything.”

  “No. Then Liliana ran away and that changed everything.”

  “Are you saying José being back hasn’t changed anything?”

  Celia hesitated. The hesitation was enough to give her away to someone who knew her as well as Franci. “Maybe it did. Maybe it has. But that was later.”

  “Like now?”

  Celia did not answer.

  “Answer me, Celia. Are you thinking of taking up with José Lago again?”

  “I don’t want José,” Celia said in a voice that was almost a whine. “But he keeps pushing me, and if it is what Liliana wants—”

  “Wait a minute. Who said that’s what Liliana wants?”

  “What does Liliana want?” Celia cried. “Come on, Franci, help me !”

  A crowd of Italians who had just finished touring El Morro burst into the restaurant, loudly disputing whether Giovanni Bautista Antonelli, the sixteenth century Italian engineer who had designed the fort, was merely a talented man or a true genius.

  “It’s too noisy to think in here,” Franci decided and signalled for the check.

  As they drove back into the city, Franci said, “There’s one more piece that fits in somewhere.” She glanced across at Celia. “This is a tough one.”

  Celia felt a headache coming on, caused, she supposed, by the fact that they were driving directly into the bright afternoon sun and she had had only a daiquiri and banana c
hips for lunch. “Go ahead,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “Liliana told Josephine that her parents abandoned her.”

  Celia’s eyes flew open. “Abandoned her? Why on earth would she have said—?”

  “Exactly the question I asked her. I didn’t get a straight answer, but I think it has to do with what you told her, or maybe what you didn’t tell her, about how they died.”

  “You think I should have given her all the gory details?” Celia cried. “Young as she was?” Was Franci accusing her of overprotecting Liliana, as Luis so often did? Implying that if Liliana had known the truth she would not be going off the rails now? “Look, Franci, just because Josephine handled the harsh reality of her parents’ death doesn’t mean Liliana—”

  Franci interrupted sharply. “Let’s not be making comparisons like that, Celia. We have no idea how Josephine is going to handle it, especially once she reaches her teens. I am only pointing out that Liliana is not a young child anymore, so some of the things that haven’t been explained to her—”

  “Like what?” Celia cried, still feeling as if she was being accused.

  “Like why both her parents were in Angola in the first place. Her impression, and this is more what I got from Josephine than from what she said to me, was that they just dumped her with her grandmother—your mother—and went off to have a romantic war because they wanted to be heroes.”

  “That is not true!”

  “I know,” Franci said as they pulled into the driveway. “So maybe you want to tell her how it really was.”

  Philip had not yet returned with the girls, which was fortunate because by then Celia’s head was pounding and she could not have explained anything to anybody. She claimed exhaustion—true in view of how little sleep she had gotten the previous night—and went to lie down. She immediately fell asleep and was only vaguely disturbed by the sounds of the girls returning and Franci shushing them because Tía Celia was resting.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CELIA woke to darkness. Her headache was gone. Dishes were being washed in the kitchen, indicating that she might have missed dinner. There were thumping sounds and occasional single-person applause coming from the living room.

  She meandered out to see what was going on. Josephine, whose short hair had been blown out into a smaller version of Franci’s Afro, was twirling around the living room in a white dress made of a lacy fabric very like that of a curtain panel now missing from the window of the guest room. Liliana was pirouetting in an ankle-length red skirt that Franci must have loaned her. Her dark curls had been transformed into a cascade of tiny beaded braids that would have taken hours to do. That, Celia guessed, was how Franci had kept her sitting still long enough for an intimate conversation.

  Philip stood in the doorway of the kitchen in his white dress uniform, the wavy blond hair and blue eyes giving him the appearance of a storybook prince. He applauded as the girls leapt and curtsied in front of him.

  “What,” Celia exclaimed, “is going on?”

  “Tía Celia!” Liliana squealed. She twirled her way across the room and flung herself into Celia’s arms. “We thought you were going to sleep forever.”

  “Je suis une ballerine,” Josephine announced, pointing her toes. “Liliana est ma professeur.”

  Celia chuckled. Years ago, as a student, she had attended a lecture by Alicia Alonso. The great ballerina had achieved worldwide acclaim for her use of ballet as therapy for disturbed children, her theory being that children whose emotions were out of control were calmed and reassured by being able to control their body to the degree demanded by ballet. Although initially skeptical, Celia observed some of Alonso’s dance therapy sessions and was impressed with what she saw. Not long afterwards Liliana lost her parents, then her last grandparent. Celia arranged for her to take ballet lessons, not because Liliana seemed more upset than any normal child would have been, but as a precaution. However, the teacher was no Alicia Alonso and Liliana did not have the makings of a dancer. By age ten she had grown bored so the ballet lessons ended. As far as Celia knew, this was the first time she had pointed a toe since.

  Franci came to the kitchen door and slipped an arm around Philip’s waist. Seeing Celia, she said, “This gorgeous man is taking our glamorous girls out on the town.”

  “Oh really?” Celia sprang forward to catch a lamp toppled by the outflung arm of one not-quite-in-control dancer. “Are they mature enough for an evening out, Philip?”

  “We’re going to a National Ballet performance,” Philip explained. “If they don’t try to steal the show, I think they can handle it.”

  “We can handle it, ma chère tante.” Liliana waved her hand airily. “I can handle anything.”

  “You can go with them if you like,” Franci offered.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay home and eat leftovers—if there are any.”

  “Leftovers and more.” Franci headed back into the kitchen while Philip shooed the girls out to the car.

  At the door, Liliana suddenly dashed back and gave Celia a hug that was so tight it felt almost desperate. “I’m so glad you’re back!” she whispered, then rushed out to join Philip and Josephine.

  Celia stood there a minute, still feeling the warmth of the girl’s arms. Then she went into the kitchen where Franci was reheating croquetas. “Do those look good!” Celia exclaimed. “Just what the doctor would have ordered for the doctor.”

  “Naturally you haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Franci scolded.

  “Daiquiris and chatinos don’t count?”

  “Not really. I don’t know what you did at the conference, or more to the point, after the conference, that you came back more in need of sleep than food.”

  “I met a man,” Celia said.

  Franci, who had been standing at the stove adding a helping of rice to the plate with the croquetas, dropped the serving spoon with a clatter. “You what ? Never mind, I heard you the first time. Who? Where did you meet him? Will you see him again?”

  Celia shook her head. “I can’t talk about it—him—right now.”

  Franci placed the plate of food in front of her and sat down. “And why not?”

  “Because I need this time to talk to you about other things. About Liliana.”

  “Okay,” Franci said. “Eat. Then we’ll go for a walk and talk as long as you like.”

  • • •

  Although the Morceau home was only a few blocks off Avenida de las Américas, there was little traffic on the quiet suburban streets along which they strolled. Franci did not chatter nor initiate conversation, giving Celia time to organize her thoughts.

  “When I went to sleep it made no sense to me,” Celia confessed. “But when I woke up it was all there. So neat I’m suspicious of it. What I need is a reality check.”

  “Which is exactly what we have always been for each other,” Franci reminded.

  “Okay, here goes.” Celia held up a hand and began ticking off on her fingers. “One, child’s parents disappear, leaving her with her grandmother. Two, grandmother dies, leaving child with aunt. Three—flash forward nine years—aunt is about to marry a man whom child believes doesn’t want her around. At the same time, best friend moves away and a new friendship develops. She and the new friend egg each other into taking certain risks until she is over the line—and she knows it. All of a sudden, stepfather-to-be is standing there in her home, threatening to have her put in a re-education camp.”

  Franci nodded. “Thus the runaway.”

  “Which was not really a runaway. Liliana said she only intended to stay with some friends until she had a chance to call me and make sure that—well, that I would take her side against Luis, I guess, although she did not say that.”

  Franci took up the thread. “Meanwhile, José blows in with a flashy lifestyle that feeds her fantasies. If he can walk out on family and come back at will, why can’t she? Especially since, in her mind, what’s left of her family is about to dump her anyway.”

  Ce
lia swallowed hard. “Do you think she might have thought that?”

  “Very likely. But the suicide attempt, if that’s what it was—how does that fit in?”

  Celia didn’t answer. She thought she knew the answer but wasn’t quite ready to talk about it. She pointed to a grassy knoll, atop which was an arrangement of large granite blocks, forming a monument of some type. “What is that?” she asked.

  “El Bosque de los Heroes.”

  “Funny name,” Celia mused. “Why would they call it ‘forest of the heroes’ when there is not a tree in sight? Maybe from the olden days, when there was a forest here?”

  “I don’t know about the forest, but the heroes aren’t from all that long ago. It’s for Che and those who died with him in Bolivia.”

  They climbed the steps to the top of the knoll. Circling the monument, Celia saw that the names of those who died in Bolivia were listed, except for Che’s. He was recalled in just one place: a granite block with an inscription of his most famous quote, “Hasta la victoria, siempre.”

  “Until the victory, always,” Celia murmured, feeling sad, as she always did, when she thought of how things had turned out for Che and his courageous band. Not to mention poor Bolivians, who, partly because of that failed revolution, remained to this day among the most destitute in the hemisphere.

  “You know,” she said to Franci, “Che was as incorruptible as they come. He walked away from leadership positions in the revolutionary government and never showed the slightest interest in creature comforts or personal popularity. In fact, I have always believed that the reason he left Cuba was because he was sickened by the excesses of some of the compañeros once they were in power and had access to resources of the state.” She paused. “Naturally I am glad Che was with us, but why should he be the symbol of Cuba’s Revolution when he only spent seven years here? Celia Sánchez was every bit as incorruptible and she worked flat out for more than twenty years to keep our leaders focused on their original humanitarian vision. Why should the whole world know about Che while hardly anybody has heard of her?”