The Woman She Was

by Rosa Jordan

  Franci shrugged. “You can’t blame him. He shunned publicity as much as she did. And revolutions have always been seen as a macho activity, with women relegated to the background.”

  Celia stopped in front of the list of combatants who had died with Che in Bolivia. “Like Tanya. Although she was no Celia Sánchez, not by a long shot.”

  Franci looked at her oddly. “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, I know Tanya was as dedicated to Che and the cause of Bolivian liberation. But there was more to Sánchez. She was organizing and fighting in the sierra long before she met Fidel. The campesinos, men and women, joined the struggle because of her. In Bolivia, Tanya was an outsider like Che. She could not support him the way Celia supported Fidel.”

  Celia thought of other ways Sánchez had supported Castro that were not noted in any historic account, and which, if she mentioned, Franci might think she had invented. She concluded lamely, “It seems to me that when a woman takes up with a revolutionary she should bring more to the struggle than sex and guns.”

  “I expect they do, but their male partners choose not to remember it.” Franci paused and asked, “Are we finished with the Liliana discussion?”

  Celia’s mind had drifted from Liliana’s problems, and, in fact, had drifted from Cuba’s revolutionary heroes and the women who stood beside them, to a different man of the sierra and what kind of woman it would take to share his life. But the instant Franci mentioned Liliana, Celia’s thoughts veered back.

  “No,” Celia said, heading down the steps of the monument. “There is the question you asked before, about how the suicide attempt fits in. Do you have a theory?”

  “Not really,” Franci admitted as they crossed the grass back to the sidewalk. “Has she talked to you at all about it?”

  “Only a few words the night it happened. She spoke of wanting to fly—not kill herself. She didn’t say another word about it. At least, not to me. But she told José that if she couldn’t get off the island, she would kill herself.”

  Franci frowned. “Was she saying that was why she was up on the balcony railing? Or was she just using the incident to manipulate him into—well, whatever?”

  Celia looked down at shifting patterns caused by the light from street lamps filtering through trees lining the sidewalk. “You are the mind doctor. You tell me.”

  “About that I can’t say. I can tell you that she only had one period of withdrawal while you were away. It was after I took her to the medical school. I introduced her to some teachers and we visited one of the dorms. Afterwards she retreated to the bedroom for several hours. Finally Josephine cajoled her into coming out and little by little she lightened up. Today—well, you saw her. Do you think she seemed suicidal?”

  “No,” Celia admitted. “But is it possible? When we get home and there is only the two of us, do you think she might be . . . at risk?”

  They had arrived back at the house. Franci picked a red hibiscus from a bush growing next to the driveway. She twirled it in her slim brown fingers, studying it as if the petals were tea leaves and she could read the future in them. But her reply said not.

  “You know better than to ask me a question like that, Celia. Psychiatrists are no better than anybody else at predicting human behaviour. Even though some think they can, available evidence shows that we can’t.”

  “I know.” Celia could not keep the disappointment from her voice. “But if you were in my situation, what would you do?”

  “I’d take some precautions. Just in case.”

  Celia did not want to reveal to Franci what precaution she was thinking of taking. She walked on up the driveway without speaking. But as Franci unlocked the front door and Celia followed her inside, she realized that there was no point in holding back.

  “José has offered to take her to Florida. To take us.”

  “Aye, yi yi!” Franci’s hands flew to the top of her head as if to hold it in place. “Offered Liliana or offered you?”

  “Me. I don’t know if he mentioned it to her or not.”

  “If he did, that could change everything!”

  “How?”

  “Liliana might see that as the answer to this imagined problem—this notion that she’s on the verge of being abandoned. She’d get to leave before everyone leaves her. Better yet, you’d come along so she wouldn’t lose a thing.”

  “I am the one who would lose,” Celia whispered, unable to stop the tears.

  Franci embraced her the way they always embraced each other when faced with a challenge that seemed insurmountable. Countless times one or the other had said the words that went with that particular hug. Franci wasn’t saying them now, nor, with Franci’s arms around her, did Celia need to hear them. The hug said, I’m here for you, sister, but even if I wasn’t you’d cope, because you’re Cuban and Cubans don’t give up.

  That had been easier to believe when they were twenty years old. Now it helped but was not enough. Celia dropped onto the sofa and pulled Franci down beside her. “Surely you have some advice, Franci.”

  Franci stretched out long, jeans-clad legs and stared at her sandalled feet. Celia knew she hated giving advice because for a psychiatrist it wasn’t the correct thing to do. But for a friend, when asked, it was. It would just take Franci a minute to give in to the demands of their friendship.

  Finally Franci asked, “When is your next trip abroad?”

  “México, in about two months.”

  “What if you took Liliana with you? She’ll be out of school for the summer—”

  “If I can even get her to go back,” Celia muttered.

  “Offer her a trip to México on the condition that she goes back and makes up the work she has missed.”

  “And that will fix everything?” Celia asked skeptically.

  “It might not fix anything. But I get the feeling that she’s tired of being depressed. Her natural energy is asserting itself. Didn’t you notice that?”

  Celia thought of lively way that Liliana had swirled about this very room in Franci’s red skirt. “I did, yes.”

  “At the same time, there’s this heaviness inside her.” Franci balled her fist against her stomach, to suggest an undigested lump. “She doesn’t feel good and doesn’t want to go back to her old life feeling that way. It may take something new to inspire her.”

  “A trip abroad,” Celia said in a flat voice.

  “You don’t like the idea?”

  “I do not,” Celia concurred. “And you know why.”

  “Because you don’t like to travel.”

  “True. But what I like even less is that I cannot do it on my own. I would have to ask Luis for help getting travel documents and ask José for the money.”

  “I thought you said José already offered.”

  “He did. In fact, he suggested the same thing.”

  Franci looked surprised. “What?”

  “That I ‘cut a deal’ with Liliana. Of course, he was talking about a trip to Miami, not México. And I am fairly certain he had me figured into his plan.”

  “I get the picture,” Franci grimaced. “But you see what you’re up against, don’t you? José has already put the possibility into her head.”

  Celia sighed. “I think the possibility was already in her head. What he may have done is tell her that he could make it happen.”

  Franci got up and circled the small living room twice. Then stopped in front of Celia and said, “Okay. That’s his game plan. But there’s nothing to stop you from making a different one in which you take her to México and bring her home. So José buys the ticket, so what? If he can samba in and buy that convertible you were driving last time, I’d say he can afford it. If he offers you some cash for expenses in México, take that too. If he doesn’t, well, there’s plenty to do there that’s practically free. She’ll love it.”

  “I am sure she will,” Celia said morosely, thinking that what Liliana would really love would be shopping in the Zona Rosa, which neither of them could affo
rd.

  Franci must have guessed her thoughts because she said, “Naturally she’ll be dazzled by all the shops. But Liliana is a sensitive girl. Seeing rich people side by side with child beggars, that’s going to make an impression on her too.”

  “I have to think about it,” Celia said. “I do not know if José would buy her a ticket only to México, and I doubt Luis will go for it at all. I just do not know.”

  “Incredible!” Franci shook her head wonderingly. “We’ve known those Lago boys all our lives and don’t have a clue what they’ll do. It just goes to show how much there can be that you don’t know about people you’ve known forever.”

  SEVENTY-NINE

  JOE woke early, as he always did. Luis lay in the twin bed opposite, barely an arm’s length away. Both brothers slept nude, had since their teens. So Luis was now, belly down, sheet tangled around his waist. The deep sleep wasn’t surprising, considering that he hadn’t come in until four in the morning.

  Joe had asked him, at the end of the fishing trip, if he would like to join some of them for dinner. Luis had not given him an answer right off, but had gone into the marina restaurant to place a phone call. Then he begged off, claiming a previous engagement. Joe figured it was just an excuse, since Luis seemed to have no social life other than a Sunday morning chess club. He did frequently go out at night for job-related meetings, but not on weekends. Joe concluded that Luis refused the invitation because he didn’t want to leave the impression that he was into a modern version of La Dolce Vita, as some Cuban bureaucrats were nowadays, frequenting top restaurants and resorts at the expense of capitalists seeking to set up joint ventures.

  Joe got up quietly and moved sideways between the beds so as not to bump Luis’s arm, which dangled over the side. Luis’s clothes were piled on the floor, except for the white shirt he had been wearing, which hung on the bedpost. Joe noticed the shirt and bent for a closer look. Lipstick? But Celia was in Santiago. Anyway, she didn’t wear lipstick. He suppressed a chuckle, and thought, Why, you old dog! You grabbed a piece of ass last night. I oughta throw your shorts against the wall to see if they stick.

  Still grinning, Joe picked up his own clothes and tiptoed to the bathroom. If Luis had another woman, that put a different light on things. It might explain why he couldn’t get a clear reading as to how Luis felt about helping arrange a trip for Liliana.

  Coffee was waiting in the new electric percolator, but Alma must have gone to early Mass because she was not around. Joe poured a cup and went out onto the porch. From a wooden rocker that had been there as long as he could remember, he watched the street coming alive, slowly because it was Sunday morning. The sun just touched spires and turrets of the shabby mansions. Their faded colours were pleasant to the eye and the sounds that escaped from inside were soft and unhurried.

  Joe rocked, sipped coffee, and reviewed the previous day, measuring what he thought had been accomplished against what he had set out to do. The hospital director had been evasive; Joe judged him to be more interested in donations from capitalists than in doing business with them. The minister of health seemed less interested in Joe’s product line than in his willingness to provide stuff on credit. The bio-tech researcher he considered a potential friend. At dinner they had discussed the man’s rather fascinating area of cancer research, which had been on the verge of becoming a joint effort with a US university until President Bush nixed it. The others, from Gaviota, Sherritt, and the US Interest Section, were not potential customers, just guys good to know on a first-name basis and to touch base with occasionally. He doubted that he would ever call upon any of them for more than an introduction to somebody else.

  Then there was Luis. Joe would have bet the farm that he was brooding over Celia and bearing a grudge a mile deep for what he took to be Joe moving in on “his” woman. But the truth—or one version of the truth—had worked like a charm. Joe’s lips twitched with amusement when he recalled the expression on Luis’s face when he said he couldn’t get within shouting distance of Celia without her frying him with a verbal blowtorch. He figured that only by convincing Luis that he, Joe, had no chance with her, would he get Luis’s co-operation.

  Joe considered himself a salesman, not a manipulator. He had never looked at the overlap between the two and if he had it wouldn’t have bothered him. Since he only sold people things they needed or wanted anyway, what was wrong with nudging them along?

  At the outset, when he was one more underpaid slang-speaking Latino immigrant in a sea of same, the only thing he’d had to sell was himself—a product he had finessed until he could promote it with pride. Next it was medical supplies for the asshole son of a Cuban banker who’d arrived in Miami with money back in the old days. By the time Joe came to work for the company, said heir was in the process of losing the family fortune with bad business decisions and futile Castro-bashing politics. When Joe knew the medical supply business well enough and had built up a good client list, he left, taking the list with him and starting his own company. Later he added a line of pharmaceuticals. And very soon, he would launch both right here in his native land.

  That was the ten-year plan. But if he wanted a hand in raising his daughters he couldn’t wait ten years. That was where Celia came in. The only blatant lie he had told Luis was that Celia would go to hell before she’d move to Miami. She’d move to Florida because she couldn’t bear to let go of the last blood relative she had on earth—a girl who looked more like the sister she’d lost with every passing day. Once Celia got there, he’d make damn sure Miami worked out better for her than hell.

  It came to him clear as a bell on that soft Sunday morning that the way to do it was to promise that it was only temporary. Maybe it would be. Next year or five years from now a US president would strap on some balls and terminate the travel ban. Then it wouldn’t matter where they lived. They could set up housekeeping either place or both places and commute back and forth. His daughters would learn Spanish after all and could drive their mother fucking crazy talking to him and each other in a language she couldn’t understand.

  • • •

  Joe left before Alma returned. He might have stayed for breakfast, then parked himself on the sofa and opened his laptop there in the chopped-in-half living room with naked cherubs peering down from the ceiling. But the light and his mental focus were better at Hotel Palco. He sent a few emails from the business office, then settled into one of the lobby’s deep armchairs and proceeded to make notes on everything he could remember about the guys he had taken fishing the day before: what they drank, their wives’ names, whether they had kids, and, most importantly, anyone they had indicated who might be helpful, plus anyone they had mentioned who might oppose the idea of buying medical supplies and pharmaceuticals from the States. The ones on that last list he would try to meet soon, to charm and disarm them before they threw up obstacles.

  It was still a little early to go back to his mother’s place for dinner so he did what he often did: drove the winding streets of Cubanacán to admire the mansions with their beautifully tended lawns. They were government properties now, rented to ambassadors and such to earn hard currency. That would change as soon as Castro died. Without the old hero at the helm, the Communist Party would rip itself to shreds with political infighting, while capitalists from within and without quietly took over the Cuban economy. That same day, if not well before, Joe Lago would be in line to buy one of these houses from whichever government agency got bit by the privatizing bug first.

  Joe arrived home as dusk was descending. As he parked the convertible and climbed the cracked marble steps, he envisioned the living room lamp making a circle of light over his brother’s newspaper, with smells of food that recalled his youth wafting from the kitchen. He pushed open the door and it was exactly as he had pictured it, except that Luis was already at the table, waiting like a child for the meal to be served. Alma, hearing Joe enter, called out, “There you are, mi hijo. Sit down. It’s ready.”

  “Smel
ls great, Mamá,” He slid into his place feeling altogether mellow. Luis, he decided, looked less tightly wound than usual too. Nothing like getting laid to take the kinks out. He probably should do the same for himself before heading back across the pond. God knows there were enough good-looking women around.

  It did occur to him to wonder who Luis had bedded. Even at age nineteen, when Luis was doing his two-year stint in the military, he had been too much the puritanical commie to approve of whoring—or so he implied in warning his younger brother against it. The warning was entirely unnecessary. From age fifteen onward Joe had been able to bed, if not always the girl of his choice, at least one of the ones he knew and liked. Later he noticed that Luis also went after women he knew rather than strangers. The difference was that Joe moved one hell of a lot faster.

  At this point in their life, Celia was the only woman both of them wanted. Joe was pretty sure that Luis realized he had been permanently ditched, which was probably what precipitated his little adventure last night. That made Celia fair game but Joe wouldn’t put a move on her yet. Timing was important and now was the time to do absolutely nothing that might cause her to retreat.

  Alma sat down at the table, crossed herself, and began passing food. Joe and Luis dug into the sautéed malanga and congrí with good appetite. Alma was the first to speak. “I called Celia’s place but there was no answer. I wonder when they are coming home.”

  Luis looked up quickly at Joe, then down again at his plate. There was something accusatory in the look that clued Joe to the fact that Luis knew he knew her schedule.

  “They’re getting in on the Tren Francés at six in the morning,” Joe said casually. “Shall we drive to the station to meet them?”