by Rosa Jordan
“Why not? He’s got a car and no job—at least, not while he’s in Cuba. I knew you’d be at work, so it was a good time to visit friends in the old neighbourhood.”
Celia gave her a narrow look. “And you wanted to check out the new Yanqui version of José Lago to see if he has what it takes to snare me again.”
Franci looked sheepish, but rallied with a challenging, “So? Somebody’s got to evaluate your prospects.”
“My prospects ?”
“Ex-fiancé pining away for you, ex-ex fiancé trying to lure you to Miami, and now you tell me—or did you forget you told me?—you met a new guy in Manzanillo. Who, I couldn’t help but notice, sent you home limp as a noodle.” Franci reached up with her toes and turned down the volume on the television. “Sounds like ‘prospects’ to me.”
Celia was silent, sorting through the implications of what Franci had said. She had been so preoccupied with Liliana and work that Miguel had scarcely crossed her mind. At last she said, “I didn’t meet him in Manzanillo. I met him at the Comandancia.”
“Aren’t you the cool one!” Franci exclaimed. “So is this something serious?”
“I wanted to fall in love,” Celia confessed. “I thought I did. But it was not real.”
Franci clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You’re talking nonsense, girl. You don’t fall or not fall in love with somebody that quickly. Not past the age of twenty anyway.”
“No, but you can tell when something you need is not there.”
“Such as?”
“Look, Franci, you’ve seen me through all my romantic entanglements. You know I was passionate about José—back then, anyway. And I truly care about Luis. He is a good, socially responsible person. But what I need is somebody whose mind I can get into and vice versa. There was a brief moment when I thought this new person might be the one. But it was a . . . hallucination. I imagined it because it was what I wanted.”
“Are you sure about that?” Franci asked gently.
Celia rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “Franci, I am working fourteen and fifteen hours a day, trying to get something done that, if the work is good enough, might push the government into developing policies that will prevent the suffering of millions of children. I have a child of my own who is far from well. I don’t even want a man in my life now. I couldn’t handle it.”
Franci put a hand on Celia’s neck and began to massage the iron-tight muscles. “So it’s not that this new guy was wrong; it’s that you dropped him without finding out?”
Celia allowed her head to flop forward in response to the soothing pressure of Franci’s fingers. Recalling her last moments with Miguel on the train, she said, “To be honest, I think he dropped me. But just as well. I need to get things clear in my own head before I start looking for somebody with a mind to match.”
Franci toes went to the TV volume control again, this time to turn it up. Luis was being interviewed about Cuba’s alternative energy potential.
“Intelligent guy,” Franci murmured when the interview ended.
Celia took her point. “Yes, but it’s not just about being intelligent. It’s about underlying premises. The ability to make connections. And . . .” She hesitated. “It’s about me thinking for myself, not letting somebody I admire do all the work.”
“‘Miami Joe’ is willing to do all the work. Or not, as you please. He told me so.”
Celia grimaced and with her own toes turned the volume on the television down again. “One thing you can say for José, he is not sneaky. What you see is what you get.”
Franci gave her an arch look. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Everybody’s got something under wraps.” She jabbed Celia in the ribs. “Even you, girl. Sleeping with a stranger under my very nose!” She paused and considered. “Or was he a stranger?”
“Oh, yes.” Celia assured her. “He was a stranger. Strange as a wild animal. And very likely to stay that way.”
EIGHTY-TWO
LUIS and Emily spoke on the telephone almost daily during the three weeks of each month that school was in session. During the last week of the month, when students went home, Emily returned to her parents’ home too. Because her family lived in Las Cañas, a suburb on the south side of the city, their outings were usually in that area. They spent a day at ExpoCuba, one at the Jardín Botánica, and despite their views on Hemingway, visited Finca Vigía, the writer’s former estate. Most of their time, though, was spent in Parque Lenin. They strolled through the woods, went rowing on the lake, and visited the small aquarium and art gallery. Once, they rented horses, and although neither was an experienced rider they managed to walk sedately along the park’s shady paths and return to the equestrian centre without mishap. They even went to the Sánchez museum, but its exhibits were so sparce that Luis couldn’t imagine why Celia had bothered to go there more than once.
Since Luis could not very well make love to Emily in her parents’ home or his, the motel in Parque Lenin where he used to take Celia once a year was where he now took Emily. He felt odd about it, but Motel La Herradura was convenient and Emily was unlikely to find out that he had ever brought another woman there.
Afterwards, if it was a rainy night, he and Emily might cross the motel parking lot to Restaurante Ciclista, named for a famous Cuban racehorse. On nice evenings Luis chose a less expensive outdoor café nearby. There they sat for hours in balmy night air. Emily sometimes chattered nervously and sometimes was shyly quiet, but she always hung on his every word.
She regularly reported on how Liliana was doing at school. “Not quite herself,” Emily had confided the first week. “Less confident than she used to be. That may be because she is behind in her studies. I expect she will feel better once she catches up.”
The following weekend, as they sat on the shore of the park’s little lake watching children fly kites, Emily told him, “She is still withdrawn. Dark circles under her eyes, you know, as if she’s not sleeping well.”
And later, “She was quite keen on this boy Danilo before her . . . her time away. He is still interested in her, crazy about her, really. But when they meet, often right under my window at the far end of the building, he now does most of the talking. She is so much quieter than before. It does seem like she has other things on her mind.”
“What about her dorm mates?” Luis asked. “Does she have many friends?”
“Oh yes. Especially Magdalena. Surprising, really. Of all the girls in the school, I would say that Magdalena is the one she has least in common with.”
As Emily described Magdalena’s in-your-face behaviour and penchant for gaudy fingernails and bizarre hairstyles, Luis recognized her as the same awful girl who had insulted him at the campismo, the one who had called him “Dumpee Number Two.” Recalling the incident so infuriated him that Emily laid a hand on his cheek and asked timidly if she had said something to upset him. He assured her that she had not, but remarked darkly that if that was who Liliana had chosen for a confidante, her aunt could expect more problems in the not-so-distant-future.
Because Emily seemed both sympathetic and genuinely interested, Luis revealed more about himself than he had to any other woman: how he had been forced to assume many family responsibilities at an early age because of his father’s injuries, and how that sense of responsibility had increased with the death of his father, and still more when his brother turned gusano, leaving him alone to look after their mother.
He also talked politics with her, explaining why he believed that socialism, with its emphasis on providing a safety net for the weak, was the only moral political system. “But the state can only meet material needs,” he said gravely. “It is the responsibility of family and community to meet the emotional needs of their members, don’t you agree?”
More than simply agreeing, Emily understood how it applied to him personally. She conveyed as much by saying, “It would be terrible for your mother if you moved out, when you are the only person she can depend on.”
&nbs
p; Gradually they reached an understanding of each other’s needs that surpassed any understanding he had ever had of Celia’s needs or, he believed, her of his. As weeks went by Luis told Emily many things—but not that he been engaged to Celia Cantú, and not that he had applied for permission for Liliana to travel abroad.
• • •
It took Luis less time than he expected to get the visa required for Liliana to accompany Celia to México. It was José who broached the idea, soon after Celia’s return from Santiago. “Franci told Celia it would be good therapy,” José had said. “Personally, I disagree. México City is not the safest place for Liliana to be unchaperoned, which she’ll obviously be during the day while Celia is at the conference.”
However, Luis respected the opinions of professionals. Because Franci had advised it—and because José said he didn’t like the idea—Luis decided to do what he could to arrange it. He went to Quevedo and explained the situation. He described Liliana’s apparent suicide attempt and said that if the captain wanted medical verification, he could call Dr. Franci Cumba, head of the psychiatric department at the Santiago medical school. With a disdainful smile, Luis added, “My gusano brother is willing to pay Liliana’s travel expenses. Celia dislikes him as much as she dislikes travelling. But for Liliana’s sake . . .”
Quevedo nodded understandingly, and in a stunningly short amount of time had arranged with the necessary departments to issue the visa and other travel documents.
The Friday Luis picked up the last of Liliana’s travel documents, he waited until five in the afternoon, by which time Liliana would have arrived home from school, and drove to the apartment. Passing through the lobby he saw that Celia’s bike was not there and guessed that she was still at work. Just as well. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, go home, shower, and drive to La Caña to pick up Emily.
He knocked twice on the apartment door, feeling the mixture of annoyance and humiliation he always felt when it was not immediately opened to welcome him. He turned the knob and finding it not locked, pushed it open and called testily, “Liliana!”
There was silence, followed by a small noise in the kitchen. Liliana appeared in the doorway between kitchen and living room. She looked nothing like the rebellious teenager who had defied him prior to her disappearance, or the battered one he had seen only twice since. Still wearing her school uniform, but barefoot, she seemed small. Her skirt revealed not the well-muscled legs of an active teenager, but the thin white legs of a child. He was shocked by the amount of weight she had lost.
“Tía Celia’s not here,” she said in a frightened voice.
Although Luis had nothing to be ashamed of, Liliana’s fear filled him with shame. “I have something for you,” he said gruffly.
“Are you alone?” She edged out of the kitchen, eying the door as if she might make a dash for it if she could be sure that there weren’t monsters lurking in the hallway.
“For God’s sake, Liliana! Do you want these travel documents or not?” he snapped, settling himself on the sofa and opening his briefcase on the coffee table.
“Really? Oh, Tío Luis!”
The use of tío recalled a younger Liliana, one whom he had really cared about. It hinted at renewed trust—trust that he, with the best of intentions, had almost destroyed.
Liliana went down on her knees on the opposite side of the coffee table and with shaking hands received the visa and other pertinent papers he handed across to her. She handled and read them with more reverence than Alma showed for her religious icons.
Perhaps Luis should not have taken advantage of what seemed to be a moment of receptiveness, but he had, after all, gone far out of his way to get the documents. She owed it to him to at least listen. “Cuba is not a rich country, Liliana. After spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on each child, ensuring that they have the very best health care and education, I hope you realize how hard it is on everybody when young people leave the country without giving anything back.”
Liliana looked up at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
What Luis had meant, although he was not about to explain, was that he did not expect her to bolt in México but it would not surprise him if she defected later, after she had got a university education—especially if she kept hanging around with trash like that Magdalena girl. He shrugged. “Nothing. I was just making a point.”
Liliana’s eyes narrowed, and in a split second he was facing not a frightened child but a challenging teenager. “So what’s your point? That I’m a traitor just because I want to travel? Then Fidel’s one too! He’s been all over the world! And everybody knows José Martí lived in New York. And what about Che? If he hadn’t started travelling he never would’ve become a revolutionary. He’d have been a boring old Argentine doctor nobody ever heard of!”
“That may be true,” Luis began in a reasonable tone, “but not everybody—”
“Not everybody likes being penned up on this island like, like Raúl’s prize cows!” she interrupted rudely. “Oh, it’s great for you and Tía Celia. You get to go abroad almost every year. Even if it does take Tía Celia about a month to do all the paperwork.”
Luis was tempted to remind the ungrateful brat that he had spent weeks getting her travel documents, and there probably weren’t ten people in government who had the connections to do it so quickly. He swallowed the retort. He had not, after all, done it for her. He had done it for Celia. Or perhaps because it was the right thing to do. Celia could deny it if she wished, but the fact remained that Cuba’s children belonged to Cuba, and as such, they were a collective responsibility. If a vacation in México was what it took to remove the threat of suicide, then like any other form of therapy, it should be provided.
“Naturally we have to get official approval. The state pays our expenses,” he said in defence of government policies. But he knew that there was truth in her complaint that citizens were required to run a gauntlet of red tape in order to travel abroad.
“The state is not paying mine,” Liliana reminded him.
Reminding Luis, also, that although there was no way she could have jumped the queue and got the documents without his help, José, who paid the fees and bought the ticket would get all the credit. Luis snapped shut his briefcase and headed for the door.
Liliana called after him with a half-hearted, “Gracias, Tío.”
He did not bother to reply.
EIGHTY-THREE
CELIA called the next day to thank Luis. She was thankful not only for the trouble he had taken, but for simply giving the papers to Liliana and not using them as an excuse to see her. For she understood now, as she had not in the past, that that had been the pattern: Luis unobtrusively piling favour on top of favour until she was unable to refuse him the intimacies he desired. This, she hoped, would be the last great favour she would need or accept from him.
A week before their scheduled trip to México, Celia arrived home from shopping on a Saturday afternoon and found Liliana in her room stuffing things into large bags. She let out a mental shriek when she saw that it was the sexy jinetera clothing that had precipitated their crisis. For months the stuff had lain on the closet floor where Celia dumped it after Liliana’s disappearance. Celia had not suggested that she put it away or that she throw it out. She had waited to see what Liliana would do. Whatever it was, she was now doing it.
Liliana looked up and smiled. “Come on in,” she invited. “I don’t want this junk anymore. I’m giving it to Magdalena.”
“That’s nice.” Celia sat down on Liliana’s bed, trying not to imagine the use to which Magdalena might put the outfits.
“She’ll be so surprised,” Liliana chuckled. “But I’m never going to want to wear this garbage again.” She held up a micro-miniskirt and looked at it critically. “Tacky,” she pronounced.
Celia noticed several English-language fashion magazines lying on the bedside table. “Is this what José brought you from Florida?” she asked, flipping throug
h one of them. Most of the girls in the ads had a wholesome look, and none of the fashions were as outrageous as the clothes Liliana was now treating like the trash they were.
“Yeah.” Liliana plopped down next to Celia. “Here’s an outfit I really like. And this one too.” She paged through the magazine pointing out her favourites, all of which Celia thought showed reasonably good taste, and none of which could be purchased in Cuba without dollars—or even with, for that matter.
“Tía Alma called to invite us to dinner on Sunday. Can we go?”
“I don’t know about dinner,” Celia equivocated, knowing as she said it that a visit was necessary. She hadn’t visited in weeks, and Alma would be hurt if she put it off much longer. “We could drop by for a couple hours tomorrow afternoon, though.”
Celia tossed the magazine back on the nightstand, and as she did so, knocked some of Liliana’s travel documents to the floor. She reached to pick them up. “We should get a folder to keep these in. Losing one could cause all kinds of problems.”
Before Celia could lay hands on the scattered documents, Liliana scooped them out of her reach. “I’ll take care of them,” she said brightly as she patted them together and placed them in the top drawer of her dresser.
• • •
They arrived at the Lago apartment as planned on Sunday afternoon. Celia had not been there since her break-up with Luis, which gave the visit a deja vu quality. Years earlier, when her relationship with José terminated, she had stopped visiting the Lago home for a time. As the need for family grew, she had gradually started dropping by again. Then as now, there was a debt owed that she had no way of repaying.
Several bulbs were burned out in the high overhead chandelier, so that the cherubs on the arched ceiling flitted about in dim light that contrasted sharply with the living room’s bright lower level. Luis sat in his usual rocking chair, reading Granma. He barely nodded, leaving Alma to welcome them.
“That’s what I like to see!” Alma exclaimed, hugging Liliana then holding her out at arm’s length. “Roses blooming in my girl’s cheeks!”
