by Rosa Jordan
It was not that she needed to know whether it could happen again because to her, the Sánchez persona, whether large or small, real or imaginary, was an integral part of her being. What she needed to know was in a question she did not ask, but which Miguel answered with a very soft kiss. “Don’t worry. I’m not afraid of her ghost. Or yours.”
She would have fallen off the porch into his arms, but he stepped up and past her. “I’ve been out since before sunrise and I’m starving. How about breakfast?”
She laughed. “At three in the afternoon? How about lunch ?”
“If you insist,” he grinned, washing his hands and reaching for a skillet.
Celia looked around the room. It was smaller than she remembered. Miguel must have guessed at its impression because he said, “If I had known there would be two living here, I might have built a bigger cabin.” He paused and added, “A juita takes up more space than you’d think.”
“You built the cabin yourself?” Celia was impressed.
“I did,” he said over his shoulder as he broke eggs into a bowl.
“And the bed.” The reason the room seemed cramped was because in addition to the narrow cot where she had napped before, there was, leaning against the wall, the headboard of a double bed, new and intricately carved. “So this is the ‘little woodworking project’ you wrote about!”
She knelt to study the birds, leaves, and vines carved with such painstaking care, a design that echoed elements of the Sánchez memorial. “You do fine things to wood.”
“Wood does fine things to me. I love working with it.” He set two plates on the table, each heaped with yellow eggs, a brown splat of beans, and slices of red tomato.
“Here you go. I may not be the best cook in Cuba but I am the fastest.”
For a few minutes they ate in silence, ravenously. When he had almost cleaned his plate, he flipped the last bit of egg over her head. She turned around in time to see the big tree rat gobble the tidbit. “What will you do with the juita when you leave?” she asked.
“Do with him?” Miguel looked surprised. “Nothing. He doesn’t need me. I’m not even sure he likes me. He just doesn’t want to waste energy looking for food. Most animals don’t.”
“Interesting,” Celia said, but in truth, she was not much interested in the tree rat. “What about your things? That headboard looks heavy. How will you get it down the mountain?”
“On the mule, I hope.”
“What mule?”
“There’s one that hangs around up there.” He waved a hand vaguely toward the Comandancia. “I see him in the forest now and again, and if I’ve got any food on me, we share it. Some of the guides tried to catch him but so far I’m the only one who has got near him. I might be able to put a rope on him and persuade him to pack some of the heavier items down. But I’d let him go again. That animal should not be domesticated.”
“Why not?”
“You know how long a mule’s legs are, right?” Miguel held his hand to a little above her knee. “A metre or less. But this mule, I swear I have seen him put a hoofprint into something two metres behind his rump.”
“I know that mule!” Celia exclaimed.
“You do?” Miguel looked at her quizzically. “From where?”
“It’s a story,” Celia said. “I will tell you sometime.”
So she had not, after all, told him everything there was to know about her, nor had he told her everything about himself. How long would that take?
“I applied for a transfer to the hospital in Baracoa,” she said abruptly.
“Really?” He reached across to touch her hand. “Did you get it?”
“No.”
He swallowed hard and looked away. “Too bad. Baracoa’s a nice town.”
“Your hometown,” she said.
“Yes. There is Moa farther west, but it’s out of the question. With the nickel smelter and all, a filthy place.”
“I know.”
He walked to the door and gazed out into the forest where, although she saw only a wall of trees, he must be seeing a universe. “I’m looking forward to Parque Humboldt. There is a little bay with manatees.” He smiled at her but it was not the happiest smile she had ever seen. “Humboldt is a habitat of the ivory-billed woodpecker. They say there are none left in Cuba. I’m going to be the one to prove them wrong. However long it takes.”
She followed him to the door and put her arms around his waist. “What about Playa Maguana? It’s only twenty-four kilometres from Parque Humboldt.”
He stepped back as if to get a better look at her. “Have you ever been there? Or even to that part of the island?”
What was he looking for? To see if she was crazy? Well, no, she could have told him. I am crazy often enough that I know perfectly well when I’m not. “I went there with Liliana, when we were doing our around-Cuba, every-trip-a-different-place thing.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“Um, no.” She had not told him because she was not sure she would get the job and did not know how he would feel about it if she did. Or because she did not want to know how he felt about it—not until she was sure of what she wanted, and exactly why. Three days there, staying at a nearby campismo, had revealed that Playa Maguana was a community where she could get back to the hands-on care of children she missed so much. At Playa Maguana she would have an opportunity to compare the difference between children’s health in rural Cuba with that of the urban children she had always treated. She could use skills she had learned and learn things she did not know.
Of course it mattered that the move would give her distance from Luis and Jóse. More importantly, it would put her closer to Liliana and Franci; she’d be only six hours from Santiago instead of sixteen. And of course, close to Miguel. She doubted that he would want to live with her in Playa Maguana, or that she would live with him in Parque Humboldt. But with only twenty-four kilometres separating them, she did think he would come, often, or she would go to him. They would be close enough to find out just how close they wanted to be.
He was staring at her, dubious if not incredulous. “Then you know Playa Maguana isn’t a town. Just a scattering of houses. There is absolutely no place to live.”
“Actually, there are quite a few families. And a clinic that has only a nurse, no doctor. At least, not until I get there in January.”
“Until what ?”
“They said I could live in a room at the back of the clinic. Or build a cabin of my own. The government provides some building materials free of charge. And local people help each other with the construction. I saw some of their bohíos. In the forest, like this one. But I need one on a hill where I can see the ocean.”
Suddenly Miguel was laughing. “You know, I have never been too sure about this other Celia you think you are, but I can just hear her explaining to Fidel why the Comandancia was the perfect place for them to build.”
“She did!” Celia exclaimed. “That is a historical fact! She found the place and designed the buildings and supervised the construction—Che’s hospital, the cookhouse, the cabin she and Fidel shared—everything!”
Despite Miguel’s amusement, for just an instant Celia felt a ripple of uncertainty. She was not all that practised at taking the lead and leaving others to follow or not as they pleased. Had she pushed things beyond where he wanted to go? Might he feel threatened? He had not, after all, said any of the traditional things.
Before the fear could be fully realized, he leaned against the door frame and pulled her to him. “Compañera Celia, have I told you that you are an amazing woman?”
“Not lately. In fact, not ever.”
“An amazing, hot, sweaty woman,” he said, licking beads of sweat from her neck. “Not to mention salty.”
“I would have washed up but—where do you bathe anyway?”
“In the stream.” He jerked his head toward a trail that disappeared into the forest. “It’s the one that flows down from the Comandancia, you know, that one
below Celia and Fidel’s cabin. Come, I’ll show you.”
She did not need to be shown . . . mossy green boulders with that stream spilling down from a height of three metres, into a pool where dappled light passes through clear water to create ephemeral patterns on a sandy bottom. She saw it already in her mind, and laughing, began to run.
“Wait!” he shouted. “It’s not an easy trail. You’ll get lost.”
No. There are many ways. I will find one.
ROSA JORDAN grew up in the Florida Everglades and earned degrees from universities in California and Mexico. She immigrated to Canada in 1980 and currently resides in Rossland, BC, with her partner Derek Choukalos. They have co-authored two travel guides to Cuba, Cycling Cuba and Cuba’s Best Beaches. One section of Rosa’s autobiographical travel narrative, Dangerous Places: Travels on the Edge, is also about Cuba.
Copyright © 2012 Rosa Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (ACCESS Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit accesscopyright.ca.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Jordan, Rosa
The woman she was [electronic resource] / Rosa Jordan.
Electronic monograph.
Originally published by Brindle & Glass in 2012 in paperback with ISBN 978-1-926972-46-6.
ISBN 978-1-926972-47-3 (HTML).—ISBN 978-1-926972-48-0 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8619.O74W66 2012 C813'.6 C2011-907168-1
Editor: Kathy Page
Copy Editor/proofreader: Heather Sangster, Strong Finish
Design: Pete Kohut
Front cover photo: Celia Sánchez (detail) courtesy of Wisconsin Historical Society Image ID 85353 was taken by Dickey Chapelle, who spent time in the mountains with the Cuban rebels before going on to Vietnam, where she was killed.
Photo on page ii: Memorial of Celia Sánchez, taken by Rosa Jordan
Author photo taken by Derek Choukalos
Brindle & Glass is pleased to acknowledge the financial support for its publishing program from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Brindle & Glass Publishing Ltd.
brindleandglass.com
